Preface A Chancery judge once had the kindness to inform me, as one of acompany of some hundred and fifty men and women not labouring underany suspicions of lunacy, that the Court of Chancery, though theshining subject of much popular prejudice (at which point I thoughtthe judge's eye had a cast in my direction), was almost immaculate.   There had been, he admitted, a trivial blemish or so in its rate ofprogress, but this was exaggerated and had been entirely owing tothe "parsimony of the public," which guilty public, it appeared,had been until lately bent in the most determined manner on by nomeans enlarging the number of Chancery judges appointed--I believeby 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 ofthis book or I should have restored it to Conversation Kenge or toMr. Vholes, with one or other of whom I think it must haveoriginated. In such mouths I might have coupled it with an aptquotation from one of Shakespeare's sonnets:   "My nature is subduedTo what it works in, like the dyer's hand:   Pity me, then, and wish I were renewed!"But as it is wholesome that the parsimonious public should knowwhat has been doing, and still is doing, in this connexion, Imention here that everything set forth in these pages concerningthe Court of Chancery is substantially true, and within the truth.   The case of Gridley is in no essential altered from one of actualoccurrence, made public by a disinterested person who wasprofessionally acquainted with the whole of the monstrous wrongfrom beginning to end. At the present moment (August, 1853) thereis a suit before the court which was commenced nearly twenty yearsago, in which from thirty to forty counsel have been known toappear at one time, in which costs have been incurred to the amountof seventy thousand pounds, which is A FRIENDLY SUIT, and which is(I am assured) no nearer to its termination now than when it wasbegun. There is another well-known suit in Chancery, not yetdecided, which was commenced before the close of the last centuryand in which more than double the amount of seventy thousand poundshas been swallowed up in costs. If I wanted other authorities forJarndyce and Jarndyce, I could rain them on these pages, to theshame 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 beendenied since the death of Mr. Krook; and my good friend Mr. Lewes(quite mistaken, as he soon found, in supposing the thing to havebeen abandoned by all authorities) published some ingenious lettersto me at the time when that event was chronicled, arguing thatspontaneous combustion could not possibly be. I have no need toobserve that I do not wilfully or negligently mislead my readersand that before I wrote that description I took pains toinvestigate the subject. There are about thirty cases on record,of which the most famous, that of the Countess Cornelia de BaudiCesenate, was minutely investigated and described by GiuseppeBianchini, a prebendary of Verona, otherwise distinguished inletters, who published an account of it at Verona in 1731, which heafterwards republished at Rome. The appearances, beyond allrational doubt, observed in that case are the appearances observedin Mr. Krook's case. The next most famous instance happened atRheims six years earlier, and the historian in that case is Le Cat,one of the most renowned surgeons produced by France. The subjectwas a woman, whose husband was ignorantly convicted of havingmurdered her; but on solemn appeal to a higher court, he wasacquitted because it was shown upon the evidence that she had diedthe death of which this name of spontaneous combustion is given. Ido not think it necessary to add to these notable facts, and thatgeneral reference to the authorities which will be found at page30, vol. ii.,* the recorded opinions and experiences ofdistinguished medical professors, French, English, and Scotch, inmore modern days, contenting myself with observing that I shall notabandon the facts until there shall have been a considerablespontaneous combustion of the testimony on which human occurrencesare usually received.   In Bleak House I have purposely dwelt upon the romantic side offamiliar things. Chapter 1 In Chancery London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellorsitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. Asmuch mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired fromthe face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet aMegalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantinelizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots,making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big asfull-grown snowflakes--gone into mourning, one might imagine, forthe death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses,scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers,jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of illtemper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens ofthousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and slidingsince the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new depositsto the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those pointstenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.   Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aitsand meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls deified among thetiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (anddirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights.   Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out onthe yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog droopingon the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes andthroats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesidesof their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe ofthe wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinchingthe toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck.   Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into anether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in aballoon and hanging in the misty clouds.   Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, muchas the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom byhusbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hoursbefore their time--as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggardand unwilling look.   The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and themuddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction,appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed oldcorporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln's InnHall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellorin his High Court of Chancery.   Never can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud andmire too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering conditionwhich this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of hoary sinners,holds this day in the sight of heaven and earth.   On such an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chancellor ought to besitting her--as here he is--with a foggy glory round his head,softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by alarge advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and aninterminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation tothe lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog. On suchan afternoon some score of members of the High Court of Chancerybar ought to be--as here they are--mistily engaged in one of theten thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one another up onslippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities, runningtheir goat-hair and horsehair warded heads against walls of wordsand making a pretence of equity with serious faces, as playersmight. On such an afternoon the various solicitors in the cause,some two or three of whom have inherited it from their fathers, whomade a fortune by it, ought to be--as are they not?--ranged in aline, in a long matted well (but you might look in vain for truthat the bottom of it) between the registrar's red table and the silkgowns, with bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions,affidavits, issues, references to masters, masters' reports,mountains of costly nonsense, piled before them. Well may thecourt be dim, with wasting candles here and there; well may the foghang heavy in it, as if it would never get out; well may thestained-glass windows lose their colour and admit no light of dayinto the place; well may the uninitiated from the streets, who peepin through the glass panes in the door, be deterred from entranceby its owlish aspect and by the drawl, languidly echoing to theroof from the padded dais where the Lord High Chancellor looks intothe lantern that has no light in it and where the attendant wigsare all stuck in a fog-bank! This is the Court of Chancery, whichhas its decaying houses and its blighted lands in every shire,which has its worn-out lunatic in every madhouse and its dead inevery churchyard, which has its ruined suitor with his slipshodheels and threadbare dress borrowing and begging through the roundof every man's acquaintance, which gives to monied might the meansabundantly of wearying out the right, which so exhausts finances,patience, courage, hope, so overthrows the brain and breaks theheart, that there is not an honourable man among its practitionerswho would not give--who does not often give--the warning, "Sufferany wrong that can be done you rather than come here!"Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor's court this murkyafternoon besides the Lord Chancellor, the counsel in the cause,two or three counsel who are never in any cause, and the well ofsolicitors before mentioned? There is the registrar below thejudge, in wig and gown; and there are two or three maces, or petty-bags, or privy purses, or whatever they may be, in legal courtsuits. These are all yawning, for no crumb of amusement ever fallsfrom Jarndyce and Jarndyce (the cause in hand), which was squeezeddry years upon years ago. The short-hand writers, the reporters ofthe court, and the reporters of the newspapers invariably decampwith the rest of the regulars when Jarndyce and Jarndyce comes on.   Their places are a blank. Standing on a seat at the side of thehall, the better to peer into the curtained sanctuary, is a littlemad old woman in a squeezed bonnet who is always in court, from itssitting to its rising, and always expecting some incomprehensiblejudgment to be given in her favour. Some say she really is, orwas, a party to a suit, but no one knows for certain because no onecares. She carries some small litter in a reticule which she callsher documents, principally consisting of paper matches and drylavender. A sallow prisoner has come up, in custody, for the half-dozenth time to make a personal application "to purge himself ofhis contempt," which, being a solitary surviving executor who hasfallen into a state of conglomeration about accounts of which it isnot pretended that he had ever any knowledge, he is not at alllikely ever to do. In the meantime his prospects in life areended. Another ruined suitor, who periodically appears fromShropshire and breaks out into efforts to address the Chancellor atthe close of the day's business and who can by no means be made tounderstand that the Chancellor is legally ignorant of his existenceafter making it desolate for a quarter of a century, plants himselfin 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 hisrising. A few lawyers' clerks and others who know this suitor bysight linger on the chance of his furnishing some fun andenlivening the dismal weather a little.   Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scarecrow of a suit has, incourse of time, become so complicated that no man alive knows whatit means. The parties to it understand it least, but it has beenobserved that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for fiveminutes without coming to a total disagreement as to all thepremises. Innumerable children have been born into the cause;innumerable young people have married into it; innumerable oldpeople have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriouslyfound themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce withoutknowing how or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatredswith the suit. The little plaintiff or defendant who was promiseda new rocking-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be settledhas grown up, possessed himself of a real horse, and trotted awayinto the other world. Fair wards of court have faded into mothersand grandmothers; a long procession of Chancellors has come in andgone out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformedinto mere bills of mortality; there are not three Jarndyces leftupon the earth perhaps since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew hisbrains out at a coffee-house in Chancery Lane; but Jarndyce andJarndyce still drags its dreary length before the court,perennially hopeless.   Jarndyce and Jarndyce has passed into a joke. That is the onlygood that has ever come of it. It has been death to many, but itis a joke in the profession. Every master in Chancery has had areference out of it. Every Chancellor was "in it," for somebody orother, when he was counsel at the bar. Good things have been saidabout it by blue-nosed, bulbous-shoed old benchers in select port-wine committee after dinner in hall. Articled clerks have been inthe habit of fleshing their legal wit upon it. The last LordChancellor handled it neatly, when, correcting Mr. Blowers, theeminent silk gown who said that such a thing might happen when thesky rained potatoes, he observed, "or when we get through Jarndyceand Jarndyce, Mr. Blowers"--a pleasantry that particularly tickledthe maces, bags, and purses.   How many people out of the suit Jarndyce and Jarndyce has stretchedforth its unwholesome hand to spoil and corrupt would be a verywide question. From the master upon whose impaling files reams ofdusty warrants in Jarndyce and Jarndyce have grimly writhed intomany shapes, down to the copying-clerk in the Six Clerks' Officewho has copied his tens of thousands of Chancery folio-pages underthat eternal heading, no man's nature has been made better by it.   In trickery, evasion, procrastination, spoliation, botheration,under false pretences of all sorts, there are influences that cannever come to good. The very solicitors' boys who have kept thewretched suitors at bay, by protesting time out of mind that Mr.   Chizzle, Mizzle, or otherwise was particularly engaged and hadappointments until dinner, may have got an extra moral twist andshuffle into themselves out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The receiverin the cause has acquired a goodly sum of money by it but hasacquired too a distrust of his own mother and a contempt for hisown kind. Chizzle, Mizzle, and otherwise have lapsed into a habitof vaguely promising themselves that they will look into thatoutstanding little matter and see what can be done for Drizzle--whowas not well used--when Jarndyce and Jarndyce shall be got out ofthe office. Shirking and sharking in all their many varieties havebeen sown broadcast by the ill-fated cause; and even those who havecontemplated its history from the outermost circle of such evilhave been insensibly tempted into a loose way of letting bad thingsalone to take their own bad course, and a loose belief that if theworld go wrong it was in some off-hand manner never meant to goright.   Thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fog, sits theLord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.   "Mr. Tangle," says the Lord High Chancellor, latterly somethingrestless under the eloquence of that learned gentleman.   "Mlud," says Mr. Tangle. Mr. Tangle knows more of Jarndyce andJarndyce than anybody. He is famous for it--supposed never to haveread anything else since he left school.   "Have you nearly concluded your argument?""Mlud, no--variety of points--feel it my duty tsubmit--ludship," isthe reply that slides out of Mr. Tangle.   "Several members of the bar are still to be heard, I believe?" saysthe Chancellor with a slight smile.   Eighteen of Mr. Tangle's learned friends, each armed with a littlesummary of eighteen hundred sheets, bob up like eighteen hammers ina pianoforte, make eighteen bows, and drop into their eighteenplaces of obscurity.   "We will proceed with the hearing on Wednesday fortnight," says theChancellor. For the question at issue is only a question of costs,a mere bud on the forest tree of the parent suit, and really willcome to a settlement one of these days.   The Chancellor rises; the bar rises; the prisoner is broughtforward in a hurry; the man from Shropshire cries, "My lord!"Maces, bags, and purses indignantly proclaim silence and frown atthe man from Shropshire.   "In reference," proceeds the Chancellor, still on Jarndyce andJarndyce, "to the young girl--""Begludship's pardon--boy," says Mr. Tangle prematurely. "Inreference," proceeds the Chancellor with extra distinctness, "tothe young girl and boy, the two young people"--Mr. Tangle crushed--"whom I directed to be in attendance to-day and who are now in myprivate room, I will see them and satisfy myself as to theexpediency of making the order for their residing with theiruncle."Mr. Tangle on his legs again. "Begludship's pardon--dead.""With their"--Chancellor looking through his double eyeglass at thepapers on his desk--"grandfather.""Begludship's pardon--victim of rash action--brains."Suddenly a very little counsel with a terrific bass voice arises,fully inflated, in the back settlements of the fog, and says, "Willyour lordship allow me? I appear for him. He is a cousin, severaltimes removed. I am not at the moment prepared to inform the courtin what exact remove he is a cousin, but he IS a cousin.   Leaving this address (delivered like a sepulchral message) ringingin the rafters of the roof, the very little counsel drops, and thefog knows him no more. Everybody looks for him. Nobody can seehim.   "I will speak with both the young people," says the Chancelloranew, "and satisfy myself on the subject of their residing withtheir cousin. I will mention the matter to-morrow morning when Itake my seat."The Chancellor is about to bow to the bar when the prisoner ispresented. Nothing can possibly come of the prisoner'sconglomeration but his being sent back to prison, which is soondone. The man from Shropshire ventures another remonstrative "Mylord!" but the Chancellor, being aware of him, has dexterouslyvanished. Everybody else quickly vanishes too. A battery of bluebags is loaded with heavy charges of papers and carried off byclerks; the little mad old woman marches off with her documents;the empty court is locked up. If all the injustice it hascommitted and all the misery it has caused could only be locked upwith it, and the whole burnt away in a great funeral pyre--why somuch the better for other parties than the parties in Jarndyce andJarndyce! Chapter 2 In Fashion It is but a glimpse of the world of fashion that we want on thissame miry afternoon. It is not so unlike the Court of Chancery butthat we may pass from the one scene to the other, as the crowflies. Both the world of fashion and the Court of Chancery arethings of precedent and usage: oversleeping Rip Van Winkles whohave played at strange games through a deal of thundery weather;sleeping beauties whom the knight will wake one day, when all thestopped 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 havemade 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 aremany good and true people in it; it has its appointed place. Butthe evil of it is that it is a world wrapped up in too muchjeweller's cotton and fine wool, and cannot hear the rushing of thelarger worlds, and cannot see them as they circle round the sun.   It is a deadened world, and its growth is sometimes unhealthy forwant of air.   My Lady Dedlock has returned to her house in town for a few daysprevious to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends tostay some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. Thefashionable intelligence says so for the comfort of the Parisians,and it knows all fashionable things. To know things otherwise wereto be unfashionable. My Lady Dedlock has been down at what shecalls, in familiar conversation, her "place" in Lincolnshire. Thewaters are out in Lincolnshire. An arch of the bridge in the parkhas been sapped and sopped away. The adjacent low-lying ground forhalf a mile in breadth is a stagnant river with melancholy treesfor islands in it and a surface punctured all over, all day long,with falling rain. My Lady Dedlock's place has been extremelydreary. The weather for many a day and night has been so wet thatthe trees seem wet through, and the soft loppings and prunings ofthe woodman's axe can make no crash or crackle as they fall. Thedeer, looking soaked, leave quagmires where they pass. The shot ofa rifle loses its sharpness in the moist air, and its smoke movesin a tardy little cloud towards the green rise, coppice-topped,that makes a background for the falling rain. The view from myLady Dedlock's own windows is alternately a lead-coloured view anda view in Indian ink. The vases on the stone terrace in theforeground catch the rain all day; and the heavy drops fall--drip,drip, drip--upon the broad flagged pavement, called from old timethe Ghost's Walk, all night. On Sundays the little church in thepark is mouldy; the oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold sweat; andthere is a general smell and taste as of the ancient Dedlocks intheir graves. My Lady Dedlock (who is childless), looking out inthe early twilight from her boudoir at a keeper's lodge and seeingthe light of a fire upon the latticed panes, and smoke rising fromthe chimney, and a child, chased by a woman, running out into therain to meet the shining figure of a wrapped-up man coming throughthe gate, has been put quite out of temper. My Lady Dedlock saysshe has been "bored to death."Therefore my Lady Dedlock has come away from the place inLincolnshire and has left it to the rain, and the crows, and therabbits, and the deer, and the partridges and pheasants. Thepictures of the Dedlocks past and gone have seemed to vanish intothe damp walls in mere lowness of spirits, as the housekeeper haspassed along the old rooms shutting up the shutters. And when theywill next come forth again, the fashionable intelligence--which,like the fiend, is omniscient of the past and present, but not thefuture--cannot yet undertake to say.   Sir Leicester Dedlock is only a baronet, but there is no mightierbaronet than he. His family is as old as the hills, and infinitelymore respectable. He has a general opinion that the world mightget on without hills but would be done up without Dedlocks. Hewould on the whole admit nature to be a good idea (a little low,perhaps, when not enclosed with a park-fence), but an ideadependent for its execution on your great county families. He is agentleman of strict conscience, disdainful of all littleness andmeanness and ready on the shortest notice to die any death you mayplease to mention rather than give occasion for the leastimpeachment of his integrity. He is an honourable, obstinate,truthful, high-spirited, intensely prejudiced, perfectlyunreasonable man.   Sir Leicester is twenty years, full measure, older than my Lady.   He will never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yetsixty-seven. He has a twist of the gout now and then and walks alittle stiffly. He is of a worthy presence, with his light-greyhair and whiskers, his fine shirt-frill, his pure-white waistcoat,and his blue coat with bright buttons always buttoned. He isceremonious, stately, most polite on every occasion to my Lady, andholds her personal attractions in the highest estimation. Hisgallantry to my Lady, which has never changed since he courted her,is the one little touch of romantic fancy in him.   Indeed, he married her for love. A whisper still goes about thatshe had not even family; howbeit, Sir Leicester had so much familythat perhaps he had enough and could dispense with any more. Butshe had beauty, pride, ambition, insolent resolve, and sense enoughto portion out a legion of fine ladies. Wealth and station, addedto these, soon floated her upward, and for years now my LadyDedlock has been at the centre of the fashionable intelligence andat the top of the fashionable tree.   How Alexander wept when he had no more worlds to conquer, everybodyknows--or has some reason to know by this time, the matter havingbeen rather frequently mentioned. My Lady Dedlock, havingconquered HER world, fell not into the melting, but rather into thefreezing, mood. An exhausted composure, a worn-out placidity, anequanimity 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-morrow, she might beexpected to ascend without any rapture.   She has beauty still, and if it be not in its heyday, it is not yetin its autumn. She has a fine face--originally of a character thatwould be rather called very pretty than handsome, but improved intoclassicality by the acquired expression of her fashionable state.   Her figure is elegant and has the effect of being tall. Not thatshe is so, but that "the most is made," as the Honourable BobStables has frequently asserted upon oath, "of all her points."The same authority observes that she is perfectly got up andremarks in commendation of her hair especially that she is thebest-groomed woman in the whole stud.   With all her perfections on her head, my Lady Dedlock has come upfrom her place in Lincolnshire (hotly pursued by the fashionableintelligence) to pass a few days at her house in town previous toher departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to stay someweeks, after which her movements are uncertain. And at her housein town, upon this muddy, murky afternoon, presents himself an old-fashioned old gentleman, attorney-at-law and eke solicitor of theHigh Court of Chancery, who has the honour of acting as legaladviser of the Dedlocks and has as many cast-iron boxes in hisoffice with that name outside as if the present baronet were thecoin of the conjuror's trick and were constantly being juggledthrough the whole set. Across the hall, and up the stairs, andalong the passages, and through the rooms, which are very brilliantin the season and very dismal out of it--fairy-land to visit, but adesert to live in--the old gentleman is conducted by a Mercury inpowder to my Lady's presence.   The old gentleman is rusty to look at, but is reputed to have madegood thrift out of aristocratic marriage settlements andaristocratic wills, and to be very rich. He is surrounded by amysterious halo of family confidences, of which he is known to bethe silent depository. There are noble mausoleums rooted forcenturies in retired glades of parks among the growing timber andthe fern, which perhaps hold fewer noble secrets than walk abroadamong men, shut up in the breast of Mr. Tulkinghorn. He is of whatis called the old school--a phrase generally meaning any schoolthat seems never to have been young--and wears knee-breeches tiedwith ribbons, and gaiters or stockings. One peculiarity of hisblack clothes and of his black stockings, be they silk or worsted,is that they never shine. Mute, close, irresponsive to anyglancing light, his dress is like himself. He never converses whennot professionaly consulted. He is found sometimes, speechless butquite at home, at corners of dinner-tables in great country housesand near doors of drawing-rooms, concerning which the fashionableintelligence is eloquent, where everybody knows him and where halfthe Peerage stops to say "How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?" Hereceives these salutations with gravity and buries them along withthe 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 isalways agreeable to Sir Leicester; he receives it as a kind oftribute. He likes Mr. Tulkinghorn's dress; there is a kind oftribute in that too. It is eminently respectable, and likewise, ina general way, retainer-like. It expresses, as it were, thesteward of the legal mysteries, the butler of the legal cellar, ofthe Dedlocks.   Has Mr. Tulkinghorn any idea of this himself? It may be so, or itmay not, but there is this remarkable circumstance to be noted ineverything associated with my Lady Dedlock as one of a class--asone of the leaders and representatives of her little world. Shesupposes herself to be an inscrutable Being, quite out of the reachand ken of ordinary mortals--seeing herself in her glass, whereindeed she looks so. Yet every dim little star revolving abouther, from her maid to the manager of the Italian Opera, knows herweaknesses, prejudices, follies, haughtinesses, and caprices andlives upon as accurate a calculation and as nice a measure of hermoral nature as her dressmaker takes of her physical proportions.   Is a new dress, a new custom, a new singer, a new dancer, a newform of jewellery, a new dwarf or giant, a new chapel, a newanything, to be set up? There are deferential people in a dozencallings whom my Lady Dedlock suspects of nothing but prostrationbefore her, who can tell you how to manage her as if she were ababy, who do nothing but nurse her all their lives, who, humblyaffecting to follow with profound subservience, lead her and herwhole troop after them; who, in hooking one, hook all and bear themoff as Lemuel Gulliver bore away the stately fleet of the majesticLilliput. "If you want to address our people, sir," say Blaze andSparkle, the jewellers--meaning by our people Lady Dedlock and therest--"you must remember that you are not dealing with the generalpublic; you must hit our people in their weakest place, and theirweakest place is such a place." "To make this article go down,gentlemen," say Sheen and Gloss, the mercers, to their friends themanufacturers, "you must come to us, because we know where to havethe fashionable people, and we can make it fashionable." "If youwant to get this print upon the tables of my high connexion, sir,"says Mr. Sladdery, the librarian, "or if you want to get this dwarfor giant into the houses of my high connexion, sir, or if you wantto secure to this entertainment the patronage of my high connexion,sir, you must leave it, if you please, to me, for I have beenaccustomed to study the leaders of my high connexion, sir, and Imay tell you without vanity that I can turn them round my finger"--in which Mr. Sladdery, who is an honest man, does not exaggerate atall.   Therefore, while Mr. Tulkinghorn may not know what is passing inthe Dedlock mind at present, it is very possible that he may.   "My Lady's cause has been again before the Chancellor, has it, Mr.   Tulkinghorn?" says Sir Leicester, giving him his hand.   "Yes. It has been on again to-day," Mr. Tulkinghorn replies,making one of his quiet bows to my Lady, who is on a sofa near thefire, shading her face with a hand-screen.   "It would be useless to ask," says my Lady with the dreariness ofthe place in Lincolnshire still upon her, "whether anything hasbeen 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 slow, expensive, British, constitutional kind of thing. Tobe sure, he has not a vital interest in the suit in question, herpart in which was the only property my Lady brought him; and he hasa shadowy impression that for his name--the name of Dedlock--to bein a cause, and not in the title of that cause, is a mostridiculous accident. But he regards the Court of Chancery, even ifit should involve an occasional delay of justice and a triflingamount of confusion, as a something devised in conjunction with avariety of other somethings by the perfection of human wisdom forthe eternal settlement (humanly speaking) of everything. And he isupon the whole of a fixed opinion that to give the sanction of hiscountenance to any complaints respecting it would be to encouragesome person in the lower classes to rise up somewhere--like WatTyler.   "As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file," says Mr.   Tulkinghorn, "and as they are short, and as I proceed upon thetroublesome principle of begging leave to possess my clients withany new proceedings in a cause"--cautious man Mr. Tulkinghorn,taking no more responsibility than necessary--"and further, as Isee you are going to Paris, I have brought them in my pocket."(Sir Leicester was going to Paris too, by the by, but the delightof the fashionable intelligence was in his Lady.)Mr. Tulkinghorn takes out his papers, asks permission to place themon a golden talisman of a table at my Lady's elbow, puts on hisspectacles, and begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp.   "'In Chancery. Between John Jarndyce--'"My Lady interrupts, requesting him to miss as many of the formalhorrors as he can.   Mr. Tulkinghorn glances over his spectacles and begins again lowerdown. My Lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her attention.   Sir Leicester in a great chair looks at the file and appears tohave a stately liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities asranging among the national bulwarks. It happens that the fire ishot where my Lady sits and that the hand-screen is more beautifulthan useful, being priceless but small. My Lady, changing herposition, sees the papers on the table--looks at them nearer--looksat them nearer still--asks impulsively, "Who copied that?"Mr. Tulkinghorn stops short, surprised by my Lady's animation andher unusual tone.   "Is it what you people call law-hand?" she asks, looking full athim 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 originalhand 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 screensher face. Sir Leicester dozes, starts up suddenly, and cries, "Eh?   What do you say?""I say I am afraid," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who had risen hastily,"that Lady Dedlock is ill.""Faint," my Lady murmurs with white lips, "only that; but it islike the faintness of death. Don't speak to me. Ring, and take meto my room!"Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into another chamber; bells ring, feetshuffle and patter, silence ensues. Mercury at last begs Mr.   Tulkinghorn to return.   "Better now," quoth Sir Leicester, motioning the lawyer to sit downand read to him alone. "I have been quite alarmed. I never knewmy Lady swoon before. But the weather is extremely trying, and shereally has been bored to death down at our place in Lincolnshire." Chapter 3 A Progress I have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portionof these pages, for I know I am not clever. I always knew that. Ican remember, when I was a very little girl indeed, I used to sayto my doll when we were alone together, "Now, Dolly, I am notclever, you know very well, and you must be patient with me, like adear!" And so she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair,with her beautiful complexion and rosy lips, staring at me--or notso much at me, I think, as at nothing--while I busily stitched awayand told her every one of my secrets.   My dear old doll! I was such a shy little thing that I seldomdared to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to anybodyelse. It almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to beto me when I came home from school of a day to run upstairs to myroom and say, "Oh, you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would beexpecting me!" and then to sit down on the floor, leaning on theelbow of her great chair, and tell her all I had noticed since weparted. I had always rather a noticing way--not a quick way, oh,no!--a silent way of noticing what passed before me and thinking Ishould like to understand it better. I have not by any means aquick understanding. When I love a person very tenderly indeed, itseems to brighten. But even that may be my vanity.   I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance--like some of theprincesses in the fairy stories, only I was not charming--by mygodmother. At least, I only knew her as such. She was a good,good woman! She went to church three times every Sunday, and tomorning prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and to lectures wheneverthere were lectures; and never missed. She was handsome; and ifshe had ever smiled, would have been (I used to think) like anangel--but she never smiled. She was always grave and strict. Shewas so very good herself, I thought, that the badness of otherpeople made her frown all her life. I felt so different from her,even making every allowance for the differences between a child anda woman; I felt so poor, so trifling, and so far off that I nevercould be unrestrained with her--no, could never even love her as Iwished. It made me very sorry to consider how good she was and howunworthy of her I was, and I used ardently to hope that I mighthave a better heart; and I talked it over very often with the dearold doll, but I never loved my godmother as I ought to have lovedher and as I felt I must have loved her if I had been a bettergirl.   This made me, I dare say, more timid and retiring than I naturallywas and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with whom I felt atease. But something happened when I was still quite a little thingthat helped it very much.   I had never heard my mama spoken of. I had never heard of my papaeither, but I felt more interested about my mama. I had never worna black frock, that I could recollect. I had never been shown mymama's grave. I had never been told where it was. Yet I had neverbeen taught to pray for any relation but my godmother. I had morethan once approached this subject of my thoughts with Mrs. Rachael,our only servant, who took my light away when I was in bed (anothervery good woman, but 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 Iwas a day boarder, and although they called me little EstherSummerson, I knew none of them at home. All of them were olderthan I, to be sure (I was the youngest there by a good deal), butthere seemed to be some other separation between us besides that,and besides their being far more clever than I was and knowing muchmore than I did. One of them in the first week of my going to theschool (I remember it very well) invited me home to a little party,to my great joy. But my godmother wrote a stiff letter decliningfor me, and I never went. I never went out at all.   It was my birthday. There were holidays at school on otherbirthdays--none on mine. There were rejoicings at home on otherbirthdays, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to oneanother--there were none on mine. My birthday was the mostmelancholy day at home in the whole year.   I have mentioned that unless my vanity should deceive me (as I knowit may, for I may be very vain without suspecting it, though indeedI don't), my comprehension is quickened when my affection is. Mydisposition is very affectionate, and perhaps I might still feelsuch a wound if such a wound could be received more than once withthe quickness of that birthday.   Dinner was over, and my godmother and I were sitting at the tablebefore the fire. The clock ticked, the fire clicked; not anothersound had been heard in the room or in the house for I don't knowhow long. I happened to look timidly up from my stitching, acrossthe table at my godmother, and I saw in her face, looking gloomilyat me, "It would have been far better, little Esther, that you hadhad no birthday, that you had never been born!"I broke out crying and sobbing, and I said, "Oh, dear godmother,tell me, pray do tell me, did Mama die on my birthday?""No," she returned. "Ask me no more, child!""Oh, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, deargodmother, if you please! What did I do to her? How did I loseher? Why am I so different from other children, and why is it myfault, dear godmother? No, no, no, don't go away. Oh, speak tome!"I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief, and I caught hold of herdress 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 themidst of my vehemence. I put up my trembling little hand to clasphers or to beg her pardon with what earnestness I might, butwithdrew it as she looked at me, and laid it on my flutteringheart. She raised me, sat in her chair, and standing me beforeher, said slowly in a cold, low voice--I see her knitted brow andpointed finger--"Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and youwere hers. The time will come--and soon enough--when you willunderstand this better and will feel it too, as no one save a womancan. I have forgiven her"--but her face did not relent--"the wrongshe did to me, and I say no more of it, though it was greater thanyou will ever know--than any one will ever know but I, thesufferer. For yourself, unfortunate girl, orphaned and degradedfrom the first of these evil anniversaries, pray daily that thesins of others be not visited upon your head, according to what iswritten. Forget your mother and leave all other people to forgether who will do her unhappy child that greatest kindness. Now,go!"She checked me, however, as I was about to depart from her--sofrozen as I was!--and added this, "Submission, self-denial,diligent work, are the preparations for a life begun with such ashadow on it. You are different from other children, Esther,because you were not born, like them, in common sinfulness andwrath. You are set apart."I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll's cheekagainst mine wet with tears, and holding that solitary friend uponmy bosom, cried myself to sleep. Imperfect as my understanding ofmy sorrow was, I knew that I had brought no joy at any time toanybody's heart and that I was to no one upon earth what Dolly wasto me.   Dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone togetherafterwards, and how often I repeated to the doll the story of mybirthday and confided to her that I would try as hard as ever Icould to repair the fault I had been born with (of which Iconfessedly felt guilty and yet innocent) and would strive as Igrew up to be industrious, contented, and kind-hearted and to dosome good to some one, and win some love to myself if I could. Ihope it is not self-indulgent to shed these tears as I think of it.   I am very thankful, I am very cheerful, but I cannot quite helptheir 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 moreafter the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in herhouse which ought to have been empty, that I found her moredifficult of approach, though I was fervently grateful to her in myheart, than ever. I felt in the same way towards my schoolcompanions; I felt in the same way towards Mrs. Rachael, who was awidow; and oh, towards her daughter, of whom she was proud, whocame 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 booksand portfolio, watching my long shadow at my side, and as I wasgliding upstairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked out ofthe parlour-door and called me back. Sitting with her, I found--which was very unusual indeed--a stranger. A portly, important-looking gentleman, dressed all in black, with a white cravat, largegold watch seals, a pair of gold eye-glasses, and a large seal-ringupon his little finger.   "This," said my godmother in an undertone, "is the child." Thenshe said in her naturally stern way of speaking, "This is Esther,sir."The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me and said, "Comehere, my dear!" He shook hands with me and asked me to take off mybonnet, looking at me all the while. When I had complied, he said,"Ah!" and afterwards "Yes!" And then, taking off his eye-glassesand folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair,turning the case about in his two hands, he gave my godmother anod. Upon that, my godmother said, "You may go upstairs, Esther!"And I made him my curtsy and left him.   It must have been two years afterwards, and I was almost fourteen,when one dreadful night my godmother and I sat at the fireside. Iwas reading aloud, and she was listening. I had come down at nineo'clock as I always did to read the Bible to her, and was readingfrom St. John how our Saviour stooped down, writing with his fingerin the dust, when they brought the sinful woman to him.   "'So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and saidunto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast astone at her!'"I was stopped by my godmother's rising, putting her hand to herhead, and crying out in an awful voice from quite another part ofthe book, "'Watch ye, therefore, lest coming suddenly he find yousleeping. And what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch!'"In an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, shefell down on the floor. I had no need to cry out; her voice hadsounded 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 outwardly, with her old handsome resolute frown thatI so well knew carved upon her face. Many and many a time, in theday and in the night, with my head upon the pillow by her that mywhispers might be plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayedfor her, asked her for her blessing and forgiveness, entreated herto give me the least sign that she knew or heard me. No, no, no.   Her face was immovable. To the very last, and even afterwards, herfrown remained unsoftened.   On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentlemanin black with the white neckcloth reappeared. I was sent for byMrs. Rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had nevergone away.   "My name is Kenge," he said; "you may remember it, my child; Kengeand Carboy, Lincoln's Inn."I replied that I remembered to have seen him once before.   "Pray be seated--here near me. Don't distress yourself; it's of nouse. Mrs. Rachael, I needn't inform you who were acquainted withthe late Miss Barbary's affairs, that her means die with her andthat this young lady, now her aunt is dead--""My aunt, sir!""It is really of no use carrying on a deception when no object isto be gained by it," said Mr. Kenge smoothly, "Aunt in fact, thoughnot 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. Kenge, putting up his eye-glasses,"that our young friend--I BEG you won't distress yourself!--neverheard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce!"I shook my head, wondering even what it was.   "Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?" said Mr. Kenge, looking over hisglasses at me and softly turning the case about and about as if hewere petting something. "Not of one of the greatest Chancery suitsknown? Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce--the--a--in itself a monumentof Chancery practice. In which (I would say) every difficulty,every contingency, every masterly fiction, every form of procedureknown in that court, is represented over and over again? It is acause that could not exist out of this free and great country. Ishould say that the aggregate of costs in Jarndyce and Jarndyce,Mrs. Rachael"--I was afraid he addressed himself to her because Iappeared inattentive"--amounts at the present hour to from SIX-tyto SEVEN-ty THOUSAND POUNDS!" said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in hischair.   I felt very ignorant, but what could I do? I was so entirelyunacquainted with the subject that I understood nothing about iteven then.   "And she really never heard of the cause!" said Mr. Kenge.   "Surprising!""Miss Barbary, sir," returned Mrs. Rachael, "who is now among theSeraphim--""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 whole, very proper. Now to thepoint," addressing me. "Miss Barbary, your sole relation (in factthat is, for I am bound to observe that in law you had none) beingdeceased 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 chargeherself with your maintenance and support (I beg you won't distressyourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offerwhich I was instructed to make to Miss Barbary some two years agoand which, though rejected then, was understood to be renewableunder the lamentable circumstances that have since occurred. Now,if I avow that I represent, in Jarndyce and Jarndyce and otherwise,a highly humane, but at the same time singular, man, shall Icompromise myself by any stretch of my professional caution?" saidMr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair again and looking calmly at usboth.   He appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of his own voice.   I couldn't wonder at that, for it was mellow and full and gavegreat importance to every word he uttered. He listened to himselfwith obvious satisfaction and sometimes gently beat time to his ownmusic with his head or rounded a sentence with his hand. I wasvery much impressed by him--even then, before I knew that he formedhimself on the model of a great lord who was his client and that hewas generally called Conversation Kenge.   "Mr. Jarndyce," he pursued, "being aware of the--I would say,desolate--position of our young friend, offers to place her at afirst-rate establishment where her education shall be completed,where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wantsshall be anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified todischarge her duty in that station of life unto which it haspleased--shall I say Providence?--to call her."My heart was filled so full, both by what he said and by hisaffecting manner of saying it, that I was not able to speak, thoughI tried.   "Mr. Jarndyce," he went on, "makes no condition beyond expressinghis expectation that our young friend will not at any time removeherself from the establishment in question without his knowledgeand concurrence. That she will faithfully apply herself to theacquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of whichshe will be ultimately dependent. That she will tread in the pathsof 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 Mr, Kenge. "Taketime, take time! I pause for her reply. But take time!"What the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, I neednot repeat. What she did say, I could more easily tell, if it wereworth the telling. What she felt, and will feel to her dying hour,I could never relate.   This interview took place at Windsor, where I had passed (as far asI knew) my whole life. On that day week, amply provided with allnecessaries, I left it, inside the stagecoach, for Reading.   Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but I wasnot so good, and wept bitterly. I thought that I ought to haveknown her better after so many years and ought to have made myselfenough of a favourite with her to make her sorry then. When shegave me one cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-dropfrom the stone porch--it was a very frosty day--I felt so miserableand self-reproachful that I clung to her and told her it was myfault, I knew, that 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 weheard the wheels--and thus I left her, with a sorrowful heart. Shewent in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof and shut thedoor. As long as I could see the house, I looked back at it fromthe window through my tears. My godmother had left Mrs. Rachaelall the little property she possessed; and there was to be a sale;and an old hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to methe first thing in the world I had ever seen, was hanging outsidein the frost and snow. A day or two before, I had wrapped the dearold doll in her own shawl and quietly laid her--I am half ashamedto tell it--in the garden-earth under the tree that shaded my oldwindow. I had no companion left but my bird, and him I carriedwith me in his cage.   When the house was out of sight, I sat, with my bird-cage in thestraw at my feet, forward on the low seat to look out of the highwindow, watching the frosty trees, that were like beautiful piecesof spar, and the fields all smooth and white with last night'ssnow, and the sun, so red but yielding so little heat, and the ice,dark like metal where the skaters and sliders had brushed the snowaway. There was a gentleman in the coach who sat on the oppositeseat and looked very large in a quantity of wrappings, but he satgazing out of the other window and took no notice of me.   I thought of my dead godmother, of the night when I read to her, ofher frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bed, of the strangeplace I was going to, of the people I should find there, and whatthey would be like, and what they would say to me, when a voice inthe coach gave me a terrible start.   It said, "What the de-vil are you crying for?"I was so frightened that I lost my voice and could only answer in awhisper, "Me, sir?" For of course I knew it must have been thegentleman in the quantity of wrappings, though he was still lookingout of his window.   "Yes, you," he said, turning round.   "I didn't know I was crying, sir," I faltered.   "But you are!" said the gentleman. "Look here!" He came quiteopposite to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed one ofhis large furry cuffs across my eyes (but without hurting me), andshowed 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 genfleman, "Don't you wantto 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 strange, or at least that what I could see ofhim was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and hisface was almost hidden in a fur cap with broad fur straps at theside 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 havebeen 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 ina high wind on a broomstick!"I began to be really afraid of him now and looked at him with thegreatest astonishment. But I thought that he had pleasant eyes,although he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner andcalling Mrs. Rachael names.   After a little while he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared tome large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his arm downinto a deep pocket in the side.   "Now, look here!" he said. "In this paper," which was nicelyfolded, "is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got formoney--sugar on the outside an inch thick, like fat on muttonchops. Here's a little pie (a gem this is, both for size andquality), 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 indeed, but Ihope you won't be offended--they are too rich for me.""Floored again!" said the gentleman, which I didn't at allunderstand, and threw them both out of window.   He did not speak to me any more until he got out of the coach alittle way short of Reading, when he advised me to be a good girland to be studious, and shook hands with me. I must say I wasrelieved by his departure. We left him at a milestone. I oftenwalked past it afterwards, and never for a long time withoutthinking of him and half expecting to meet him. But I never did;and so, as time went on, he passed out of my mind.   When the coach stopped, a very neat lady looked up at the windowand said, "Miss Donny.""No, ma'am, Esther Summerson.""That is quite right," said the lady, "Miss Donny."I now understood that she introduced herself by that name, andbegged Miss Donny's pardon for my mistake, and pointed out my boxesat her request. Under the direction of a very neat maid, they wereput outside a very small green carriage; and then Miss Donny, themaid, and I got inside and were driven away.   "Everything is ready for you, Esther," said Miss Donny, "and thescheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance withthe 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 toosevere for me and lent me her smelling-bottle.   "Do you know my--guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma'am?" I asked after agood deal of hesitation.   "Not personally, Esther," said Miss Donny; "merely through hissolicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London. A very superiorgentleman, Mr. Kenge. Truly eloquent indeed. Some of his periodsquite majestic!"I felt this to be very true but was too confused to attend to it.   Our speedy arrival at our destination, before I had time to recovermyself, increased my confusion, and I never shall forget theuncertain and the unreal air of everything at Greenleaf (MissDonny's house) that afternoon!   But I soon became used to it. I was so adapted to the routine ofGreenleaf before long that I seemed to have been there a greatwhile and almost to have dreamed rather than really lived my oldlife at my godmother's. Nothing could be more precise, exact, andorderly than Greenleaf. There was a time for everything all roundthe dial of the clock, and everything was done at its appointedmoment.   We were twelve boarders, and there were two Miss Donnys, twins. Itwas understood that I would have to depend, by and by, on myqualifications as a governess, and I was not only instructed ineverything that was taught at Greenleaf, but was very soon engagedin helping to instruct others. Although I was treated in everyother respect like the rest of the school, this single differencewas made in my case from the first. As I began to know more, Itaught more, and so in course of time I had plenty to do, which Iwas very fond of doing because it made the dear girls fond of me.   At last, whenever a new pupil came who was a little downcast andunhappy, she was so sure--indeed I don't know why--to make a friendof me that all new-comers were confided to my care. They said Iwas so gentle, but I am sure THEY were! I often thought of theresolution I had made on my birthday to try to be industrious,contented, and true-hearted and to do some good to some one and winsome love if I could; and indeed, indeed, I felt almost ashamed tohave done so little and have won so much.   I passed at Greenleaf six happy, quiet years. I never saw in anyface there, thank heaven, on my birthday, that it would have beenbetter if I had never been born. When the day came round, itbrought me so many tokens of affectionate remembrance that my roomwas beautiful with them from New Year's Day to Christmas.   In those six years I had never been away except on visits atholiday time in the neighbourhood. After the first six months orso I had taken Miss Donny's advice in reference to the propriety ofwriting to Mr. Kenge to say that I was happy and grateful, and withher approval I had written such a letter. I had received a formalanswer acknowledging its receipt and saying, "We note the contentsthereof, which shall be duly communicated to our client." Afterthat I sometimes heard Miss Donny and her sister mention howregular my accounts were paid, and about twice a year I ventured towrite a similar letter. I always received by return of postexactly the same answer in the same round hand, with the signatureof Kenge and Carboy in another writing, which I supposed to be Mr.   Kenge's.   It seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this aboutmyself! As if this narrative were the narrative of MY life! Butmy little body will soon fall into the background now.   Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for the second time) I hadpassed at Greenleaf, seeing in those around me, as it might be in alooking-glass, every stage of my own growth and change there, when,one November morning, I received this letter. I omit the date.   Old Square, Lincoln's InnMadam,Jarndyce and JarndyceOur clt Mr. Jarndyce being abt to rece into his house, under anOrder of the Ct of Chy, a Ward of the Ct in this cause, for whom hewishes to secure an elgble compn, directs us to inform you that hewill be glad of your serces in the afsd capacity.   We have arrngd for your being forded, carriage free, pr eighto'clock coach from Reading, on Monday morning next, to White HorseCellar, Piccadilly, London, where one of our clks will be inwaiting to convey you to our offe as above.   We are, Madam, Your obedt Servts,Kenge and CarboyMiss Esther SummersonOh, never, never, never shall I forget the emotion this lettercaused in the house! It was so tender in them to care so much forme, it was so gracious in that father who had not forgotten me tohave made my orphan way so smooth and easy and to have inclined somany youthful natures towards me, that I could hardly bear it. Notthat I would have had them less sorry--I am afraid not; but thepleasure of it, and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it,and the humble regret of it were so blended that my heart seemedalmost breaking while it was full of rapture.   The letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal. Whenevery minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that weregiven me in those five days, and when at last the morning came andwhen they took me through all the rooms that I might see them forthe last time, and when some cried, "Esther, dear, say good-bye tome here at my bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!" andwhen others asked me only to write their names, "With Esther'slove," and when they all surrounded me with their parting presentsand clung to me weeping and cried, "What shall we do when dear,dear Esther's gone!" and when I tried to tell them how forbearingand how good they had all been to me and how I blessed and thankedthem every one, what a heart I had!   And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part with me as theleast among them, and when the maids said, "Bless you, miss,wherever you go!" and when the ugly lame old gardener, who Ithought had hardly noticed me in all those years, came pantingafter the coach to give me a little nosegay of geraniums and toldme 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 this, and the coming to the littleschool, and the unexpected sight of the poor children outsidewaving their hats and bonnets to me, and of a grey-haired gentlemanand lady whose daughter I had helped to teach and at whose house Ihad visited (who were said to be the proudest people in all thatcountry), caring for nothing but calling out, "Good-bye, Esther.   May you be very happy!"--could I help it if I was quite bowed downin the coach by myself and said "Oh, I am so thankful, I am sothankful!" many times over!   But of course I soon considered that I must not take tears where Iwas going after all that had been done for me. Therefore, ofcourse, I made myself sob less and persuaded myself to be quiet bysaying very often, "Esther, now you really must! This WILL NOTdo!" I cheered myself up pretty well at last, though I am afraid Iwas longer about it than I ought to have been; and when I hadcooled my eyes with lavender water, it was time to watch forLondon.   I was quite persuaded that we were there when we were ten milesoff, and when we really were there, that we should never get there.   However, when we began to jolt upon a stone pavement, andparticularly when every other conveyance seemed to be running intous, and we seemed to be running into every other conveyance, Ibegan to believe that we really were approaching the end of ourjourney. Very soon afterwards we stopped.   A young gentleman who had inked himself by accident addressed mefrom the pavement and said, "I am from Kenge and Carboy's, miss, ofLincoln's Inn.""If you please, sir," said I.   He was very obliging, and as he handed me into a fly aftersuperintending the removal of my boxes, I asked him whether therewas a great fire anywhere? For the streets were so full of densebrown 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 everwere seen in the world (I thought) and in such a distracting stateof confusion that I wondered how the people kept their senses,until we passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway and droveon through a silent square until we came to an odd nook in acorner, where there was an entrance up a steep, broad flight ofstairs, like an entrance to a church. And there really was achurchyard outside under some cloisters, for I saw the gravestonesfrom the staircase window.   This was Kenge and Carboy's. The young gentleman showed me throughan outer office into Mr. Kenge's room--there was no one in it--andpolitely put an arm-chair for me by the fire. He then called myattention to a little looking-glass hanging from a nail on one sideof the chimney-piece.   "In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after thejourney, as you're going before the Chancellor. Not that it'srequisite, I am sure," said the young gentleman civilly.   "Going before the Chancellor?" I said, startled for a moment.   "Only a matter of form, miss," returned the young gentleman. "Mr.   Kenge is in court now. He left his compliments, and would youpartake of some refreshment"--there were biscuits and a decanter ofwine on a small table--"and look over the paper," which the younggentleman gave me as he spoke. He then stirred the fire and leftme.   Everything was so strange--the stranger from its being night in theday-time, the candles burning with a white flame, and looking rawand cold--that I read the words in the newspaper without knowingwhat 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, andlooked at the room, which was not half lighted, and at the shabby,dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase fullof the most inexpressive-looking books that ever had anything tosay for themselves. Then I went on, thinking, thinking, thinking;and the fire went on, burning, burning, burning; and the candleswent on flickering and guttering, and there were no snuffers--untilthe young gentleman by and by brought a very dirty pair--for twohours.   At last Mr. Kenge came. HE was not altered, but he was surprisedto see how altered I was and appeared quite pleased. "As you aregoing to be the companion of the young lady who is now in theChancellor's private room, Miss Summerson," he said, "we thought itwell that you should be in attendance also. You will not bediscomposed by the Lord Chancellor, I dare say?""No, sir," I said, "I don't think I shall," really not seeing onconsideration why I should be.   So Mr. Kenge gave me his arm and we went round the corner, under acolonnade, and in at a side door. And so we came, along a passage,into a comfortable sort of room where a young lady and a younggentleman were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire. A screenwas interposed between them and it, and they were leaning on thescreen, talking.   They both looked up when I came in, and I saw in the young lady,with the fire shining upon her, such a beautiful girl! With suchrich golden hair, such soft blue eyes, and such a bright, innocent,trusting face!   "Miss Ada," said Mr. Kenge, "this 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 natural, captivating, winning manner that in a fewminutes we were sitting in the window-seat, with the light of thefire upon us, talking together as free and happy as could be.   What a load off my mind! It was so delightful to know that shecould confide in me and like me! It was so good of her, and soencouraging to me!   The young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and hisname Richard Carstone. He was a handsome youth with an ingenuousface and a most engaging laugh; and after she had called him up towhere we sat, he stood by us, in the light of the fire, talkinggaily, like a light-hearted boy. He was very young, not more thannineteen then, if quite so much, but nearly two years older thanshe was. They were both orphans and (what was very unexpected andcurious to me) had never met before that day. Our all three comingtogether for the first time in such an unusual place was a thing totalk about, and we talked about it; and the fire, which had leftoff roaring, winked its red eyes at us--as Richard said--like adrowsy old Chancery lion.   We conversed in a low tone because a full-dressed gentleman in abag wig frequenfly came in and out, and when he did so, we couldhear a drawling sound in the distance, which he said was one of thecounsel in our case addressing the Lord Chancellor. He told Mr.   Kenge that the Chancellor would be up in five minutes; andpresently we heard a bustle and a tread of feet, and Mr. Kenge saidthat the Court had risen and his lordship was in the next room.   The gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost directly andrequested Mr. Kenge to come in. Upon that, we all went into thenext room, Mr. Kenge first, with my darling--it is so natural to menow that I can't help writing it; and there, plainly dressed inblack and sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the fire, was hislordship, whose robe, trimmed with beautiful gold lace, was thrownupon another chair. He gave us a searching look as we entered, buthis manner was both courtly and kind.   The gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on hislordship's table, and his lordship silently selected one and turnedover the leaves.   "Miss Clare," said the Lord Chancellor. "Miss Ada Clare?"Mr. Kenge presented her, and his lordship begged her to sit downnear him. That he admired her and was interested by her even Icould see in a moment. It touched me that the home of such abeautiful young creature should be represented by that dry,official place. The Lord High Chancellor, at his best, appeared sopoor a substitute for the love and pride of parents.   "The Jarndyce in question," said the Lord Chancellor, still turningover leaves, "is 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 lordship, "is 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 Chancellor, turning over more leaves.   "Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," Mr. Kenge observed in a lowvoice, "if I may venture to remind your lordship, provides asuitable companion for--""For Mr. Richard Carstone?" I thought (but I am not quite sure) Iheard 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 curtsyvery 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. Hislordship, with his eyes upon his papers, listened, nodded twice orthrice, turned over more leaves, and did not look towards me againuntil we were going away.   Mr. Kenge now retired, and Richard with him, to where I was, nearthe door, leaving my pet (it is so natural to me that again I can'thelp it!) sitting near the Lord Chancellor, with whom his lordshipspoke a little part, asking her, as she told me afterwards, whethershe had well reflected on the proposed arrangement, and if shethought she would be happy under the roof of Mr. Jarndyce of BleakHouse, and why she thought so? Presently he rose courteously andreleased her, and then he spoke for a minute or two with RichardCarstone, not seated, but standing, and altogether with more easeand less ceremony, as if he still knew, though he WAS LordChancellor, how 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 chosen, so far as I may judge," andthis was when he looked at me, "a very good companion for the younglady, and the arrangement altogether seems the best of which thecircumstances admit."He dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much obligedto him for being so affable and polite, by which he had certainlylost no dignity but seemed to us to have gained some.   When we got under the colonnade, Mr. Kenge remembered that he mustgo back for a moment to ask a question and left us in the fog, withthe Lord Chancellor's carriage and servants waiting for him to comeout.   "Well!" said Richard Carstone. "THAT'S over! And where do we gonext, Miss 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 another, half laughing at our being like thechildren in the wood, when a curious little old woman in a squeezedbonnet and carrying a reticule came curtsying and smiling up to uswith an air of great ceremony.   "Oh!" said she. "The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure,to have the honour! It is a good omen for youth, and hope, andbeauty when they find themselves in this place, and don't knowwhat's to come of it.""Mad!" whispered Richard, not thinking she could hear him.   "Right! Mad, young gentleman," she returned so quickly that he wasquite abashed. "I was a ward myself. I was not mad at that time,"curtsying low and smiling between every little sentence. "I hadyouth and hope. I believe, beauty. It matters very little now.   Neither of the three served or saved me. I have the honour toattend court regularly. With my documents. I expect a judgment.   Shortly. On the Day of Judgment. I have discovered that the sixthseal mentioned in the Revelations is the Great Seal. It has beenopen a long time! Pray accept my blessing."As Ada was a little frightened, I said, to humour the poor oldlady, that we were much obliged to her.   "Ye-es!" she said mincingly. "I imagine so. And here isConversation Kenge. With HIS documents! How does your honourableworship do?""Quite well, quite well! Now don't be troublesome, that's a goodsoul!" said Mr. Kenge, leading the way back.   "By no means," said the poor old lady, keeping up with Ada and me.   "Anything but troublesome. I shall confer estates on both--whichis not being troublesome, I trust? I expect a judgment. Shortly.   On the Day of Judgment. This is a good omen for you. Accept myblessing!"She stopped at the bottom of the steep, broad flight of stairs; butwe looked back as we went up, and she was still there, saying,still with a curtsy and a smile between every little sentence,"Youth. And hope. And beauty. And Chancery. And ConversationKenge! Ha! Pray accept my blessing!" Chapter 4 Telescopic Philanthropy We were to pass the night, Mr. Kenge told us when we arrived in hisroom, at Mrs. Jellyby's; and then he turned to me and said he tookit for granted I knew who Mrs. Jellyby was.   "I really don't, sir," I returned. "Perhaps Mr. Carstone--or MissClare--"But no, they knew nothing whatever about Mrs. Jellyby. "In-deed!   Mrs. Jellyby," said Mr. Kenge, standing with his back to the fireand casting his eyes over the dusty hearth-rug as if it were Mrs.   Jellyby's biography, "is a lady of very remarkable strength ofcharacter who devotes herself entirely to the public. She hasdevoted herself to an extensive variety of public subjects atvarious times and is at present (until something else attracts her)devoted to the subject of Africa, with a view to the generalcultivation of the coffee berry--AND the natives--and the happysettlement, on the banks of the African rivers, of oursuperabundant home population. Mr. Jarndyce, who is desirous toaid any work that is considered likely to be a good work and who ismuch sought after by philanthropists, has, I believe, a very highopinion of Mrs. Jellyby."Mr. Kenge, adjusting his cravat, then looked at us.   "And Mr. Jellyby, sir?" suggested Richard.   "Ah! Mr. Jellyby," said Mr. Kenge, "is--a--I don't know that I candescribe him to you better than by saying that he is the husband ofMrs. Jellyby.""A nonentity, sir?" said Richard with a droll look.   "I don't say that," returned Mr. Kenge gravely. "I can't say that,indeed, for I know nothing whatever OF Mr. Jellyby. I never, to myknowledge, had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Jellyby. He may be avery superior man, but he is, so to speak, merged--merged--in themore shining qualities of his wife." Mr. Kenge proceeded to tellus that as the road to Bleak House would have been very long, dark,and tedious on such an evening, and as we had been travellingalready, Mr. Jarndyce had himself proposed this arrangement. Acarriage would be at Mrs. Jellyby's to convey us out of town earlyin the forenoon of to-morrow.   He then rang a little bell, and the young gentleman came in.   Addressing him by the name of Guppy, Mr. Kenge inquired whetherMiss Summerson's boxes and the rest of the baggage had been "sentround." Mr. Guppy said yes, they had been sent round, and a coachwas waiting to take us round too as soon as we pleased.   "Then it only remains," said Mr. Kenge, shaking hands with us, "forme to express my lively satisfaction in (good day, Miss Clare!) thearrangement this day concluded and my (GOOD-bye to you, MissSummerson!) 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 allconcerned! 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 Inn, you know.""I can't say I know where it is, for I come from Winchester and amstrange in London.""Only round the corner," said Mr. Guppy. "We just twist upChancery Lane, and cut along Holborn, and there we are in fourminutes' time, as near as a toucher. This is about a Londonparticular NOW, ain't it, miss?" He seemed quite delighted with iton 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 contrary, it seems to do you good,miss, judging from your appearance."I knew he meant well in paying me this compliment, so I laughed atmyself for blushing at it when he had shut the door and got uponthe box; and we all three laughed and chatted about ourinexperience and the strangeness of London until we turned up underan archway to our destination--a narrow street of high houses likean oblong cistern to hold the fog. There was a confused littlecrowd of people, principally children, gathered about the house atwhich we stopped, which had a tarnished brass plate on the doorwith the inscription JELLYBY.   "Don't be frightened!" said Mr. Guppy, looking in at the coach-window. "One of the young Jellybys been and got his head throughthe area railings!""Oh, poor child," said I; "let me out, if you please!""Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young Jellybys are alwaysup to something," said Mr. Guppy.   I made my way to the poor child, who was one of the dirtiest littleunfortunates I ever saw, and found him very hot and frightened andcrying loudly, fixed by the neck between two iron railings, while amilkman and a beadle, with the kindest intentions possible, wereendeavouring to drag him back by the legs, under a generalimpression that his skull was compressible by those means. As Ifound (after pacifying him) that he was a little boy with anaturally large head, I thought that perhaps where his head couldgo, his body could follow, and mentioned that the best mode ofextrication might be to push him forward. This was so favourablyreceived by the milkman and beadle that he would immediately havebeen pushed into the area if I had not held his pinafore whileRichard and Mr. Guppy ran down through the kitchen to catch himwhen he should be released. At last he was happily got downwithout any accident, and then he began to beat Mr. Guppy with ahoop-stick in quite a frantic manner.   Nobody had appeared belonging to the house except a person inpattens, who had been poking at the child from below with a broom;I don't know with what object, and I don't think she did. Itherefore supposed that Mrs. Jellyby was not at home, and was quitesurprised when the person appeared in the passage without thepattens, and going up to the back room on the first floor beforeAda and me, announced us as, "Them two young ladies, MissisJellyby!" We passed several more children on the way up, whom itwas difficult to avoid treading on in the dark; and as we came intoMrs. Jellyby's presence, one of the poor little things felldownstairs--down a whole flight (as it sounded to me), with a greatnoise.   Mrs. Jellyby, whose face reflected none of the uneasiness which wecould not help showing in our own faces as the dear child's headrecorded its passage with a bump on every stair--Richard afterwardssaid he counted seven, besides one for the landing--received uswith perfect equanimity. She was a pretty, very diminutive, plumpwoman of from forty to fifty, with handsome eyes, though they had acurious habit of seeming to look a long way off. As if--I amquoting 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 forMr. Jarndyce, and no one in whom he is interested can be an objectof 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 verygood hair but was too much occupied with her African duties tobrush it. The shawl in which she had been loosely muffled droppedonto her chair when she advanced to us; and as she turned to resumeher seat, we could not help noticing that her dress didn't nearlymeet up the back and that the open space was railed across with alattice-work of stay-lace--like a summer-house.   The room, which was strewn with papers and nearly filled by a greatwriting-table covered with similar litter, was, I must say, notonly very untidy but very dirty. We were obliged to take notice ofthat with our sense of sight, even while, with our sense ofhearing, we followed the poor child who had tumbled downstairs: Ithink into the back kitchen, where somebody seemed to stifle him.   But what principally struck us was a jaded and unhealthy-lookingthough by no means plain girl at the writing-table, who sat bitingthe feather of her pen and staring at us. I suppose nobody everwas in such a state of ink. And from her tumbled hair to herpretty feet, which were disfigured with frayed and broken satinslippers trodden down at heel, she really seemed to have no articleof dress upon her, from a pin upwards, that was in its propercondition or its right place.   "You find me, my dears," said Mrs. Jellyby, snuffing the two greatoffice candles in tin candlesticks, which made the room tastestrongly of hot tallow (the fire had gone out, and there wasnothing in the grate but ashes, a bundle of wood, and a poker),"you find me, my dears, as usual, very busy; but that you willexcuse. The African project at present employs my whole time. Itinvolves me in correspondence with public bodies and with privateindividuals anxious for the welfare of their species all over thecountry. I am happy to say it is advancing. We hope by this timenext year to have from a hundred and fifty to two hundred healthyfamilies cultivating coffee and educating the natives ofBorrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the Niger."As Ada said nothing, but looked at me, I said it must be verygratifying.   "It IS gratifying," said Mrs. Jellyby. "It involves the devotionof all my energies, such as they are; but that is nothing, so thatit succeeds; and I am more confident of success every day. Do youknow, Miss Summerson, I almost wonder that YOU never turned yourthoughts to Africa."This application of the subject was really so unexpected to me thatI was quite at a loss how to receive it. I hinted that theclimate--"The finest climate in the world!" said Mrs. Jellyby.   "Indeed, ma'am?""Certainly. With precaution," said Mrs. Jellyby. "You may go intoHolborn, without precaution, and be run over. You may go intoHolborn, with precaution, and never be run over. Just so withAfrica."I said, "No doubt." I meant as to Holborn.   "If you would like," said Mrs. Jellyby, putting a number of paperstowards us, "to look over some remarks on that head, and on thegeneral subject, which have been extensively circulated, while Ifinish a letter I am now dictating to my eldest daughter, who is myamanuensis--"The girl at the table left off biting her pen and made a return toour recognition, which was half bashful and half sulky.   "--I shall then have finished for the present," proceeded Mrs.   Jellyby with a sweet smile, "though my work is never done. Whereare you, Caddy?""'Presents her compliments to Mr. Swallow, and begs--'" said Caddy.   "'And begs,'" said Mrs. Jellyby, dictating, "'to inform him, inreference 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 fallendownstairs, who now interrupted the correspondence by presentinghimself, with a strip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit hiswounded knees, in which Ada and I did not know which to pity most--the bruises or the dirt. Mrs. Jellyby merely added, with theserene composure with which she said everything, "Go along, younaughty Peepy!" and fixed her fine eyes on Africa again.   However, as she at once proceeded with her dictation, and as Iinterrupted nothing by doing it, I ventured quietly to stop poorPeepy as he was going out and to take him up to nurse. He lookedvery much astonished at it and at Ada's kissing him, but soon fellfast asleep in my arms, sobbing at longer and longer intervals,until he was quiet. I was so occupied with Peepy that I lost theletter in detail, though I derived such a general impression fromit of the momentous importance of Africa, and the utterinsignificance of all other places and things, that I felt quiteashamed to have thought so little about it.   "Six o'clock!" said Mrs. Jellyby. "And our dinner hour isnominally (for we dine at all hours) five! Caddy, show Miss Clareand Miss Summerson their rooms. You will like to make some change,perhaps? You will excuse me, I know, being so much occupied. Oh,that very bad child! Pray put him down, Miss Summerson!"I begged permission to retain him, truly saying that he was not atall troublesome, and 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 disorderly, and the curtain to mywindow 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 it, but looking in vain.   "If it is not being troublesome," said we.   "Oh, it's not the trouble," returned Miss Jellyby; "the questionis, if there IS any."The evening was so very cold and the rooms had such a marshy smellthat I must confess it was a little miserable, and Ada was halfcrying. We soon laughed, however, and were busily unpacking whenMiss Jellyby came back to say that she was sorry there was no hotwater, but they couldn't find the kettle, and the boiler was out oforder.   We begged her not to mention it and made all the haste we could toget down to the fire again. But all the little children had comeup to the landing outside to look at the phenomenon of Peepy lyingon my bed, and our attention was distracted by the constantapparition of noses and fingers in situations of danger between thehinges of the doors. It was impossible to shut the door of eitherroom, for my lock, with no knob to it, looked as if it wanted to bewound up; and though the handle of Ada's went round and round withthe greatest smoothness, it was attended with no effect whatever onthe door. Therefore I proposed to the children that they shouldcome in and be very good at my table, and I would tell them thestory of Little Red Riding Hood while I dressed; which they did,and were as quiet as mice, including Peepy, who awoke opportunelybefore the appearance of the wolf.   When we went downstairs we found a mug with "A Present fromTunbridge Wells" on it lighted up in the staircase window with afloating wick, and a young woman, with a swelled face bound up in aflannel bandage blowing the fire of the drawing-room (now connectedby an open door with Mrs. Jellyby's room) and choking dreadfully.   It smoked to that degree, in short, that we all sat coughing andcrying with the windows open for half an hour, during which Mrs.   Jellyby, with the same sweetness of temper, directed letters aboutAfrica. Her being so employed was, I must say, a great relief tome, for Richard told us that he had washed his hands in a pie-dishand that they had found the kettle on his dressing-table, and hemade Ada laugh so that they made me laugh in the most ridiculousmanner.   Soon after seven o'clock we went down to dinner, carefully, by Mrs.   Jellyby's advice, for the stair-carpets, besides being verydeficient in stair-wires, were so torn as to be absolute traps. Wehad a fine cod-fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, anda pudding; an excellent dinner, if it had had any cooking to speakof, but it was almost raw. The young woman with the flannelbandage waited, and dropped everything on the table wherever ithappened to go, and never moved it again until she put it on thestairs. The person I had seen in pattens, who I suppose to havebeen the cook, frequently came and skirmished with her at the door,and there appeared to be ill will between them.   All through dinner--which was long, in consequence of suchaccidents as the dish of potatoes being mislaid in the coal skuttleand the handle of the corkscrew coming off and striking the youngwoman in the chin--Mrs. Jellyby preserved the evenness of herdisposition. She told us a great deal that was interesting aboutBorrioboola-Gha and the natives, and received so many letters thatRichard, who sat by her, saw four envelopes in the gravy at once.   Some of the letters were proceedings of ladies' committees orresolutions of ladies' meetings, which she read to us; others wereapplications from people excited in various ways about thecultivation of coffee, and natives; others required answers, andthese she sent her eldest daughter from the table three or fourtimes to write. She was full of business and undoubtedly was, asshe had told us, devoted to the cause.   I was a little curious to know who a mild bald gentleman inspectacles was, who dropped into a vacant chair (there was no topor bottom in particular) after the fish was taken away and seemedpassively to submit himself to Borriohoola-Gha but not to beactively interested in that settlement. As he never spoke a word,he might have been a native but for his complexion. It was notuntil we left the table and he remained alone with Richard that thepossibility of his being Mr. Jellyby ever entered my head. But heWAS Mr. Jellyby; and a loquacious young man called Mr. Quale, withlarge shining knobs for temples and his hair all brushed to theback of his head, who came in the evening, and told Ada he was aphilanthropist, also informed her that he called the matrimonialalliance of Mrs. Jellyby with Mr. Jellyby the union of mind andmatter.   This young man, besides having a great deal to say for himselfabout Africa and a project of his for teaching the coffee coloniststo teach the natives to turn piano-forte legs and establish anexport trade, delighted in drawing Mrs. Jellyby out by saving, "Ibelieve now, Mrs. Jellyby, you have received as many as from onehundred and fifty to two hundred letters respecting Africa in asingle day, have you not?" or, "If my memory does not deceive me,Mrs. Jellyby, you once mentioned that you had sent off fivethousand circulars from one post-office at one time?"--alwaysrepeating Mrs. Jellyby's answer to us like an interpreter. Duringthe whole evening, Mr. Jellyby sat in a corner with his headagainst the wall as if he were subject to low spirits. It seemedthat he had several times opened his mouth when alone with Richardafter dinner, as if he had something on his mind, but had alwaysshut it again, to Richard's extreme confusion, without sayinganything.   Mrs. Jellyby, sitting in quite a nest of waste paper, drank coffeeall the evening and dictated at intervals to her eldest daughter.   She also held a discussion with Mr. Quale, of which the subjectseemed to be--if I understood it--the brotherhood of humanity, andgave utterance to some beautiful sentiments. I was not soattentive an auditor as I might have wished to be, however, forPeepy and the other children came flocking about Ada and me in acorner of the drawing-room to ask for another story; so we sat downamong them and told them in whispers "Puss in Boots" and I don'tknow what else until Mrs. Jellyby, accidentally remembering them,sent them to bed. As Peepy cried for me to take him to bed, Icarried him upstairs, where the young woman with the flannelbandage charged into the midst of the little family like a dragonand overturned them into cribs.   After that I occupied myself in making our room a little tidy andin coaxing a very cross fire that had been lighted to burn, whichat last it did, quite brightly. On my return downstairs, I feltthat Mrs. Jellyby looked down upon me rather for being sofrivolous, and I was sorry for it, though at the same time I knewthat I had no higher pretensions.   It was nearly midnight before we found an opportunity of going tobed, and even then we left Mrs. Jellyby among her papers drinkingcoffee and Miss Jellyby biting the feather of her pen.   "What a strange house!" said Ada when we got upstairs. "Howcurious of my cousin Jarndyce to send us here!""My love," said I, "it 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. Jellybyto take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of natives--andyet--Peepy and the housekeeping!"Ada laughed and put her arm about my neck as I stood looking at thefire, and told me I was a quiet, dear, good creature and had wonher heart. "You are so thoughtful, Esther," she said, "and yet socheerful! And you do so much, so unpretendingly! You would make ahome out of even this house."My simple darling! She was quite unconscious that she only praisedherself and that it was in the goodness of her own heart that shemade so much of me!   "May I ask you a question?" said I when we had sat before the firea little while.   "Five hundred," said Ada.   "Your cousin, Mr. Jarndyce. I owe so much to him. Would you minddescribing him to me?"Shaking her golden hair, Ada turned her eyes upon me with suchlaughing wonder that I was full of wonder too, partly at herbeauty, partly 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.   Well, to be sure!   No, she had never seen him. Young as she was when her mama died,she remembered how the tears would come into her eyes when shespoke of him and of the noble generosity of his character, whichshe had said was to be trusted above all earthly things; and Adatrusted it. Her cousin Jarndyce had written to her a few monthsago--"a plain, honest letter," Ada said--proposing the arrangementwe were now to enter on and telling her that "in time it might healsome of the wounds made by the miserable Chancery suit." She hadreplied, gratefully accepting his proposal. Richard had received asimilar letter and had made a similar response. He HAD seen Mr.   Jarndyce once, but only once, five years ago, at Winchester school.   He had told Ada, when they were leaning on the screen before thefire where I found them, that he recollected him as "a bluff, rosyfellow." This was the utmost description Ada could give me.   It set me thinking so that when Ada was asleep, I still remainedbefore the fire, wondering and wondering about Bleak House, andwondering and wondering that yesterday morning should seem so longago. I don't know where my thoughts had wandered when they wererecalled by a tap at the door.   I opened it softly and found Miss Jellyby shivering there with abroken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand and an egg-cup inthe other.   "Good night!" she said very sulkily.   "Good night!" said I.   "May I come in?" she shortly and unexpectedly asked me in the samesulky way.   "Certainly," said I. "Don't wake Miss Clare."She would not sit down, but stood by the fire dipping her inkymiddle finger in the egg-cup, which contained vinegar, and smearingit over the ink stains on her face, frowning the whole time andlooking 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 me, Miss Summerson. I hate it anddetest it. It's a beast!"I told her she was tired, and I was sorry. I put my hand upon herhead, and touched her forehead, and said it was hot now but wouldbe cool tomorrow. She still stood pouting and frowning at me, butpresently put down her egg-cup and turned softly towards the bedwhere Ada lay.   "She is very pretty!" she said with the same knitted brow and inthe 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, andsing? She can talk French, I suppose, and do geography, andglobes, and needlework, and everything?""No doubt," said I.   "I can't," she returned. "I can't do anything hardly, exceptwrite. I'm always writing for Ma. I wonder you two were notashamed of yourselves to come in this afternoon and see me able todo nothing else. It was like your ill nature. Yet you thinkyourselves very fine, I dare say!"I could see that the poor girl was near crying, and I resumed mychair without speaking and looked at her (I hope) as mildly as Ifelt towards her.   "It's disgraceful," she said. "You know it is. The whole house isdisgraceful. The children are disgraceful. I'M disgraceful. Pa'smiserable, and no wonder! Priscilla drinks--she's always drinking.   It's a great shame and a great story of you if you say you didn'tsmell her today. It was as bad as a public-house, waiting atdinner; 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. Youdo!""Oh, my dear!" said I. "If you won't let me speak--""You're speaking now. You know you are. Don't tell stories, MissSummerson.""My dear," said I, "as long as you won't hear me out--""I don't want to hear you out.""Oh, yes, I think you do," said I, "because that would be so veryunreasonable. I did not know what you tell me because the servantdid 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 bed, and now stooped down (but stillwith the same discontented face) and kissed Ada. That done, shecame softly back and stood by the side of my chair. Her bosom washeaving in a distressful manner that I greatly pitied, but Ithought it better not to speak.   "I wish I was dead!" she broke out. "I wish we were all dead. Itwould be a great deal better for us.   In a moment afterwards, she knelt on the ground at my side, hid herface in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. Icomforted her and would have raised her, but she cried no, no; shewanted to stay there!   "You used to teach girls," she said, "If you could only have taughtme, I could have learnt from you! I am so very miserable, and Ilike you so much!"I could not persuade her to sit by me or to do anything but move aragged stool to where she was kneeling, and take that, and stillhold my dress in the same manner. By degrees the poor tired girlfell asleep, and then I contrived to raise her head so that itshould rest on my lap, and to cover us both with shawls. The firewent out, and all night long she slumbered thus before the ashygrate. At first I was painfully awake and vainly tried to losemyself, with my eyes closed, among the scenes of the day. Atlength, by slow degrees, they became indistinct and mingled. Ibegan to lose the identity of the sleeper resting on me. Now itwas Ada, now one of my old Reading friends from whom I could notbelieve I had so recently parted. Now it was the little mad womanworn out with curtsying and smiling, now some one in authority atBleak House. Lastly, it was no one, and I was no one.   The purblind day was feebly struggling with the fog when I openedmy eyes to encounter those of a dirty-faced little spectre fixedupon me. Peepy had scaled his crib, and crept down in his bed-gownand cap, and was so cold that his teeth were chattering as if hehad cut them all. Chapter 5 A Morning Adventure Although the morning was raw, and although the fog still seemedheavy--I say seemed, for the windows were so encrusted with dirtthat they would have made midsummer sunshine dim--I wassufficiently forewarned of the discomfort within doors at thatearly hour and sufficiently curious about London to think it a goodidea on the part of Miss Jellyby when she proposed that we shouldgo out for a walk.   "Ma won't be down for ever so long," she said, "and then it's achance 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 haswhat you would call a regular breakfast. Priscilla leaves him outthe loaf and some milk, when there is any, overnight. Sometimesthere isn't any milk, and sometimes the cat drinks it. But I'mafraid you must be tired, Miss Summerson, and perhaps you wouldrather go to bed.""I am not at all tired, my dear," said I, "and would much prefer togo out.""If you're sure you would," returned Miss Jellyby, "I'll get mythings on."Ada said she would go too, and was soon astir. I made a proposalto Peepy, in default of being able to do anything better for him,that he should let me wash him and afterwards lay him down on mybed 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 be, so astonished in his life--looking verymiserable also, certainly, but making no complaint, and goingsnugly to sleep as soon as it was over. At first I was in twominds about taking such a liberty, but I soon reflected that nobodyin the house was likely to notice it.   What with the bustle of dispatching Peepy and the bustle of gettingmyself ready and helping Ada, I was soon quite in a glow. We foundMiss Jellyby trying to warm herself at the fire in the writing-room, which Priscilla was then lighting with a smutty parlourcandlestick, throwing the candle in to make it burn better.   Everything was just as we had left it last night and was evidentlyintended to remain so. Below-stairs the dinner-cloth had not beentaken away, but had been left ready for breakfast. Crumbs, dust,and waste-paper were all over the house. Some pewter pots and amilk-can hung on the area railings; the door stood open; and we metthe cook round the corner coming out of a public-house, wiping hermouth. She mentioned, as she passed us, that she had been to seewhat o'clock it was.   But before we met the cook, we met Richard, who was dancing up anddown Thavies Inn to warm his feet. He was agreeably surprised tosee us stirring so soon and said he would gladly share our walk.   So he took care of Ada, and Miss Jellyby and I went first. I maymention that Miss Jellyby had relapsed into her sulky manner andthat I really should not have thought she liked me much unless shehad told me so.   "Where would you wish to go?" she asked.   "Anywhere, my dear," I replied.   "Anywhere's nowhere," said Miss Jellyby, stopping perversely.   "Let us go somewhere at any rate," said I.   She then walked me on very fast.   "I don't care!" she said. "Now, you are my witness, MissSummerson, I say I don't care-but if he was to come to our housewith his great, shining, lumpy forehead night after night till hewas as old as Methuselah, I wouldn't have anything to say to him.   Such ASSES as he and Ma make of themselves!""My dear!" I remonstrated, in allusion to the epithet and thevigorous 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'sduty as a parent? All made over to the public and Africa, Isuppose! Then let the public and Africa show duty as a child; it'smuch 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'san 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. Ifthere's any stuff in the world that I hate and detest, it's thestuff he and Ma talk. I wonder the very paving-stones opposite ourhouse can have the patience to stay there and be a witness of suchinconsistencies and contradictions as all that sounding nonsense,and Ma's management!"I could not but understand her to refer to Mr. Quale, the younggentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. I was saved thedisagreeable necessity of pursuing the subject by Richard and Adacoming up at a round pace, laughing and asking us if we meant torun a race. Thus interrupted, Miss Jellyby became silent andwalked moodily on at my side while I admired the long successionsand varieties of streets, the quantity of people already going toand fro, the number of vehicles passing and repassing, the busypreparations in the setting forth of shop windows and the sweepingout of shops, and the extraordinary creatures in rags secretlygroping 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 wayto our place of meeting yesterday, and--by the Great Seal, here'sthe old lady again!"Truly, there she was, immediately in front of us, curtsying, andsmiling, and saying with her yesterday's air of patronage, "Thewards 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'sretired. I collect my thoughts here for the business of the day,"said the old lady mincingly. "The business of the day requires agreat deal of thought. Chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult tofollow.""Who's this, Miss Summerson?" whispered Miss Jellyby, drawing myarm tighter through her own.   The little old lady's hearing was remarkably quick. She answeredfor herself directly.   "A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honour to attendcourt regularly. With my documents. Have I the pleasure ofaddressing another of the youthful parties in Jarndyce?" said theold lady, recovering herself, with her head on one side, from avery low curtsy.   Richard, anxious to atone for his thoughtlessness of yesterday,good-naturedly explained that Miss Jellyby was not connected withthe suit.   "Ha!" said the old lady. "She does not expect a judgment? Shewill still grow old. But not so old. Oh, dear, no! This is thegarden of Lincoln's Inn. I call it my garden. It is quite a bowerin the summer-time. Where the birds sing melodiously. I pass thegreater part of the long vacation here. In contemplation. Youfind the long vacation exceedingly long, don't you?"We said yes, as she seemed to expect us to say so.   "When the leaves are falling from the trees and there are no moreflowers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the Lord Chancellor'scourt," said the old lady, "the vacation is fulfilled and the sixthseal, mentioned in the Revelations, again prevails. Pray come andsee 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 Ihad a visit from either."She had taken my hand, and leading me and Miss Jellyby away,beckoned Richard and Ada to come too. I did not know how to excusemyself and looked to Richard for aid. As he was half amused andhalf curious and all in doubt how to get rid of the old ladywithout offence, she continued to lead us away, and he and Adacontinued to follow, our strange conductress informing us all thetime, with much smiling condescension, that she lived close by.   It was quite true, as it soon appeared. She lived so close by thatwe had not time to have done humouring her for a few moments beforeshe was at home. Slipping us out at a little side gate, the oldlady stopped most unexpectedly in a narrow back street, part ofsome courts and lanes immediately outside the wall of the inn, andsaid, "This is my lodging. Pray walk up!"She had stopped at a shop over which was written KROOK, RAG ANDBOTTLE WAREHOUSE. Also, in long thin letters, KROOK, DEALER INMARINE STORES. In one part of the window was a picture of a redpaper mill at which a cart was unloading a quantity of sacks of oldrags. In another was the inscription BONES BOUGHT. In another,KITCHEN-STUFF BOUGHT. In another, OLD IRON BOUGHT. In another,WASTE-PAPER BOUGHT. In another, LADIES' AND GENTLEMEN'S WARDROBESBOUGHT. Everything seemed to be bought and nothing to be soldthere. In all parts of the window were quantities of dirtybottles--blacking bottles, medicine bottles, ginger-beer and soda-water bottles, pickle bottles, wine bottles, ink bottles; I amreminded by mentioning the latter that the shop had in severallittle particulars the air of being in a legal neighbourhood and ofbeing, as it were, a dirty hanger-on and disowned relation of thelaw. There were a great many ink bottles. There was a littletottering bench of shabby old volumes outside the door, labelled"Law Books, all at 9d." Some of the inscriptions I have enumeratedwere written in law-hand, like the papers I had seen in Kenge andCarboy's office and the letters I had so long received from thefirm. Among them was one, in the same writing, having nothing todo with the business of the shop, but announcing that a respectableman aged forty-five wanted engrossing or copying to execute withneatness and dispatch: Address to Nemo, care of Mr. Krook, within.   There were several second-hand bags, blue and red, hanging up. Alittle way within the shop-door lay heaps of old crackled parchmentscrolls and discoloured and dog's-eared law-papers. I could havefancied that all the rusty keys, of which there must have beenhundreds huddled together as old iron, had once belonged to doorsof rooms or strong chests in lawyers' offices. The litter of ragstumbled partly into and partly out of a one-legged wooden scale,hanging without any counterpoise from a beam, might have beencounsellors' bands and gowns torn up. One had only to fancy, asRichard whispered to Ada and me while we all stood looking in, thatyonder bones in a corner, piled together and picked very clean,were the bones of clients, to make the picture complete.   As it was still foggy and dark, and as the shop was blinded besidesby the wall of Lincoln's Inn, intercepting the light within acouple of yards, we should not have seen so much but for a lightedlantern that an old man in spectacles and a hairy cap was carryingabout in the shop. Turning towards the door, he now caught sightof us. He was short, cadaverous, and withered, with his head sunksideways between his shoulders and the breath issuing in visiblesmoke from his mouth as if he were on fire within. His throat,chin, and eyebrows were so frosted with white hairs and so gnarledwith veins and puckered skin that he looked from his breast upwardlike some old root in a fall of snow.   "Hi, hi!" said the old man, coming to the door. "Have you anythingto sell?"We naturally drew back and glanced at our conductress, who had beentrying to open the house-door with a key she had taken from herpocket, and to whom Richard now said that as we had had thepleasure of seeing where she lived, we would leave her, beingpressed for time. But she was not to be so easily left. Shebecame so fantastically and pressingly earnest in her entreatiesthat we would walk up and see her apartment for an instant, and wasso bent, in her harmless way, on leading me in, as part of the goodomen she desired, that I (whatever the others might do) saw nothingfor it but to comply. I suppose we were all more or less curious;at any rate, when the old man added his persuasions to hers andsaid, "Aye, 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 in, stimulated by Richard's laughing encouragement andrelying on his protection.   "My landlord, Krook," said the little old lady, condescending tohim from her lofty station as she presented him to us. "He iscalled among the neighbours the Lord Chancellor. His shop iscalled the Court of Chancery. He is a very eccentric person. Heis very odd. Oh, I assure you he is very odd!"She shook her head a great many times and tapped her forehead withher finger to express to us that we must have the goodness toexcuse him, "For he is a little--you know--M!" said the old ladywith great stateliness. The old man overheard, and laughed.   "It's true enough," he said, going 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 shopChancery?""I don't know, I am sure!" said Richard rather carelessly.   "You see," said the old man, stopping and turning round, "they--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 whattexture!""That'll do, my good friend!" said Richard, strongly disapprovingof 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 myattention from Ada, who, startled and blushing, was so remarkablybeautiful that she seemed to fix the wandering attention of thelittle old lady herself. But as Ada interposed and laughingly saidshe could only feel proud of such genuine admiration, Mr. Krookshrunk into his former self as suddenly as he had leaped out of it.   "You see, I have so many things here," he resumed, holding up thelantern, "of so many kinds, and all as the neighbours think (butTHEY know nothing), wasting away and going to rack and ruin, thatthat's why they have given me and my place a christening. And Ihave so many old parchmentses and papers in my stock. And I have aliking for rust and must and cobwebs. And all's fish that comes tomy 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 alteranything, or to have any sweeping, nor scouring, nor cleaning, norrepairing going on about me. That's the way I've got the ill nameof Chancery. I don't mind. I go to see my noble and learnedbrother pretty well every day, when he sits in the Inn. He don'tnotice me, but I notice him. There's no great odds betwixt us. Weboth grub on in a muddle. Hi, Lady Jane!"A large grey cat leaped from some neighbouring shelf on hisshoulder and startled us all.   "Hi! Show 'em how you scratch. Hi! Tear, my lady!" said hermaster.   The cat leaped down and ripped at a bundle of rags with hertigerish claws, with 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 oldman. "I deal in cat-skins among other general matters, and herswas offered to me. It's a very fine skin, as you may see, but Ididn't have it stripped off! THAT warn't like Chancery practicethough, says you!"He had by this time led us across the shop, and now opened a doorin the back part of it, leading to the house-entry. As he stoodwith his hand upon the lock, the little old lady graciouslyobserved to him before passing out, "That will do, Krook. You meanwell, but are tiresome. My young friends are pressed for time. Ihave none to spare myself, having to attend court very soon. Myyoung friends are the wards in Jarndyce.""Jarndyce!" said the old man with a start.   "Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The great suit, Krook," returned hislodger.   "Hi!" exclaimed the old man in a tone of thoughtful amazement andwith a wider stare than before. "Think of it!"He seemed so rapt all in a moment and looked so curiously at usthat Richard said, "Why, you appear to trouble yourself a good dealabout the causes before your noble and learned brother, the otherChancellor!""Yes," said the old man abstractedly. "Sure! YOUR name now willbe--""Richard Carstone.""Carstone," he repeated, slowly checking off that name upon hisforefinger; and each of the others he went on to mention upon aseparate finger. "Yes. There was the name of Barbary, and thename of Clare, and the name of Dedlock, too, I think.""He knows as much of the cause as the real salaried Chancellor!"said Richard, quite astonished, to Ada and me.   "Aye!" said the old man, coming slowly out of his abstraction.   "Yes! Tom Jarndyce--you'll excuse me, being related; but he wasnever known about court by any other name, and was as well knownthere as--she is now," nodding slightly at his lodger. "TomJarndyce was often in here. He got into a restless habit ofstrolling about when the cause was on, or expected, talking to thelittle shopkeepers and telling 'em to keep out of Chancery,whatever they did. 'For,' says he, 'it's being ground to bits in aslow mill; it's being roasted at a slow fire; it's being stung todeath by single bees; it's being drowned by drops; it's going madby grains.' He was as near making away with himself, just wherethe young lady stands, as near could be."We listened with horror.   "He come in at the door," said the old man, slowly pointing animaginary track along the shop, "on the day he did it--the wholeneighbourhood had said for months before that he would do it, of acertainty sooner or later--he come in at the door that day, andwalked along there, and sat himself on a bench that stood there,and asked me (you'll judge I was a mortal sight younger then) tofetch him a pint of wine. 'For,' says he, 'Krook, I am muchdepressed; my cause is on again, and I think I'm nearer judgmentthan I ever was.' I hadn't a mind to leave him alone; and Ipersuaded him to go to the tavern over the way there, t'other sidemy lane (I mean Chancery Lane); and I followed and looked in at thewindow, and saw him, comfortable as I thought, in the arm-chair bythe fire, and company with him. I hadn't hardly got back here whenI heard a shot go echoing and rattling right away into the inn. Iran out--neighbours ran out--twenty of us cried at once, 'TomJarndyce!'"The old man stopped, looked hard at us, looked down into thelantern, blew the light out, and shut the lantern up.   "We were right, I needn't tell the present hearers. Hi! To besure, how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon whilethe cause was on! How my noble and learned brother, and all therest of 'em, grubbed and muddled away as usual and tried to look asif they hadn't heard a word of the last fact in the case or as ifthey had--Oh, dear me!--nothing at all to do with it if they hadheard of it by any chance!"Ada's colour had entirely left her, and Richard was scarcely lesspale. Nor could I wonder, judging even from my emotions, and I wasno party in the suit, that to hearts so untried and fresh it was ashock to come into the inheritance of a protracted misery, attendedin the minds of many people with such dreadful recollections. Ihad another uneasiness, in the application of the painful story tothe poor half-witted creature who had brought us there; but, to mysurprise, she seemed perfectly unconscious of that and only led theway upstairs again, informing us with the toleration of a superiorcreature for the infirmities of a common mortal that her landlordwas "a little M, you know!"She lived at the top of the house, in a pretty large room, fromwhich she had a glimpse of Lincoln's Inn Hall. This seemed to havebeen her principal inducement, originally, for taking up herresidence there. She could look at it, she said, in the night,especially in the moonshine. Her room was clean, but very, verybare. I noticed the scantiest necessaries in the way of furniture;a few old prints from books, of Chancellors and barristers, waferedagainst the wall; and some half-dozen reticles and work-bags,"containing documents," as she informed us. There were neithercoals nor ashes in the grate, and I saw no articles of clothinganywhere, nor any kind of food. Upon a shelf in an open cupboardwere a plate or two, a cup or two, and so forth, but all dry andempty. There was a more affecting meaning in her pinchedappearance, I thought as I looked round, than I had understoodbefore.   "Extremely honoured, I am sure," said our poor hostess with thegreatest suavity, "by this visit from the wards in Jarndyce. Andvery much indebted for the omen. It is a retired situation.   Considering. I am limited as to situation. In consequence of thenecessity of attending on the Chancellor. I have lived here manyyears. I pass my days in court, my evenings and my nights here. Ifind the nights long, for I sleep but little and think much. Thatis, of course, unavoidable, being in Chancery. I am sorry I cannotoffer chocolate. I expect a judgment shortly and shall then placemy establishment on a superior footing. At present, I don't mindconfessing to the wards in Jarndyce (in strict confidence) that Isometimes find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. Ihave felt the cold here. I have felt something sharper than cold.   It matters very little. Pray excuse the introduction of such meantopics."She partly drew aside the curtain of the long, low garret windowand called our attention to a number of bird-cages hanging there,some containing several birds. There were larks, linnets, andgoldfinches--I should think at least twenty.   "I began to keep the little creatures," she said, "with an objectthat the wards will readily comprehend. With the intention ofrestoring 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 byone, the whole collection has died over and over again. I doubt,do you know, whether one of these, though they are all young, willlive to be free! Ve-ry mortifying, is it not?"Although she sometimes asked a question, she never seemed to expecta reply, but rambled on as if she were in the habit of doing sowhen no one but herself was present.   "Indeed," she pursued, "I positively doubt sometimes, I do assureyou, whether while matters are still unsettled, and the sixth orGreat Seal still prevails, I may not one day be found lying starkand senseless here, as I have found so many birds!"Richard, answering what he saw in Ada's compassionate eyes, tookthe opportunity of laying some money, softly and unobserved, on thechimney-piece. We all drew nearer to the cages, feigning toexamine the birds.   "I can't allow them to sing much," said the little old lady, "for(you'll think this curious) I find my mind confused by the ideathat 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 goodomen, they shall sing as much as they like. In honour of youth," asmile and curtsy, "hope," a smile and curtsy, "and beauty," a smileand 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 roomwas close, and would have been the better for it--"because the catyou saw downstairs, called Lady Jane, is greedy for their lives.   She crouches on the parapet outside for hours and hours. I havediscovered," whispering mysteriously, "that her natural cruelty issharpened by a jealous fear of their regaining their liberty. Inconsequence of the judgment I expect being shortly given. She issly and full of malice. I half believe, sometimes, that she is nocat, but the wolf of the old saying. It is so very difficult tokeep her from the door."Some neighbouring bells, reminding the poor soul that it was half-past nine, did more for us in the way of bringing our visit to anend than we could easily have done for ourselves. She hurriedlytook up her little bag of documents, which she had laid upon thetable on coming in, and asked if we were also going into court. Onour answering no, and that we would on no account detain her, sheopened the door to attend us downstairs.   "With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that Ishould be there before the Chancellor comes in," said she, "for hemight mention my case the first thing. I have a presentiment thathe WILL mention it the first thing this morning"She stopped to tell us in a whisper as we were going down that thewhole house was filled with strange lumber which her landlord hadbought piecemeal and had no wish to sell, in consequence of being alittle M. This was on the first floor. But she had made aprevious stoppage on the second floor and had silently pointed at adark door there.   "The only other lodger," she now whispered in explanation, "a law-writer. The children in the lanes here say he has sold himself tothe 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 thesound of her footsteps might reveal to him what she had said.   Passing through the shop on our way out, as we had passed throughit on our way in, we found the old man storing a quantity ofpackets of waste-paper in a kind of well in the floor. He seemedto be working hard, with the perspiration standing on his forehead,and had a piece of chalk by him, with which, as he put eachseparate package or bundle down, he made a crooked mark on thepanelling of the wall.   Richard and Ada, and Miss Jellyby, and the little old lady had goneby him, and 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. Itwas a capital letter, not a printed one, but just such a letter asany 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 me, and a glance at the door, he rubbed itout and turned an "a" in its place (not a capital letter thistime), and said, "What's that?"I told him. He then rubbed that out and turned the letter "r," andasked me the same question. He went on quickly until he had formedin the same curious manner, beginning at the ends and bottoms ofthe letters, the word Jarndyce, without once leaving two letters onthe wall together.   "What does that spell?" he asked me.   When I told him, he laughed. In the same odd way, yet with thesame rapidity, he then produced singly, and rubbed out singly, theletters forming the words Bleak House. These, in someastonishment, I also read; and he laughed again.   "Hi!" said the old man, laying aside the chalk. "I have a turn forcopying from memory, you see, miss, though I can neither read norwrite."He looked so disagreeable and his cat looked so wickedly at me, asif I were a blood-relation of the birds upstairs, that I was quiterelieved by Richard's appearing at the door and saying, "MissSummerson, 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 myfriends outside, where we parted with the little old lady, who gaveus her blessing with great ceremony and renewed her assurance ofyesterday in reference to her intention of settling estates on Adaand me. Before we finally turned out of those lanes, we lookedback and saw Mr. Krook standing at his shop-door, in hisspectacles, looking after us, with his cat upon his shoulder, andher tail sticking up on one side of his hairy cap like a tallfeather.   "Quite an adventure for a morning in London!" said Richard with asigh. "Ah, cousin, cousin, it's a weary word this Chancery!""It is to me, and has been ever since I can remember," returnedAda. "I am grieved that I should be the enemy---as I suppose I am--of a great number of relations and others, and that they should bemy enemies--as I suppose they are--and that we should all beruining one another without knowing how or why and be in constantdoubt and discord all our lives. It seems very strange, as theremust be right somewhere, that an honest judge in real earnest hasnot been able to find out through all these years where it is.""Ah, cousin!" said Richard. "Strange, indeed! All this wasteful,wanton chess-playing IS very strange. To see that composed courtyesterday jogging on so serenely and to think of the wretchednessof the pieces on the board gave me the headache and the heartacheboth together. My head ached with wondering how it happened, ifmen were neither fools nor rascals; and my heart ached to thinkthey could possibly be either. But at all events, Ada--I may callyou Ada?""Of course you may, cousin Richard.""At all events, Chancery will work none of its bad influences onUS. We have happily been brought together, thanks to our goodkinsman, 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 return, and we made the rest of the way back verypleasantly.   In half an hour after our arrival, Mrs. Jellyby appeared; and inthe course of an hour the various things necessary for breakfaststraggled one by one into the dining-room. I do not doubt thatMrs. Jellyby had gone to bed and got up in the usual manner, butshe presented no appearance of having changed her dress. She wasgreatly occupied during breakfast, for the morning's post brought aheavy correspondence relative to Borrioboola-Gha, which wouldoccasion her (she said) to pass a busy day. The children tumbledabout, and notched memoranda of their accidents in their legs,which were perfect little calendars of distress; and Peepy was lostfor an hour and a half, and brought home from Newgate market by apoliceman. The equable manner in which Mrs. Jellyby sustained bothhis absence and his restoration to the family circle surprised usall.   She was by that time perseveringly dictating to Caddy, and Caddywas fast relapsing into the inky condition in which we had foundher. At one o'clock an open carriage arrived for us, and a cartfor our luggage. Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many remembrances toher good friend Mr. Jarndyce; Caddy left her desk to see us depart,kissed me in the passage, and stood biting her pen and sobbing onthe steps; Peepy, I am happy to say, was asleep and spared the painof separation (I was not without misgivings that he had gone toNewgate market in search of me); and all the other children got upbehind the barouche and fell off, and we saw them, with greatconcern, scattered over the surface of Thavies Inn as we rolled outof its precincts. Chapter 6 Quite at Home The day had brightened very much, and still brightened as we wentwestward. We went our way through the sunshine and the fresh air,wondering more and more at the extent of the streets, thebrilliancy of the shops, the great traffic, and the crowds ofpeople whom the pleasanter weather seemed to have brought out likemany-coloured flowers. By and by we began to leave the wonderfulcity and to proceed through suburbs which, of themselves, wouldhave made a pretty large town in my eyes; and at last we got into areal country road again, with windmills, rick-yards, milestones,farmers' waggons, scents of old hay, swinging signs, and horsetroughs: trees, fields, and hedge-rows. It was delightful to seethe green landscape before us and the immense metropolis behind;and when a waggon with a train of beautiful horses, furnished withred trappings and clear-sounding bells, came by us with its music,I believe we could all three have sung to the bells, so cheerfulwere the influences around.   "The whole road has been reminding me of my name-sake Whittington,"said Richard, "and that waggon is the finishing touch. Halloa!   What's the matter?"We had stopped, and the waggon had stopped too. Its music changedas the horses came to a stand, and subsided to a gentle tinkling,except when a horse tossed his head or shook himself and sprinkledoff a little shower of bell-ringing.   "Our postilion is looking after the waggoner," said Richard, "andthe waggoner is coming back after us. Good day, friend!" Thewaggoner was at our coach-door. "Why, here's an extraordinarything!" added Richard, looking closely at the man. "He has gotyour name, Ada, in his hat!"He had all our names in his hat. Tucked within the band were threesmall notes--one addressed to Ada, one to Richard, one to me.   These the waggoner delivered to each of us respectively, readingthe name aloud first. In answer to Richard's inquiry from whomthey came, he briefly answered, "Master, sir, if you please"; andputting on his hat again (which was like a soft bowl), cracked hiswhip, re-awakened his music, and went melodiously away.   "Is that Mr. Jarndyce's waggon?" said Richard, calling to our post-boy.   "Yes, sir," he replied. "Going to London."We opened the notes. Each was a counterpart of the other andcontained these words in a solid, plain hand.   "I look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily and withoutconstraint on either side. I therefore have to propose that wemeet as old friends and take the past for granted. It will be arelief 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 mycompanions, having never yet enjoyed an opportunity of thanking onewho had been my benefactor and sole earthly dependence through somany years. I had not considered how I could thank him, mygratitude lying too deep in my heart for that; but I now began toconsider how I could meet him without thanking him, and felt itwould be very difficult indeed.   The notes revived in Richard and Ada a general impression that theyboth had, without quite knowing how they came by it, that theircousin Jarndyce could never bear acknowledgments for any kindnesshe performed and that sooner than receive any he would resort tothe most singular expedients and evasions or would even run away.   Ada dimly remembered to have heard her mother tell, when she was avery little child, that he had once done her an act of uncommongenerosity and that on her going to his house to thank him, hehappened to see her through a window coming to the door, andimmediately escaped by the back gate, and was not heard of forthree months. This discourse led to a great deal more on the sametheme, and indeed it lasted us all day, and we talked of scarcelyanything else. If we did by any chance diverge into anothersubject, we soon returned to this, and wondered what the housewould be like, and when we should get there, and whether we shouldsee Mr. Jarndyce as soon as we arrived or after a delay, and whathe would say to us, and what we should say to him. All of which wewondered about, over and over again.   The roads were very heavy for the horses, but the pathway wasgenerally good, so we alighted and walked up all the hills, andliked it so well that we prolonged our walk on the level groundwhen we got to the top. At Barnet there were other horses waitingfor us, but as they had only just been fed, we had to wait for themtoo, and got a long fresh walk over a common and an old battle-field before the carriage came up. These delays so protracted thejourney that the short day was spent and the long night had closedin before we came to St. Albans, near to which town Bleak Housewas, we knew.   By that time we were so anxious and nervous that even Richardconfessed, as we rattled over the stones of the old street, tofeeling an irrational desire to drive back again. As to Ada andme, whom he had wrapped up with great care, the night being sharpand frosty, we trembled from head to foot. When we turned out ofthe town, round a corner, and Richard told us that the post-boy,who had for a long time sympathized with our heightenedexpectation, was looking back and nodding, we both stood up in thecarriage (Richard holding Ada lest she should be jolted down) andgazed round upon the open country and the starlight night for ourdestination. There was a light sparkling on the top of a hillbefore us, and the driver, pointing to it with his whip and crying,"That's Bleak House!" put his horses into a canter and took usforward at such a rate, uphill though it was, that the wheels sentthe road drift flying about our heads like spray from a water-mill.   Presently we lost the light, presently saw it, presently lost it,presently saw it, and turned into an avenue of trees and canteredup towards where it was beaming brightly. It was in a window ofwhat seemed to be an old-fashioned house with three peaks in theroof in front and a circular sweep leading to the porch. A bellwas rung as we drew up, and amidst the sound of its deep voice inthe still air, and the distant barking of some dogs, and a gush oflight from the opened door, and the smoking and steaming of theheated horses, and the quickened beating of our own hearts, wealighted in no inconsiderable confusion.   "Ada, my love, Esther, my dear, you are welcome. I rejoice to seeyou! Rick, if I had a hand to spare at present, I would give ityou!"The gentleman who said these words in a clear, bright, hospitablevoice had one of his arms round Ada's waist and the other roundmine, and kissed us both in a fatherly way, and bore us across thehall into a ruddy little room, all in a glow with a blazing fire.   Here he kissed us again, and opening his arms, made us sit downside by side on a sofa ready drawn out near the hearth. I feltthat if we had been at all demonstrative, he would have run away ina moment.   "Now, Rick!" said he. "I have a hand at liberty. A word inearnest 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 ofrespect and frankness, and only saying (though with an earnestnessthat rather alarmed me, I was so afraid of Mr. Jarndyce's suddenlydisappearing), "You are very kind, sir! We are very much obligedto 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 reply, I glanced (I need not saywith how much interest) at his face. It was a handsome, lively,quick face, full of change and motion; and his hair was a silverediron-grey. I took him to be nearer sixty than fifty, but he wasupright, hearty, and robust. From the moment of his first speakingto us his voice had connected itself with an association in my mindthat I could not define; but now, all at once, a something suddenin his manner and a pleasant expression in his eyes recalled thegentleman in the stagecoach six years ago on the memorable day ofmy journey to Reading. I was certain it was he. I never was sofrightened in my life as when I made the discovery, for he caughtmy glance, and appearing to read my thoughts, gave such a look atthe door that I thought we had lost him.   However, I am happy to say he remained where he was, and asked mewhat 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 Ihad not heard. "You all think something else, I see.""We rather thought," said I, glancing at Richard and Ada, whoentreated me with their eyes to speak, "that perhaps she was alittle 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 havesent you there on purpose.""We thought that, perhaps," said I, hesitating, "it is right tobegin with the obligations of home, sir; and that, perhaps, whilethose are overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possibly besubstituted for them.""The little Jellybys," said Richard, coming to my relief, "arereally--I can't help expressing myself strongly, sir--in a devil ofa state.""She means well," said Mr. Jarndyce hastily. "The wind's in theeast.""It was in the north, sir, as we came down," observed Richard.   "My dear Rick," said Mr. Jarndyce, poking the fire, "I'll take anoath it's either in the east or going to be. I am always consciousof an uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowingin 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'seasterly!" said Mr. Jarndyce.   He had taken two or three undecided turns up and down whileuttering these broken sentences, retaining the poker in one handand rubbing his hair with the other, with a good-natured vexationat once so whimsical and so lovable that I am sure we were moredelighted with him than we could possibly have expressed in anywords. He gave an arm to Ada and an arm to me, and bidding Richardbring a candle, was leading the way out when he suddenly turned usall back again.   "Those little Jellybys. Couldn't you--didn't you--now, if it hadrained sugar-plums, or three-cornered raspberry tarts, or anythingof that sort!" said Mr. Jarndyce.   "Oh, cousin--" Ada hastily began.   "Good, my pretty pet. I like cousin. Cousin John, perhaps, isbetter.""Then, cousin John--" Ada laughingly began again.   "Ha, ha! Very good indeed!" said Mr. Jarndyce with greatenjoyment. "Sounds uncommonly natural. Yes, my dear?""It did better than that. It rained Esther.""Aye?" said Mr. Jarndyce. "What did Esther do?""Why, cousin John," said Ada, clasping her hands upon his arm andshaking her head at me across him--for I wanted her to be quiet--"Esther was their friend directly. Esther nursed them, coaxed themto sleep, washed and dressed them, told them stories, kept themquiet, bought them keepsakes"--My dear girl! I had only gone outwith Peepy after he was found and given him a little, tiny horse!--"and, cousin John, she softened poor Caroline, the eldest one, somuch and was so thoughtful for me and so amiable! No, no, I won'tbe contradicted, Esther dear! You know, you know, it's true!"The warm-hearted darling leaned across her cousin John and kissedme, and then looking up in his face, boldly said, "At 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 upand down steps out of one room into another, and where you comeupon more rooms when you think you have seen all there are, andwhere there is a bountiful provision of little halls and passages,and where you find still older cottage-rooms in unexpected placeswith lattice windows and green growth pressing through them. Mine,which we entered first, was of this kind, with an up-and-down roofthat had more corners in it than I ever counted afterwards and achimney (there was a wood fire on the hearth) paved all around withpure white tiles, in every one of which a bright miniature of thefire was blazing. Out of this room, you went down two steps into acharming little sitting-room looking down upon a flower-garden,which room was henceforth to belong to Ada and me. Out of this youwent up three steps into Ada's bedroom, which had a fine broadwindow commanding a beautiful view (we saw a great expanse ofdarkness lying underneath the stars), to which there was a hollowwindow-seat, in which, with a spring-lock, three dear Adas mighthave been lost at once. Out of this room you passed into a littlegallery, with which the other best rooms (only two) communicated,and so, by a little staircase of shallow steps with a number ofcorner stairs in it, considering its length, down into the hall.   But if instead of going out at Ada's door you came back into myroom, and went out at the door by which you had entered it, andturned up a few crooked steps that branched off in an unexpectedmanner from the stairs, you lost yourself in passages, with manglesin them, and three-cornered tables, and a native Hindu chair, whichwas also a sofa, a box, and a bedstead, and looked in every formsomething between a bamboo skeleton and a great bird-cage, and hadbeen brought from India nobody knew by whom or when. From theseyou came on Richard's room, which was part library, part sitting-room, part bedroom, and seemed indeed a comfortable compound ofmany rooms. Out of that you went straight, with a little intervalof passage, to the plain room where Mr. Jarndyce slept, all theyear round, with his window open, his bedstead without anyfurniture standing in the middle of the floor for more air, and hiscold bath gaping for him in a smaller room adjoining. Out of thatyou came into another passage, where there were back-stairs andwhere you could hear the horses being rubbed down outside thestable and being told to "Hold up" and "Get over," as they slippedabout very much on the uneven stones. Or you might, if you cameout at another door (every room had at least two doors), gostraight down to the hall again by half-a-dozen steps and a lowarchway, wondering how you got back there or had ever got out ofit.   The furniture, old-fashioned rather than old, like the house, wasas pleasantly irregular. Ada's sleeping-room was all flowers--inchintz and paper, in velvet, in needlework, in the brocade of twostiff courtly chairs which stood, each attended by a little page ofa stool for greater state, on either side of the fire-place. Oursitting-room was green and had framed and glazed upon the wallsnumbers of surprising and surprised birds, staring out of picturesat a real trout in a case, as brown and shining as if it had beenserved with gravy; at the death of Captain Cook; and at the wholeprocess of preparing tea in China, as depicted by Chinese artists.   In my room there were oval engravings of the months--ladieshaymaking in short waists and large hats tied under the chin, forJune; smooth-legged noblemen pointing with cocked-hats to villagesteeples, for October. Half-length portraits in crayons aboundedall through the house, but were so dispersed that I found thebrother of a youthful officer of mine in the china-closet and thegrey old age of my pretty young bride, with a flower in her bodice,in the breakfast-room. As substitutes, I had four angels, of QueenAnne's reign, taking a complacent gentleman to heaven, in festoons,with some difficulty; and a composition in needlework representingfruit, a kettle, and an alphabet. All the movables, from thewardrobes to the chairs and tables, hangings, glasses, even to thepincushions and scent-bottles on the dressing-tables, displayed thesame quaint variety. They agreed in nothing but their perfectneatness, their display of the whitest linen, and their storing-up,wheresoever the existence of a drawer, small or large, rendered itpossible, of quantities of rose-leaves and sweet lavender. Such,with its illuminated windows, softened here and there by shadows ofcurtains, shining out upon the starlight night; with its light, andwarmth, and comfort; with its hospitable jingle, at a distance, ofpreparations for dinner; with the face of its generous masterbrightening everything we saw; and just wind enough without tosound a low accompaniment to everything we heard, were our firstimpressions of Bleak House.   "I am glad you like it," said Mr. Jarndyce when he had brought usround again to Ada's sitting-room. "It makes no pretensions, butit is a comfortable little place, I hope, and will be more so withsuch bright young looks in it. You have barely half an hour beforedinner. There's no one here but the finest creature upon earth--achild.""More children, Esther!" said Ada.   "I don't mean literally a child," pursued Mr. Jarndyce; "not achild in years. He is grown up--he is at least as old as I am--butin simplicity, and freshness, and enthusiasm, and a fine guilelessinaptitude for all worldly affairs, he 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 amateur, but might have been a professional. He is an artisttoo, an amateur, but might have been a professional. He is a manof attainments and of captivating manners. He has been unfortunatein his affairs, and unfortunate in his pursuits, and unfortunate inhis family; but he don't care--he's a child!""Did you imply that he has children of his own, sir?" inquiredRichard.   "Yes, Rick! Half-a-dozen. More! Nearer a dozen, I should think.   But he has never looked after them. How could he? He wantedsomebody 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. Jarndyce, his countenancesuddenly falling. "It is said that the children of the very poorare not brought up, but dragged up. Harold Skimpole's childrenhave 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. Comealong!"Our luggage having arrived and being all at hand, I was dressed ina few minutes and engaged in putting my worldly goods away when amaid (not the one in attendance upon Ada, but another, whom I hadnot seen) brought a basket into my room with two bunches of keys init, all labelled.   "For you, miss, if you please," said she.   "For me?" said I.   "The housekeeping keys, miss."I showed my surprise, for she added with some little surprise onher own part, "I 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 thecellars, miss. Any time you was pleased to appoint tomorrowmorning, I was to show you the presses and things they belong to."I said I would be ready at half-past six, and after she was gone,stood looking at the basket, quite lost in the magnitude of mytrust. Ada found me thus and had such a delightful confidence inme when I showed her the keys and told her about them that it wouldhave been insensibility and ingratitude not to feel encouraged. Iknew, to be sure, that it was the dear girl's kindness, but I likedto be so pleasantly cheated.   When we went downstairs, we were presented to Mr. Skimpole, who wasstanding before the fire telling Richard how fond he used to be, inhis school-time, of football. He was a little bright creature witha rather large head, but a delicate face and a sweet voice, andthere was a perfect charm in him. All he said was so free fromeffort and spontaneous and was said with such a captivating gaietythat it was fascinating to hear him talk. Being of a more slenderfigure than Mr. Jarndyce and having a richer complexion, withbrowner hair, he looked younger. Indeed, he had more theappearance in all respects of a damaged young man than a well-preserved elderly one. There was an easy negligence in his mannerand even in his dress (his hair carelessly disposed, and hisneckkerchief loose and flowing, as I have seen artists paint theirown portraits) which I could not separate from the idea of aromantic youth who had undergone some unique process ofdepreciation. It struck me as being not at all like the manner orappearance of a man who had advanced in life by the usual road ofyears, cares, and experiences.   I gathered from the conversation that Mr. Skimpole had beeneducated for the medical profession and had once lived, in hisprofessional capacity, in the household of a German prince. Hetold us, however, that as he had always been a mere child in pointof weights and measures and had never known anything about them(except that they disgusted him), he had never been able toprescribe with the requisite accuracy of detail. In fact, he said,he had no head for detail. And he told us, with great humour, thatwhen he was wanted to bleed the prince or physic any of his people,he was generally found lying on his back in bed, reading thenewspapers or making fancy-sketches in pencil, and couldn't come.   The prince, at last, objecting to this, "in which," said Mr.   Skimpole, in the frankest manner, "he was perfectly right," theengagement terminated, and Mr. Skimpole having (as he added withdelightful gaiety) "nothing to live upon but love, fell in love,and married, and surrounded himself with rosy cheeks." His goodfriend Jarndyce and some other of his good friends then helped him,in quicker or slower succession, to several openings in life, butto no purpose, for he must confess to two of the oldest infirmitiesin the world: one was that he had no idea of time, the other thathe had no idea of money. In consequence of which he never kept anappointment, never could transact any business, and never knew thevalue of anything! Well! So he had got on in life, and here hewas! He was very fond of reading the papers, very fond of makingfancy-sketches with a pencil, very fond of nature, very fond ofart. All he asked of society was to let him live. THAT wasn'tmuch. His wants were few. Give him the papers, conversation,music, mutton, coffee, landscape, fruit in the season, a few sheetsof Bristol-board, and a little claret, and he asked no more. Hewas a mere child in the world, but he didn't cry for the moon. Hesaid to the world, "Go 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 us, not only with the utmostbrilliancy and enjoyment, but with a certain vivacious candour--speaking of himself as if he were not at all his own affair, as ifSkimpole were a third person, as if he knew that Skimpole had hissingularities but still had his claims too, which were the generalbusiness of the community and must not be slighted. He was quiteenchanting. If I felt at all confused at that early time inendeavouring to reconcile anything he said with anything I hadthought about the duties and accountabilities of life (which I amfar from sure of), I was confused by not exactly understanding whyhe was free of them. That he WAS free of them, I 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'sexcellent house. I feel obliged to him for possessing it. I cansketch it and alter it. I can set it to music. When I am here, Ihave sufficient possession of it and have neither trouble, cost,nor responsibility. My steward's name, in short, is Jarndyce, andhe can't cheat me. We have been mentioning Mrs. Jellyby. There isa bright-eyed woman, of a strong will and immense power of businessdetail, who throws herself into objects with surprising ardour! Idon't regret that I have not a strong will and an immense power ofbusiness detail to throw myself into objects with surprisingardour. I can admire her without envy. I can sympathize with theobjects. I can dream of them. I can lie down on the grass--infine weather--and float along an African river, embracing all thenatives I meet, as sensible of the deep silence and sketching thedense 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 allI can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then, for heaven's sake, havingHarold Skimpole, a confiding child, petitioning you, the world, anagglomeration of practical people of business habits, to let himlive and admire the human family, do it somehow or other, like goodsouls, and suffer him to ride his rocking-horse!"It was plain enough that Mr. Jarndyce had not been neglectful ofthe adjuration. Mr. Skimpole's general position there would haverendered it so without the addition of what he presently said.   "It's only you, the generous creatures, whom I envy," said Mr.   Skimpole, addressing us, his new friends, in an impersonal manner.   "I envy you your power of doing what you do. It is what I shouldrevel in myself. I don't feel any vulgar gratitude to you. Ialmost feel as if YOU ought to be grateful to ME for giving you theopportunity of enjoying the luxury of generosity. I know you likeit. For anything I can tell, I may have come into the worldexpressly for the purpose of increasing your stock of happiness. Imay have been born to be a benefactor to you by sometimes givingyou an opportunity of assisting me in my little perplexities. Whyshould I regret my incapacity for details and worldly affairs whenit leads to such pleasant consequences? I don't regret ittherefore."Of all his playful speeches (playful, yet always fully meaning whatthey expressed) none seemed to be more to the taste of Mr. Jarndycethan this. I had often new temptations, afterwards, to wonderwhether it was really singular, or only singular to me, that he,who was probably the most grateful of mankind upon the leastoccasion, should so desire to escape the gratitude of others.   We were all enchanted. I felt it a merited tribute to the engagingqualities of Ada and Richard that Mr. Skimpole, seeing them for thefirst time, should he so unreserved and should lay himself out tobe so exquisitely agreeable. They (and especially Richard) werenaturally pleased; for similar reasons, and considered it no commonprivilege to be so freely confided in by such an attractive man.   The more we listened, the more gaily Mr. Skimpole talked. And whatwith his fine hilarious manner and his engaging candour and hisgenial way of lightly tossing his own weaknesses about, as if hehad said, "I am a child, you know! You are designing peoplecompared with me" (he really made me consider myself in that light)"but I am gay and innocent; forget your worldly arts and play withme!" the effect was absolutely dazzling.   He was so full of feeling too and had such a delicate sentiment forwhat was beautiful or tender that he could have won a heart by thatalone. In the evening, when I was preparing to make tea and Adawas touching the piano in the adjoining room and softly humming atune to her cousin Richard, which they had happened to mention, hecame and sat down on the sofa near me and so spoke of Ada that Ialmost loved him.   "She is like the morning," he said. "With that golden hair, thoseblue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she is like thesummer morning. The birds here will mistake her for it. We willnot call such a lovely young creature as that, who is a joy to allmankind, an orphan. She is the child of the universe."Mr. Jarndyce, I found, was standing near us with his hands behindhim and an attentive smile upon his face.   "The universe," he observed, "makes rather an indifferent parent, Iam 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 yoursense is the universe), and I know nothing of it, so you shall haveyour way. But if I had mine," glancing at the cousins, "thereshould be no brambles of sordid realities in such a path as that.   It should be strewn with roses; it should lie through bowers, wherethere was no spring, autumn, nor winter, but perpetual summer. Ageor change should never wither it. The base word money should neverbe breathed near it!"Mr. Jarndyce patted him on the head with a smile, as if he had beenreally a child, and passing a step or two on, and stopping amoment, glanced at the young cousins. His look was thoughtful, buthad a benignant expression in it which I often (how often!) sawagain, which has long been engraven on my heart. The room in whichthey were, communicating with that in which he stood, was onlylighted by the fire. Ada sat at the piano; Richard stood besideher, bending down. Upon the wall, their shadows blended together,surrounded by strange forms, not without a ghostly motion caughtfrom the unsteady fire, though reflecting from motionless objects.   Ada touched the notes so softly and sang so low that the wind,sighing away to the distant hills, was as audible as the music.   The mystery of the future and the little clue afforded to it by thevoice of the present seemed expressed in the whole picture.   But it is not to recall this fancy, well as I remember it, that Irecall the scene. First, I was not quite unconscious of thecontrast in respect of meaning and intention between the silentlook directed that way and the flow of words that had preceded it.   Secondly, though Mr. Jarndyce's glance as he withdrew it rested forbut a moment on me, I 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 dearerrelationship.   Mr. Skimpole could play on the piano and the violoncello, and hewas a composer--had composed half an opera once, but got tired ofit--and played what he composed with taste. After tea we had quitea little concert, in which Richard--who was enthralled by Ada'ssinging and told me that she seemed to know all the songs that everwere written--and Mr. Jarndyce, and I were the audience. After alittle while I missed first Mr. Skimpole and afterwards Richard,and while I was thinking how could Richard stay away so long andlose so much, the maid who had given me the keys looked in at thedoor, saying, "If you please, miss, could you spare a minute?"When I was shut out with her in the hall, she said, holding up herhands, "Oh, if you please, miss, Mr. Carstone says would you comeupstairs 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 andcollected myself, as I followed her quickly upstairs, sufficientlyto consider what were the best remedies to be applied if it shouldprove to be a fit. She threw open a door and I went into achamber, where, to my unspeakable surprise, instead of finding Mr.   Skimpole stretched upon the bed or prostrate on the floor, I foundhim standing before the fire smiling at Richard, while Richard,with a face of great embarrassment, looked at a person on the sofa,in a white great-coat, with smooth hair upon his head and not muchof it, which he was wiping smoother and making less of with apocket-handkerchief.   "Miss Summerson," said Richard hurriedly, "I am glad you are come.   You will be able to advise us. Our friend Mr. Skimpole--don't bealarmed!--is arrested for debt.""And really, my dear Miss Summerson," said Mr. Skimpole with hisagreeable candour, "I never was in a situation in which thatexcellent sense and quiet habit of method and usefulness, whichanybody must observe in you who has the happiness of being aquarter of an hour in your society, was more needed."The person on the sofa, who 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 he, shaking his head pleasantly, "Idon'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. Skimpole, "like asmall sum?"The strange man said nothing but made another snort. It was such apowerful one that it seemed quite to lift him out of his seat.   "Mr. Skimpole," said Richard to me, "has a delicacy in applying tomy cousin Jarndyce because he has lately--I think, sir, Iunderstood you that you had lately--""Oh, yes!" returned Mr. Skimpole, smiling. "Though I forgot howmuch it was and when it was. Jarndyce would readily do it again,but I have the epicure-like feeling that I would prefer a noveltyin help, that 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 inquire, generally, before replying, what wouldhappen if the money were not produced.   "Jail," said the strange man, coolly putting his handkerchief intohis hat, which 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 singularthing that the arrest was our embarrassment and not Mr. Skimpole's.   He observed us with a genial interest, but there seemed, if I mayventure on such a contradiction, nothing selfish in it. He hadentirely washed his hands of the difficulty, and it had becomeours.   "I thought," he suggested, as if good-naturedly to help us out,"that being parties in a Chancery suit concerning (as people say) alarge amount of property, Mr. Richard or his beautiful cousin, orboth, could sign something, or make over something, or give somesort of undertaking, or pledge, or bond? I don't know what thebusiness name of it may be, but I suppose there is some instrumentwithin their power that would settle this?""Not a bit on it," said the strange man.   "Really?" returned Mr. Skimpole. "That seems odd, now, to one whois no judge of these things!""Odd or even," said the stranger gruffly, "I tell you, not a bit onit!""Keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper!" Mr. Skimpolegently reasoned with him as he made a little drawing of his head onthe fly-leaf of a book. "Don't be ruffled by your occupation. Wecan separate you from your office; we can separate the individualfrom the pursuit. We are not so prejudiced as to suppose that inprivate life you are otherwise than a very estimable man, with agreat deal of poetry in your nature, of which you may not beconscious.   The stranger only answered with another violent snort, whether inacceptance 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 gaily, innocently, and confidingly as he looked at hisdrawing with his head on one side, "here you see me utterlyincapable of helping myself, and entirely in your hands! I onlyask to be free. The butterflies are free. Mankind will surely notdeny to Harold Skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies!""My dear Miss Summerson," said Richard in a whisper, "I have tenpounds that I received from Mr. Kenge. I must try what that willdo."I possessed fifteen pounds, odd shillings, which I had saved frommy quarterly allowance during several years. I had always thoughtthat some accident might happen which would throw me suddenly,without any relation or any property, on the world and had alwaystried to keep some little money by me that I might not be quitepenniless. I told Richard of my having this little store andhaving no present need of it, and I asked him delicately to informMr. Skimpole, while I should be gone to fetch it, that we wouldhave the pleasure of paying his debt.   When I came back, Mr. Skimpole kissed my hand and seemed quitetouched. Not on his own account (I was again aware of thatperplexing and extraordinary contradiction), but on ours, as ifpersonal considerations were impossible with him and thecontemplation of our happiness alone affected him. Richard,begging me, for the greater grace of the transaction, as he said,to settle with Coavinses (as Mr. Skimpole now jocularly calledhim), I counted out the money and received the necessaryacknowledgment. This, too, delighted Mr. Skimpole.   His compliments were so delicately administered that I blushed lessthan I might have done and settled with the stranger in the whitecoat without making any mistakes. He put the money in his pocketand shortly said, "Well, then, I'll wish you a good evening, miss.   "My friend," said Mr. Skimpole, standing with his back to the fireafter giving up the sketch when it was half finished, "I shouldlike to ask you something, without offence."I think the reply was, "Cut away, then!""Did you know this morning, now, that you were coming out on thiserrand?" 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. Skimpole, "it was afine day. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the lightsand shadows were passing across the fields, the birds weresinging.""Nobody said they warn't, in MY hearing," returned Coavinses.   "No," observed Mr. Skimpole. "But what did you think upon theroad?""Wot do you mean?" growled Coavinses with an appearance of strongresentment. "Think! I've got enough to do, and little enough toget for it without thinking. Thinking!" (with profound contempt).   "Then you didn't think, at all events," proceeded Mr. Skimpole, "tothis effect: 'Harold Skimpole loves to see the sun shine, loves tohear the wind blow, loves to watch the changing lights and shadows,loves to hear the birds, those choristers in Nature's greatcathedral. And does it seem to me that I am about to depriveHarold Skimpole of his share in such possessions, which are hisonly birthright!' You thought nothing to that effect?""I--certainly--did--NOT," said Coavinses, whose doggedness inutterly renouncing the idea was of that intense kind that he couldonly give adequate expression to it by putting a long intervalbetween each word, and accompanying the last with a jerk that mighthave dislocated his neck.   "Very odd and very curious, the mental process is, in you men ofbusiness!" said Mr. Skimpole thoughtfully. "Thank you, my friend.   Good night."As our absence had been long enough already to seem strangedownstairs, I returned at once and found Ada sitting at work by thefireside talking to her cousin John. Mr. Skimpole presentlyappeared, and Richard shortly after him. I was sufficientlyengaged during the remainder of the evening in taking my firstlesson in backgammon from Mr. Jarndyce, who was very fond of thegame and from whom I wished of course to learn it as quickly as Icould in order that I might be of the very small use of being ableto play when he had no better adversary. But I thought,occasionally, when Mr. Skimpole played some fragments of his owncompositions or when, both at the piano and the violoncello, and atour table, he preserved with an absence of all effort hisdelightful spirits and his easy flow of conversation, that Richardand I seemed to retain the transferred impression of having beenarrested since dinner and that it was very curious altogether.   It was late before we separated, for when Ada was going at eleveno'clock, Mr. Skimpole went to the piano and rattled hilariouslythat the best of all ways to lengthen our days was to steal a fewhours from night, my dear! It was past twelve before he took hiscandle and his radiant face out of the room, and I think he mighthave kept us there, if he had seen fit, until daybreak. Ada andRichard were lingering for a few moments by the fire, wonderingwhether Mrs. Jellyby had yet finished her dictation for the day,when Mr. Jarndyce, who had been out of the room, returned.   "Oh, dear me, what's this, what's this!" he said, rubbing his headand walking about with his good-humoured vexation. "What's thisthey tell me? Rick, my boy, Esther, my dear, what have you beendoing? Why did you do it? How could you do it? How much apiecewas 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 muchare you out of pocket? You two made the money up, you know! Whydid you? How could you? Oh, Lord, yes, it's due east--must be!""Really, sir," said Richard, "I don't think it would be honourablein me to tell you. Mr. Skimpole relied upon us--""Lord bless you, my dear boy! He relies upon everybody!" said Mr.   Jarndyce, giving his head a great rub and stopping short.   "Indeed, sir?""Everybody! And he'll be in the same scrape again next week!" saidMr. Jarndyce, walking again at a great pace, with a candle in hishand that had gone out. "He's always in the same scrape. He wasborn in the same scrape. I verily believe that the announcement inthe newspapers when his mother was confined was 'On Tuesday last,at her residence in Botheration Buildings, Mrs. Skimpole of a sonin difficulties.'"Richard laughed heartily but added, "Still, sir, I don't want toshake his confidence or to break his confidence, and if I submit toyour better knowledge again, that I ought to keep his secret, Ihope you will consider before you press me any more. Of course, ifyou do press me, sir, I shall know I am wrong and will tell you.""Well!" cried Mr. Jarndyce, stopping again, and making severalabsent endeavours to put his candlestick in his pocket. "I--here!   Take it away, my dear. I don't know what I am about with it; it'sall the wind--invariably has that effect--I won't press you, Rick;you may be right. But really--to get hold of you and Esther--andto squeeze you like a couple of tender young Saint Michael'soranges! It'll blow a gale in the course of the night!"He was now alternately putting his hands into his pockets as if hewere going to keep them there a long time, and taking them outagain 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. Jarndyce, catching at the word.   Being quite a child, sir," said I, "and so different from otherpeople--""You are right!" said Mr. Jarndyce, brightening. "Your woman's withits the mark. He is a child--an absolute child. I told you hewas a child, you know, when 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 indeed, we said.   "When you come to think of it, it's the height of childishness inyou--I mean me--" said Mr. Jarodyce, "to regard him for a moment asa man. You can't make HIM responsible. The idea of HaroldSkimpole with designs or plans, or knowledge of consequences! Ha,ha, ha!"It was so delicious to see the clouds about his bright faceclearing, and to see him so heartily pleased, and to know, as itwas impossible not to know, that the source of his pleasure was thegoodness which was tortured by condemning, or mistrusting, orsecretly accusing any one, that I saw the tears in Ada's eyes,while she echoed his laugh, and felt them in my own.   "Why, what a cod's head and shoulders I am," said Mr. Jarndyce, "torequire reminding of it! The whole business shows the child frombeginning to end. Nobody but a child would have thought ofsingling YOU two out for parties in the affair! Nobody but a childwould have thought of YOUR having the money! If it had been athousand 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. "However, Rick,Esther, and you too, Ada, for I don't know that even your littlepurse is safe from his inexperience--I must have a promise allround that nothing of this sort shall ever be done any more. Noadvances! Not even sixpences."We all promised faithfully, Richard with a merry glance at metouching his pocket as if to remind me that there was no danger ofOUR transgressing.   "As to Skimpole," said Mr. Jarndyce, "a habitable doll's house withgood board and a few tin people to get into debt with and borrowmoney of would set the boy up in life. He is in a child's sleep bythis time, I suppose; it's time I should take my craftier head tomy more worldly pillow. Good night, my dears. God bless you!"He peeped in again, with a smiling face, before we had lighted ourcandles, and said, "Oh! I have been looking at the weather-cock. Ifind it was a false alarm about the wind. It's in the south!" Andwent away singing to himself.   Ada and I agreed, as we talked together for a little whileupstairs, that this caprice about the wind was a fiction and thathe used the pretence to account for any disappointment he could notconceal, rather than he would blame the real cause of it ordisparage or depreciate any one. We thought this verycharacteristic of his eccentric gentleness and of the differencebetween him and those petulant people who make the weather and thewinds (particularly that unlucky wind which he had chosen for sucha different purpose) the stalking-horses of their splenetic andgloomy humours.   Indeed, so much affection for him had been added in this oneevening to my gratitude that I hoped I already began to understandhim through that mingled feeling. Any seeming inconsistencies inMr. Skimpole or in Mrs. Jellyby I could not expect to be able toreconcile, having so little experience or practical knowledge.   Neither did I try, for my thoughts were busy when I was alone, withAda and Richard and with the confidence I had seemed to receiveconcerning them. My fancy, made a little wild by the wind perhaps,would not consent to be all unselfish, either, though I would havepersuaded it to be so if I could. It wandered back to mygodmother's house and came along the intervening track, raising upshadowy speculations which had sometimes trembled there in the darkas to what knowledge Mr. Jarndyce had of my earliest history--evenas to the possibility of his being my father, though that idledream was quite gone now.   It was all gone now, I remembered, getting up from the fire. It wasnot for me to muse over bygones, but to act with a cheerful spiritand a grateful heart. So I said to myself, "Esther, Esther, Esther!   Duty, my dear!" and gave my little basket of housekeeping keys sucha shake that they sounded like little bells and rang me hopefully tobed. Chapter 7 The Ghost's Walk While Esther sleeps, and while Esther wakes, it is still wet weatherdown at the place in Lincolnshire. The rain is ever falling--drip,drip, drip--by day and night upon the broad flagged terrace-pavement, the Ghost's Walk. The weather is so very bad down inLincolnshire that the liveliest imagination can scarcely apprehendits ever being fine again. Not that there is any superabundant lifeof imagination on the spot, for Sir Leicester is not here (and,truly, even if he were, would not do much for it in thatparticular), but is in Paris with my Lady; and solitude, with duskywings, sits brooding upon Chesney Wold.   There may be some motions of fancy among the lower animals atChesney Wold. The horses in the stables--the long stables in abarren, red-brick court-yard, where there is a great bell in aturret, and a clock with a large face, which the pigeons who livenear it and who love to perch upon its shoulders seem to be alwaysconsulting--THEY may contemplate some mental pictures of fineweather on occasions, and may be better artists at them than thegrooms. The old roan, so famous for cross-country work, turning hislarge eyeball to the grated window near his rack, may remember thefresh leaves that glisten there at other times and the scents thatstream in, and may have a fine run with the hounds, while the humanhelper, clearing out the next stall, never stirs beyond hispitchfork and birch-broom. The grey, whose place is opposite thedoor and who with an impatient rattle of his halter pricks his earsand turns his head so wistfully when it is opened, and to whom theopener says, "'Woa grey, then, steady! Noabody wants you to-day!"may know it quite as well as the man. The whole seeminglymonotonous and uncompanionable half-dozen, stabled together, maypass the long wet hours when the door is shut in liveliercommunication than is held in the servants' hall or at the DedlockArms, or may even beguile the time by improving (perhaps corrupting)the pony in the loose-box in the corner.   So the mastiff, dozing in his kennel in the court-yard with hislarge head on his paws, may think of the hot sunshine when theshadows of the stable-buildings tire his patience out by changingand leave him at one time of the day no broader refuge than theshadow of his own house, where he sits on end, panting and growlingshort, and very much wanting something to worry besides himself andhis chain. So now, half-waking and all-winking, he may recall thehouse full of company, the coach-houses full of vehicles, thestables fall of horses, and the out-buildings full of attendantsupon horses, until he is undecided about the present and comes forthto see how it is. Then, with that impatient shake of himself, hemay growl in the spirit, "Rain, rain, rain! Nothing but rain--andno family here!" as he goes in again and lies down with a gloomyyawn.   So with the dogs in the kennel-buildings across the park, who havetheir resfless fits and whose doleful voices when the wind has beenvery obstinate have even made it known in the house itself--upstairs, downstairs, and in my Lady's chamber. They may hunt thewhole country-side, while the raindrops are pattering round theirinactivity. So the rabbits with their self-betraying tails,frisking in and out of holes at roots of trees, may be lively withideas of the breezy days when their ears are blown about or of thoseseasons of interest when there are sweet young plants to gnaw. Theturkey in the poultry-yard, always troubled with a class-grievance(probably Christmas), may be reminiscent of that summer morningwrongfully taken from him when he got into the lane among the felledtrees, where there was a barn and barley. The discontented goose,who stoops to pass under the old gateway, twenty feet high, maygabble out, if we only knew it, a waddling preference for weatherwhen the gateway casts its shadow on the ground.   Be this as it may, there is not much fancy otherwise stirring atChesney Wold. If there be a little at any odd moment, it goes,like a little noise in that old echoing place, a long way andusually leads off to ghosts and mystery.   It has rained so hard and rained so long down in Lincolnshire thatMrs. Rouncewell, the old housekeeper at Chesney Wold, has severaltimes taken off her spectacles and cleaned them to make certainthat the drops were not upon the glasses. Mrs. Rouncewell mighthave been sufficiently assured by hearing the rain, but that she israther deaf, which nothing will induce her to believe. She is afine old lady, handsome, stately, wonderfully neat, and has such aback and such a stomacher that if her stays should turn out whenshe dies to have been a broad old-fashioned family fire-grate,nobody who knows her would have cause to be surprised. Weatheraffects Mrs. Rouncewell little. The house is there in allweathers, and the house, as she expresses it, "is what she looksat." She sits in her room (in a side passage on the ground floor,with an arched window commanding a smooth quadrangle, adorned atregular intervals with smooth round trees and smooth round blocksof stone, as if the trees were going to play at bowls with thestones), and the whole house reposes on her mind. She can open iton occasion and be busy and fluttered, but it is shut up now andlies on the breadth of Mrs. Rouncewell's iron-bound bosom in amajestic sleep.   It is the next difficult thing to an impossibility to imagineChesney Wold without Mrs. Rouncewell, but she has only been herefifty years. Ask her how long, this rainy day, and she shallanswer "fifty year, three months, and a fortnight, by the blessingof heaven, if I live till Tuesday." Mr. Rouncewell died some timebefore the decease of the pretty fashion of pig-tails, and modestlyhid his own (if he took it with him) in a corner of the churchyardin 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 inthe 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 individualcharacters, intentions, or opinions, and is persuaded that he wasborn to supersede the necessity of their having any. If he were tomake a discovery to the contrary, he would be simply stunned--wouldnever recover himself, most likely, except to gasp and die. But heis an excellent master still, holding it a part of his state to beso. He has a great liking for Mrs. Rouncewell; he says she is amost respectable, creditable woman. He always shakes hands withher when he comes down to Chesney Wold and when he goes away; andif he were very ill, or if he were knocked down by accident, or runover, or placed in any situation expressive of a Dedlock at adisadvantage, he would say if he could speak, "Leave me, and sendMrs. Rouncewell here!" feeling his dignity, at such a pass, saferwith her than with anybody else.   Mrs. Rouncewell has known trouble. She has had two sons, of whomthe younger ran wild, and went for a soldier, and never came back.   Even to this hour, Mrs. Rouncewell's calm hands lose theircomposure when she speaks of him, and unfolding themselves from herstomacher, hover about her in an agitated manner as she says what alikely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay, good-humoured, clever ladhe was! Her second son would have been provided for at ChesneyWold and would have been made steward in due season, but he took,when he was a schoolboy, to constructing steam-engines out ofsaucepans and setting birds to draw their own water with the leastpossible amount of labour, so assisting them with artfulcontrivance of hydraulic pressure that a thirsty canary had only,in a literal sense, to put his shoulder to the wheel and the jobwas done. This propensity gave Mrs. Rouncewell great uneasiness.   She felt it with a mother's anguish to be a move in the Wat Tylerdirection, well knowing that Sir Leicester had that generalimpression of an aptitude for any art to which smoke and a tallchimney might be considered essential. But the doomed young rebel(otherwise a mild youth, and very persevering), showing no sign ofgrace as he got older but, on the contrary, constructing a model ofa power-loom, she was fain, with many tears, to mention hisbackslidings to the baronet. "Mrs. Rouncewell," said SirLeicester, "I can never consent to argue, as you know, with any oneon any subject. You had better get rid of your boy; you had betterget him into some Works. The iron country farther north is, Isuppose, the congenial direction for a boy with these tendencies."Farther north he went, and farther north he grew up; and if SirLeicester Dedlock ever saw him when he came to Chesney Wold tovisit his mother, or ever thought of him afterwards, it is certainthat he only regarded him as one of a body of some odd thousandconspirators, swarthy and grim, who were in the habit of turningout by torchlight two or three nights in the week for unlawfulpurposes.   Nevertheless, Mrs. Rouncewell's son has, in the course of natureand art, grown up, and established himself, and married, and calledunto him Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson, who, being out of hisapprenticeship, and home from a journey in far countries, whitherhe was sent to enlarge his knowledge and complete his preparationsfor the venture of this life, stands 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, onceagain, I am glad to see you, Watt!" says Mrs. Rouncewell. "You area fine young fellow. You are like your poor uncle George. Ah!"Mrs. Rouncewell's hands unquiet, as usual, on 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. "Heis well?""Thriving, grandmother, in every way.""I am thankful!" Mrs. Rouncewell is fond of her son but has aplaintive feeling towards him, much as if he were a very honourablesoldier 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 andhas sent you into foreign countries and the like? Well, he knowsbest. There may be a world beyond Chesney Wold that I don'tunderstand. Though I am not young, either. And I have seen aquantity of good company too!""Grandmother," says the young man, changing the subject, "what avery pretty girl that was I found with you just now. You calledher Rosa?""Yes, child. She is daughter of a widow in the village. Maids areso 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 housealready, 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. Andscarcer," says Mrs. Rouncewell, expanding her stomacher to itsutmost limits, "than it formerly was!"The young man inclines his head in acknowledgment of the preceptsof experience. Mrs. Rouncewell listens.   "Wheels!" says she. They have long been audible to the youngerears of her companion. "What wheels on such a day as this, forgracious sake?"After a short interval, a tap at the door. "Come in!" A dark-eyed, dark-haired, shy, village beauty comes in--so fresh in herrosy and yet delicate bloom that the drops of rain which havebeaten 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 agesture of dissent from the housekeeper. "I went to the hall-doorand told them it was the wrong day and the wrong hour, but theyoung man who was driving took off his hat in the wet and begged meto 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 betweenthem and almost knock their foreheads together as they pick it up.   Rosa is shyer than before.   "Mr. Guppy" is all the information the card yields.   "Guppy!" repeats Mrs. Rouncewell, "MR. Guppy! Nonsense, I neverheard of him!""If you please, he told ME that!" says Rosa. "But he said that heand the other young gentleman came from London only last night bythe mail, on business at the magistrates' meeting, ten miles off,this morning, and that as their business was soon over, and theyhad heard a great deal said of Chesney Wold, and really didn't knowwhat to do with themselves, they had come through the wet to seeit. They are lawyers. He says he is not in Mr. Tulkinghorn'soffice, but he is sure he may make use of Mr. Tulkinghorn's name ifnecessary." Finding, now she leaves off, that she has been makingquite a long speech, Rosa is shyer than ever.   Now, Mr. Tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel of the place,and besides, is supposed to have made Mrs. Rouncewell's will. Theold lady relaxes, consents to the admission of the visitors as afavour, and dismisses Rosa. The grandson, however, being smittenby a sudden wish to see the house himself, proposes to join theparty. The grandmother, who is pleased that he should have thatinterest, accompanies him--though to do him justice, he isexceedingly unwilling to trouble her.   "Much obliged to you, ma'am!" says Mr. Guppy, divesting himself ofhis wet dreadnought in the hall. "Us London lawyers don't oftenget an out, and when we do, we like to make the most of it, youknow."The old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deportment, wavesher hand towards the great staircase. Mr. Guppy and his friendfollow Rosa; Mrs. Rouncewell and her grandson follow them; a younggardener goes before to open the shutters.   As is usually the case with people who go over houses, Mr. Guppyand his friend are dead beat before they have well begun. Theystraggle about in wrong places, look at wrong things, don't carefor the right things, gape when more rooms are opened, exhibitprofound depression of spirits, and are clearly knocked up. Ineach successive chamber that they enter, Mrs. Rouncewell, who is asupright as the house itself, rests apart in a window-seat or othersuch 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 room, raising thepictured Dedlocks for a few brief minutes as the young gardeneradmits the light, and reconsigning them to their graves as he shutsit out again. It appears to the afflicted Mr. Guppy and hisinconsolable friend that there is no end to the Dedlocks, whosefamily greatness seems to consist in their never having doneanything 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 andhas hardly strength of mind to enter. But a portrait over thechimney-piece, painted by the fashionable artist of the day, actsupon him like a charm. He recovers in a moment. He stares at itwith 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 Rosa, "is the portrait ofthe present Lady Dedlock. It is considered a perfect likeness, andthe best work of the master.""'Blest," says Mr. Guppy, staring in a kind of dismay at hisfriend, "if I can ever have seen her. Yet I know her! Has thepicture been engraved, miss?""The picture has never been engraved. Sir Leicester has alwaysrefused permission.""Well!" says Mr. Guppy in a low voice. "I'll be shot if it ain'tvery 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'sunaccountable to me," he says, still staring at the portrait, "howwell I know that picture! I'm dashed," adds Mr. Guppy, lookinground, "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'sdreams, the probability is not pursued. But he still remains soabsorbed by the portrait that he stands immovable before it untilthe young gardener has closed the shutters, when he comes out ofthe room in a dazed state that is an odd though a sufficientsubstitute for interest and follows into the succeeding rooms witha confused stare, as if he were looking everywhere for Lady Dedlockagain.   He sees no more of her. He sees her rooms, which are the lastshown, as being very elegant, and he looks out of the windows fromwhich she looked out, not long ago, upon the weather that bored herto death. All things have an end, even houses that people takeinfinite pains to see and are tired of before they begin to seethem. He has come to the end of the sight, and the fresh villagebeauty to the end of her description; which is always this: "Theterrace below is much admired. It is called, from an old story inthe family, the Ghost's Walk.""No?" says Mr. Guppy, greedily curious. "What's the story, miss?   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 thehousekeeper, advancing. "It has never been more than a familyanecdote.""You'll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with apicture, ma'am," observes Mr. Guppy, "because I do assure you thatthe more I think of that picture the better I know it, withoutknowing how I know it!"The story has nothing to do with a picture; the housekeeper canguarantee that. Mr. Guppy is obliged to her for the informationand is, moreover, generally obliged. He retires with his friend,guided down another staircase by the young gardener, and presentlyis heard to drive away. It is now dusk. Mrs. Rouncewell can trustto the discretion of her two young hearers and may tell THEM howthe terrace came to have that ghostly name.   She seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window andtells them: "In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles theFirst--I mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels wholeagued themselves against that excellent king--Sir Morbury Dedlockwas the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there was any account of aghost in the family before those days, I can't say. I should thinkit very likely indeed."Mrs. Rouncewell holds this opinion because she considers that afamily 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. Rouncewell, "was, I have nooccasion to say, on the side of the blessed martyr. But it ISsupposed that his Lady, who had none of the family blood in herveins, favoured the bad cause. It is said that she had relationsamong King Charles's enemies, that she was in correspondence withthem, and that she gave them information. When any of the countrygentlemen who followed his Majesty's cause met here, it is saidthat my Lady was always nearer to the door of their council-roomthan they supposed. Do you hear a sound like a footstep passingalong the terrace, Watt?"Rosa draws nearer to the housekeeper.   "I hear the rain-drip on the stones," replies the young man, "and Ihear a curious echo--I suppose an echo--which is very like ahalting step."The housekeeper gravely nods and continues: "Partly on account ofthis division between them, and partly on other accounts, SirMorbury and his Lady led a troubled life. She was a lady of ahaughty temper. They were not well suited to each other in age orcharacter, and they had no children to moderate between them.   After her favourite brother, a young gentleman, was killed in thecivil wars (by Sir Morbury's near kinsman), her feeling was soviolent that she hated the race into which she had married. Whenthe Dedlocks were about to ride out from Chesney Wold in the king'scause, she is supposed to have more than once stolen down into thestables in the dead of night and lamed their horses; and the storyis that once at such an hour, her husband saw her gliding down thestairs and followed her into the stall where his own favouritehorse stood. There he seized her by the wrist, and in a struggleor 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 awhisper.   "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 ofbeing crippled or of being in pain, but day by day she tried towalk 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, withgreater difficulty every day. At last, one afternoon her husband(to whom she had never, on any persuasion, opened her lips sincethat night), standing at the great south window, saw her drop uponthe pavement. He hastened down to raise her, but she repulsed himas 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, thoughI am in my grave. I will walk here until the pride of this houseis 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 uponthe 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 thetread is an echo, it is an echo that is only heard after dark, andis often unheard for a long while together. But it comes back fromtime to time; and so sure as there is sickness or death in thefamily, it 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 worryingsound," says Mrs. Rouncewell, getting up from her chair; "and whatis to be noticed in it is that it MUST BE HEARD. My Lady, who isafraid of nothing, admits that when it is there, it must be heard.   You cannot shut it out. Watt, there is a tall French clock behindyou (placed there, 'a purpose) that has a loud beat when it is inmotion and can play music. You understand how those things aremanaged?""Pretty well, grandmother, I think.""Set it a-going."Watt sets it a-going--music and all.   "Now, come hither," says the housekeeper. "Hither, child, towardsmy Lady's pillow. I am not sure that it is dark enough yet, butlisten! Can you hear the sound upon the terrace, through themusic, and the beat, and everything?""I certainly can!""So my Lady says." Chapter 8 Covering a Multitude of Sins It was interesting when I dressed before daylight to peep out ofwindow, where my candles were reflected in the black panes like twobeacons, and finding all beyond still enshrouded in theindistinctness of last night, to watch how it turned out when theday came on. As the prospect gradually revealed itself anddisclosed the scene over which the wind had wandered in the dark,like my memory over my life, I had a pleasure in discovering theunknown objects that had been around me in my sleep. At first theywere faintly discernible in the mist, and above them the laterstars still glimmered. That pale interval over, the picture beganto enlarge and fill up so fast that at every new peep I could havefound enough to look at for an hour. Imperceptibly my candlesbecame the only incongruous part of the morning, the dark places inmy room all melted away, and the day shone bright upon a cheerfullandscape, prominent in which the old Abbey Church, with itsmassive tower, threw a softer train of shadow on the view thanseemed compatible with its rugged character. But so from roughoutsides (I hope I have learnt), serene and gentle influences oftenproceed.   Every part of the house was in such order, and every one was soattentive to me, that I had no trouble with my two bunches of keys,though what with trying to remember the contents of each littlestore-room drawer and cupboard; and what with making notes on aslate about jams, and pickles, and preserves, and bottles, andglass, and china, and a great many other things; and what withbeing generally a methodical, old-maidish sort of foolish littleperson, I was so busy that I could not believe it was breakfast-time when I heard the bell ring. Away I ran, however, and madetea, as I had already been installed into the responsibility of thetea-pot; and then, as they were all rather late and nobody was downyet, I thought I would take a peep at the garden and get someknowledge of that too. I found it quite a delightful place--infront, the pretty avenue and drive by which we had approached (andwhere, by the by, we had cut up the gravel so terribly with ourwheels that I asked the gardener to roll it); at the back, theflower-garden, with my darling at her window up there, throwing itopen to smile out at me, as if she would have kissed me from thatdistance. Beyond the flower-garden was a kitchen-garden, and thena paddock, and then a snug little rick-yard, and then a dear littlefarm-yard. As to the house itself, with its three peaks in theroof; its various-shaped windows, some so large, some so small, andall so pretty; its trellis-work, against the southfront for rosesand honey-suckle, and its homely, comfortable, welcoming look--itwas, as Ada said when she came out to meet me with her arm throughthat of its master, worthy of her cousin John, a bold thing to say,though he only pinched her dear cheek for it.   Mr. Skimpole was as agreeable at breakfast as he had beenovernight. There was honey on the table, and it led him into adiscourse about bees. He had no objection to honey, he said (and Ishould think he had not, for he seemed to like it), but heprotested against the overweening assumptions of bees. He didn'tat all see why the busy bee should be proposed as a model to him;he supposed the bee liked to make honey, or he wouldn't do it--nobody asked him. It was not necessary for the bee to make such amerit of his tastes. If every confectioner went buzzing about theworld banging against everything that came in his way andegotistically calling upon everybody to take notice that he wasgoing to his work and must not be interrupted, the world would bequite an unsupportable place. Then, after all, it was a ridiculousposition to be smoked out of your fortune with brimstone as soon asyou had made it. You would have a very mean opinion of aManchester man if he spun cotton for no other purpose. He must sayhe thought a drone the embodiment of a pleasanter and wiser idea.   The drone said unaffectedly, "You will excuse me; I really cannotattend to the shop! I find myself in a world in which there is somuch to see and so short a time to see it in that I must take theliberty of looking about me and begging to be provided for bysomebody who doesn't want to look about him." This appeared to Mr.   Skimpole to be the drone philosophy, and he thought it a very goodphilosophy, always supposing the drone to be willing to be on goodterms with the bee, which, so far as he knew, the easy fellowalways was, if the consequential creature would only let him, andnot be so conceited about his honey!   He pursued this fancy with the lightest foot over a variety ofground and made us all merry, though again he seemed to have asserious a meaning in what he said as he was capable of having. Ileft them still listening to him when I withdrew to attend to mynew duties. They had occupied me for some time, and I was passingthrough the passages on my return with my basket of keys on my armwhen 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 papersand in part quite a little museum of his boots and shoes and hat-boxes.   "Sit down, my dear," said Mr. Jarndyce. "This, you must know, isthe growlery. When I am out of humour, I 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 ordisappointed in--the wind, and it's easterly, I take refuge here.   The growlery is the best-used room in the house. You are not awareof half my humours yet. My dear, how you are trembling!"I could not help it; I tried very hard, but being alone with thatbenevolent presence, and meeting his kind eyes, and feeling sohappy and so honoured there, and my heart so full--I kissed his hand. I don't know what I said, or even that I spoke.   He was disconcerted and walked to the window; I almost believedwith an intention of jumping out, until he turned and I wasreassured by seeing in his eyes what he had gone there to hide. Hegently patted me on the head, and I sat down.   "There! There!" he said. "That's over. Pooh! Don't be foolish.""It shall not happen again, sir," I returned, "but at first it isdifficult--""Nonsense!" he said. "It's easy, easy. Why not? I hear of a goodlittle orphan girl without a protector, and I take it into my headto be that protector. She grows up, and more than justifies mygood opinion, and I remain her guardian and her friend. What isthere in all this? So, so! Now, we have cleared off old scores,and I have before me thy pleasant, trusting, trusty face again."I said to myself, "Esther, my dear, you surprise me! This reallyis not what I expected of you!" And it had such a good effect thatI folded my hands upon my basket and quite recovered myself. Mr.   Jarndyce, expressing his approval in his face, began to talk to meas confidentially as if I had been in the habit of conversing withhim every morning for I don't know how long. I almost felt as if Ihad.   "Of course, Esther," he said, "you don't understand this Chancerybusiness?"And of course I shook my head.   "I don't know who does," he returned. "The lawyers have twisted itinto such a state of bedevilment that the original merits of thecase have long disappeared from the face of the earth. It's abouta will and the trusts under a will--or it was once. It's aboutnothing but costs now. We are always appearing, and disappearing,and swearing, and interrogating, and filing, and cross-filing, andarguing, and sealing, and motioning, and referring, and reporting,and revolving about the Lord Chancellor and all his satellites, andequitably waltzing ourselves off to dusty death, about costs.   That's the great question. All the rest, by some extraordinarymeans, has melted away.""But it was, sir," said I, to bring him back, for he began to rubhis head, "about a will?""Why, yes, it was about a will when it was about anything," hereturned. "A certain Jarndyce, in an evil hour, made a greatfortune, and made a great will. In the question how the trustsunder that will are to be administered, the fortune left by thewill is squandered away; the legatees under the will are reduced tosuch a miserable condition that they would be sufficiently punishedif they had committed an enormous crime in having money left them,and the will itself is made a dead letter. All through thedeplorable cause, everything that everybody in it, except one man,knows already is referred to that only one man who don't know it tofind out--all through the deplorable cause, everybody must havecopies, over and over again, of everything that has accumulatedabout it in the way of cartloads of papers (or must pay for themwithout having them, which is the usual course, for nobody wantsthem) and must go down the middle and up again through such aninfernal country-dance of costs and fees and nonsense andcorruption as was never dreamed of in the wildest visions of awitch's Sabbath. Equity sends questions to law, law sendsquestions back to equity; law finds it can't do this, equity findsit can't do that; neither can so much as say it can't do anything,without this solicitor instructing and this counsel appearing forA, and that solicitor instructing and that counsel appearing for B;and so on through the whole alphabet, like the history of the applepie. And thus, through years and years, and lives and lives,everything goes on, constantly beginning over and over again, andnothing ever ends. And we can't get out of the suit on any terms,for we are made parties to it, and MUST BE parties to it, whetherwe like it or not. But it won't do to think of it! When my greatuncle, poor Tom Jarndyce, began to think of it, it was thebeginning of the end!""The Mr. Jarndyce, sir, whose story I have heard?"He nodded gravely. "I was his heir, and this was his house,Esther. When I came here, it was bleak indeed. He had left thesigns 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 itspresent name and lived here shut up, day and night poring over thewicked heaps of papers in the suit and hoping against hope todisentangle it from its mystification and bring it to a close. Inthe meantime, the place became dilapidated, the wind whistledthrough the cracked walls, the rain fell through the broken roof,the weeds choked the passage to the rotting door. When I broughtwhat remained of him home here, the brains seemed to me to havebeen 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 ashudder, and then looked at me, and brightened, and came and satdown again with his hands in his pockets.   "I told you this was the growlery, my dear. Where was I?"I reminded him, at the hopeful change he had made in Bleak House.   "Bleak House; true. There is, in that city of London there, someproperty of ours which is much at this day what Bleak House wasthen; I say property of ours, meaning of the suit's, but I ought tocall it the property of costs, for costs is the only power on earththat will ever get anything out of it now or will ever know it foranything but an eyesore and a heartsore. It is a street ofperishing blind houses, with their eyes stoned out, without a paneof glass, without so much as a window-frame, with the bare blankshutters tumbling from their hinges and falling asunder, the ironrails peeling away in flakes of rust, the chimneys sinking in, thestone steps to every door (and every door might be death's door)turning stagnant green, the very crutches on which the ruins arepropped decaying. Although Bleak House was not in Chancery, itsmaster was, and it was stamped with the same seal. These are theGreat Seal's impressions, my dear, all over England--the childrenknow them!""How changed it is!" I said again.   "Why, so it is," he answered much more cheerfully; "and it iswisdom in you to keep me to the bright side of the picture." (Theidea of my wisdom!) "These are things I never talk about or eventhink about, excepting in the growlery here. If you consider itright to mention them to Rick and Ada," looking seriously at me,"you can. I leave it to your discretion, Esther.""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 it, "Esther,now, you know you are!"--when he feigned to say this slightly, asif it were a whim instead of a thoughtful tenderness. But I gavethe housekeeping keys the least shake in the world as a reminder tomyself, and folding my hands in a still more determined manner onthe basket, looked at him quietly.   "I hope, guardian," said I, "that you may not trust too much to mydiscretion. I hope you may not mistake me. I am afraid it will bea disappointment to you to know that I am not clever, but it reallyis the truth, and you would soon find it out if I had not thehonesty to confess it."He did not seem at all disappointed; quite the contrary. He toldme, with a smile all over his face, that he knew me very wellindeed and that I was quite clever enough for him.   "I hope I may turn out so," said I, "but I am much afraid of it,guardian.""You are clever enough to be the good little woman of our liveshere, my dear," he returned playfully; "the little old woman of thechild's (I don't mean Skimpole's) rhyme:   'Little old woman, and 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 yourhousekeeping, Esther, that one of these days we shall have toabandon the growlery and nail up the door."This was the beginning of my being called Old Woman, and Little OldWoman, and Cobweb, and Mrs. Shipton, and Mother Hubbard, and DameDurden, and so many names of that sort that my own name soon becamequite lost among them.   "However," said Mr. Jarndyce, "to return to our gossip. Here'sRick, a fine young fellow full of promise. What's to be done withhim?"Oh, my goodness, the idea of asking my advice on such a point!   "Here he is, Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce, comfortably putting hishands into his pockets and stretching out his legs. "He must havea profession; he must make some choice for himself. There will bea world more wiglomeration about it, I suppose, but it must bedone.""More what, guardian?" said I.   "More wiglomeration," said he. "It's the only name I know for thething. He is a ward in Chancery, my dear. Kenge and Carboy willhave something to say about it; Master Somebody--a sort ofridiculous sexton, digging graves for the merits of causes in aback room at the end of Quality Court, Chancery Lane--will havesomething to say about it; counsel will have something to say aboutit; the Chancellor will have something to say about it; thesatellites will have something to say about it; they will all haveto be handsomely feed, all round, about it; the whole thing will bevastly ceremonious, wordy, unsatisfactory, and expensive, and Icall it, in general, wiglomeration. How mankind ever came to beafflicted with wiglomeration, or for whose sins these young peopleever fell into a pit of it, I 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 thatwhether he rubbed his head, or walked about, or did both, his facewas sure to recover its benignant expression as it looked at mine;and he was sure to turn comfortable again and put his hands in hispockets and stretch out his legs.   "Perhaps it would be best, first of all," said I, "to ask Mr.   Richard what he inclines to himself.""Exactly so," he returned. "That's what I mean! You know, justaccustom yourself to talk it over, with your tact and in your quietway, with him and Ada, and see what you all make of it. We aresure to come at the heart of the matter by your means, littlewoman."I really was frightened at the thought of the importance I wasattaining 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 toRichard. But of course I said nothing in reply except that I woulddo my best, though I feared (I realty felt it necessary to repeatthis) that he thought me much more sagacious than I was. At whichmy guardian only laughed the pleasantest laugh I ever heard.   "Come!" he said, rising and pushing back his chair. "I think wemay have done with the growlery for one day! Only a concludingword. Esther, my dear, do you wish to ask me anything?"He looked so attentively at me that I looked attentively at him andfelt sure I understood him.   "About myself, sir?" said I.   "Yes.""Guardian," said I, venturing to put my hand, which was suddenlycolder than I could have wished, in his, "nothing! I am quite surethat if there were anything I ought to know or had any need toknow, I should not have to ask you to tell it to me. If my wholereliance and confidence were not placed in you, I must have a hardheart 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 him, quite unreserved, quitecontent to know no more, quite happy.   We lived, at first, rather a busy life at Bleak House, for we hadto become acquainted with many residents in and out of theneighbourhood who knew Mr. Jarndyce. It seemed to Ada and me thateverybody knew him who wanted to do anything with anybody else'smoney. It amazed us when we began to sort his letters and toanswer some of them for him in the growlery of a morning to findhow the great object of the lives of nearly all his correspondentsappeared to be to form themselves into committees for getting inand laying out money. The ladies were as desperate as thegentlemen; indeed, I think they were even more so. They threwthemselves into committees in the most impassioned manner andcollected subscriptions with a vehemence quite extraordinary. Itappeared to us that some of them must pass their whole lives indealing out subscription-cards to the whole post-office directory--shilling cards, half-crown cards, half-sovereign cards, pennycards. They wanted everything. They wanted wearing apparel, theywanted linen rags, they wanted money, they wanted coals, theywanted soup, they wanted interest, they wanted autographs, theywanted flannel, they wanted whatever Mr. Jarndyce had--or had not.   Their objects were as various as their demands. They were going toraise new buildings, they were going to pay off debts on oldbuildings, they were going to establish in a picturesque building(engraving of proposed west elevation attached) the Sisterhood ofMediaeval Marys, they were going to give a testimonial to Mrs.   Jellyby, they were going to have their secretary's portrait paintedand presented to his mother-in-law, whose deep devotion to him waswell known, they were going to get up everything, I really believe,from five hundred thousand tracts to an annuity and from a marblemonument to a silver tea-pot. They took a multitude of titles.   They were the Women of England, the Daughters of Britain, theSisters of all the cardinal virtues separately, the Females ofAmerica, the Ladies of a hundred denominations. They appeared tobe always excited about canvassing and electing. They seemed toour poor wits, and according to their own accounts, to beconstantly polling people by tens of thousands, yet never bringingtheir candidates in for anything. It made our heads ache to think,on the whole, what feverish lives they must lead.   Among the ladies who were most distinguished for this rapaciousbenevolence (if I may use the expression) was a Mrs. Pardiggle, whoseemed, as 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 becamethe subject of conversation and that it invariably interrupted Mr.   Jarndyce and prevented his going any farther, when he had remarkedthat there were two classes of charitable people; one, the peoplewho did a little and made a great deal of noise; the other, thepeople who did a great deal and made no noise at all. We weretherefore curious to see Mrs. Pardiggle, suspecting her to be atype of the former class, and were glad when she called one daywith her five young sons.   She was a formidable style of lady with spectacles, a prominentnose, and a loud voice, who had the effect of wanting a great dealof room. And she really did, for she knocked down little chairswith her skirts that were quite a great way off. As only Ada and Iwere at home, we received her timidly, for she seemed to come inlike cold weather and to make the little Pardiggles blue as theyfollowed.   "These, young ladies," said Mrs. Pardiggle with great volubilityafter the first salutations, "are my five boys. You may have seentheir names in a printed subscription list (perhaps more than one)in the possession of our esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce. Egbert, myeldest (twelve), is the boy who sent out his pocket-money, to theamount of five and threepence, to the Tockahoopo Indians. Oswald,my second (ten and a half), is the child who contributed two andnine-pence to the Great National Smithers Testimonial. Francis, mythird (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 ispledged never, through life, to use tobacco in any form."We had never seen such dissatisfied children. It was not merelythat they were weazened and shrivelled--though they were certainlythat to--but they looked absolutely ferocious with discontent. Atthe mention of the Tockahoopo Indians, I could really have supposedEghert to be one of the most baleful members of that tribe, he gaveme such a savage frown. The face of each child, as the amount ofhis contribution was mentioned, darkened in a peculiarly vindictivemanner, but his was by far the worst. I must except, however, thelittle recruit into the Infant Bonds of Joy, who was stolidly andevenly miserable.   "You have been visiting, I understand," said Mrs. Pardiggle, "atMrs. Jellyby's?"We said yes, we had passed one night there.   "Mrs. Jellyby," pursued the lady, always speaking in the samedemonstrative, loud, hard tone, so that her voice impressed myfancy as if it had a sort of spectacles on too--and I may take theopportunity of remarking that her spectacles were made the lessengaging by her eyes being what Ada called "choking eyes," meaningvery prominent--"Mrs. Jellyby is a benefactor to society anddeserves a helping hand. My boys have contributed to the Africanproject--Egbert, one and six, being the entire allowance of nineweeks; Oswald, one and a penny halfpenny, being the same; the rest,according to their little means. Nevertheless, I do not go withMrs. Jellyby in all things. I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in hertreatment of her young family. It has been noticed. It has beenobserved that her young family are excluded from participation inthe objects to which she is devoted. She may be right, she may bewrong; but, right or wrong, this is not my course with MY youngfamily. I take them everywhere."I was afterwards convinced (and so was Ada) that from the ill-conditioned eldest child, these words extorted a sharp yell. Heturned it off into a yawn, but it began as a yell.   "They attend matins with me (very prettily done) at half-past sixo'clock in the morning all the year round, including of course thedepth of winter," said Mrs. Pardiggle rapidly, "and they are withme during the revolving duties of the day. I am a School lady, Iam 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 moreso. But they are my companions everywhere; and by these means theyacquire that knowledge of the poor, and that capacity of doingcharitable business in general--in short, that taste for the sortof thing--which will render them in after life a service to theirneighbours and a satisfaction to themselves. My young family arenot frivolous; they expend the entire amount of their allowance insubscriptions, under my direction; and they have attended as manypublic meetings and listened to as many lectures, orations, anddiscussions as generally fall to the lot of few grown people.   Alfred (five), who, as I mentioned, has of his own election joinedthe Infant Bonds of Joy, was one of the very few children whomanifested consciousness on that occasion after a fervid address oftwo hours from the chairman of the evening."Alfred glowered at us as if he never could, or would, forgive theinjury of that night.   "You may have observed, Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Pardiggle, "insome of the lists to which I have referred, in the possession ofour esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce, that the names of my young familyare concluded with the name of O. A. Pardiggle, F.R.S., one pound.   That is their father. We usually observe the same routine. I putdown 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 inhis limited donation, under my direction; and thus things are madenot only pleasant to ourselves, but, we trust, improving toothers."Suppose Mr. Pardiggle were to dine with Mr. Jellyby, and supposeMr. Jellyby were to relieve his mind after dinner to Mr. Pardiggle,would Mr. Pardiggle, in return, make any confidential communicationto 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 subject, and going to the window,pointed out the beauties of the prospect, on which the spectaclesappeared 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'sacquaintance.   "The loss is yours, I assure you," said Mrs. Pardiggle with hercommanding deportment. "He is a very fervid, impassioned speaker-full of fire! Stationed in a waggon on this lawn, now, which, fromthe shape of the land, is naturally adapted to a public meeting, hewould improve almost any occasion you could mention for hours andhours! By this time, young ladies," said Mrs. Pardiggle, movingback to her chair and overturning, as if by invisible agency, alittle round table at a considerable distance with my work-basketon it, "by this time you have found me out, I dare say?"This was really such a confusing question that Ada looked at me inperfect dismay. As to the guilty nature of my own consciousnessafter what I had been thinking, it must have been expressed in thecolour of my cheeks.   "Found out, I mean," said Mrs. Pardiggle, "the prominent point inmy character. I am aware that it is so prominent as to bediscoverable 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 soaccustomed and inured to hard work that I don't know what fatigueis."We murmured that it was very astonishing and very gratifying, orsomething to that effect. I don't think we knew what it waseither, but this is what our politeness expressed.   "I do not understand what it is to be tired; you cannot tire me ifyou try!" said Mrs. Pardiggle. "The quantity of exertion (which isno exertion to me), the amount of business (which I regard asnothing), that I go through sometimes astonishes myself. I haveseen my young family, and Mr. Pardiggle, quite worn out withwitnessing it, when I may truly say I have been as fresh as alark!"If that dark-visaged eldest boy could look more malicious than hehad already looked, this was the time when he did it. I observedthat he doubled his right fist and delivered a secret blow into thecrown of his cap, which was under his left arm.   "This gives me a great advantage when I am making my rounds," saidMrs. Pardiggle. "If I find a person unwilling to hear what I haveto say, I tell that person directly, 'I am incapable of fatigue, mygood friend, I am never tired, and I mean to go on until I havedone.' It answers admirably! Miss Summerson, I hope I shall haveyour assistance in my visiting rounds immediately, and Miss Clare'svery soon."At first I tried to excuse myself for the present on the generalground of having occupations to attend to which I must not neglect.   But as this was an ineffectual protest, I then said, moreparticularly, that I was not sure of my qualifications. That I wasinexperienced in the art of adapting my mind to minds verydifferently situated, and addressing them from suitable points ofview. That I had not that delicate knowledge of the heart whichmust be essential to such a work. That I had much to learn,myself, before I could teach others, and that I could not confidein my good intentions alone. For these reasons I thought it bestto be as useful as I could, and to render what kind services Icould to those immediately about me, and to try to let that circleof duty gradually and naturally expand itself. All this I saidwith anything but confidence, because Mrs. Pardiggle was much olderthan I, and had great experience, and was so very military in hermanners.   "You are wrong, Miss Summerson," said she, "but perhaps you are notequal to hard work or the excitement of it, and that makes a vastdifference. If you would like to see how I go through my work, Iam now about--with my young family--to visit a brickmaker in theneighbourhood (a very bad character) and shall be glad to take youwith me. Miss Clare also, if she will do me the favour."Ada and I interchanged looks, and as we were going out in any case,accepted the offer. When we hastily returned from putting on ourbonnets, we found the young family languishing in a corner and Mrs.   Pardiggle sweeping about the room, knocking down nearly all thelight 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 loudtone (that, indeed, I overheard) all the way to the brickmaker'sabout an exciting contest which she had for two or three yearswaged against another lady relative to the bringing in of theirrival candidates for a pension somewhere. There had been aquantity of printing, and promising, and proxying, and polling, andit 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 inbeing usually favoured in that respect, but on this occasion itgave me great uneasiness. As soon as we were out of doors, Egbert,with the manner of a little footpad, demanded a shilling of me onthe ground that his pocket-money was "boned" from him. On mypointing out the great impropriety of the word, especially inconnexion with his parent (for he added sulkily "By her!"), hepinched me and said, "Oh, then! Now! Who are you! YOU wouldn'tlike it, I think? What does she make a sham for, and pretend togive me money, and take it away again? Why do you call it myallowance, and never let me spend it?" These exasperatingquestions so inflamed his mind and the minds of Oswald and Francisthat they all pinched me at once, and in a dreadfully expert way--screwing up such little pieces of my arms that I could hardlyforbear crying out. Felix, at the same time, stamped upon my toes.   And the Bond of Joy, who on account of always having the whole ofhis little income anticipated stood in fact pledged to abstain fromcakes as well as tobacco, so swelled with grief and rage when wepassed a pastry-cook's shop that he terrified me by becomingpurple. I never underwent so much, both in body and mind, in thecourse of a walk with young people as from these unnaturallyconstrained children when they paid me the compliment of beingnatural.   I was glad when we came to the brickmaker's house, though it wasone of a cluster of wretched hovels in a brick-field, with pigstiesclose to the broken windows and miserable little gardens before thedoors growing nothing but stagnant pools. Here and there an oldtub was put to catch the droppings of rain-water from a roof, orthey were banked up with mud into a little pond like a large dirt-pie. At the doors and windows some men and women lounged orprowled about, and took little notice of us except to laugh to oneanother or to say something as we passed about gentlefolks mindingtheir own business and not troubling their heads and muddying theirshoes with coming to look after other people's.   Mrs. Pardiggle, leading the way with a great show of moraldetermination and talking with much volubility about the untidyhabits of the people (though I doubted if the best of us could havebeen tidy in such a place), conducted us into a cottage at thefarthest corner, the ground-floor room of which we nearly filled.   Besides ourselves, there were in this damp, offensive room a womanwith a black eye, nursing a poor little gasping baby by the fire; aman, all stained with clay and mud and looking very dissipated,lying at full length on the ground, smoking a pipe; a powerfulyoung man fastening a collar on a dog; and a bold girl doing somekind of washing in very dirty water. They all looked up at us aswe came in, and the woman seemed to turn her face towards the fireas if to hide her bruised eye; nobody gave us any welcome.   "Well, my friends," said Mrs. Pardiggle, but her voice had not afriendly sound, I thought; it was much too businesslike andsystematic. "How do you do, all of you? I am here again. I toldyou, you couldn't tire me, you know. I am fond of hard work, andam true to my word.""There an't," growled the man on the floor, whose head rested onhis hand as he stared at us, "any more on you to come in, isthere?""No, my friend," said Mrs. Pardiggle, seating herself on one stooland knocking down another. "We are all here.""Because I thought there warn't enough of you, perhaps?" said theman, with his pipe between his lips as he looked round upon us.   The young man and the girl both laughed. Two friends of the youngman, whom we had attracted to the doorway and who stood there withtheir hands in their pockets, echoed the laugh noisily.   "You can't tire me, good people," said Mrs. Pardiggle to theselatter. "I enjoy hard work, and the harder you make mine, thebetter I like it.""Then make it easy for her!" growled the man upon the floor. "Iwants it done, and over. I wants a end of these liberties tookwith my place. I wants an end of being drawed like a badger. Nowyou're a-going to poll-pry and question according to custom--I knowwhat you're a-going to be up to. Well! You haven't got nooccasion to be up to it. I'll save you the trouble. Is mydaughter a-washin? Yes, she IS a-washin. Look at the water.   Smell it! That's wot we drinks. How do you like it, and what doyou think of gin instead! An't my place dirty? Yes, it is dirty--it's nat'rally dirty, and it's nat'rally onwholesome; and we've hadfive dirty and onwholesome children, as is all dead infants, and somuch the better for them, and for us besides. Have I read thelittle book wot you left? No, I an't read the little book wot youleft. There an't nobody here as knows how to read it; and if therewos, it 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 doll, I shouldn'tnuss it. How have I been conducting of myself? Why, I've beendrunk for three days; and I'da been drunk four if I'da had themoney. Don't I never mean for to go to church? No, I don't nevermean for to go to church. I shouldn't be expected there, if I did;the beadle's too gen-teel for me. And how did my wife get thatblack eye? Why, I give it her; and if she says I didn't, she's alie!"He had pulled his pipe out of his mouth to say all this, and he nowturned over on his other side and smoked again. Mrs. Pardiggle,who had been regarding him through her spectacles with a forciblecomposure, calculated, I could not help thinking, to increase hisantagonism, pulled out a good book as if it were a constable'sstaff and took the whole family into custody. I mean intoreligious custody, of course; but she really did it as if she werean inexorable moral policeman carrying them all off to a station-house.   Ada and I were very uncomfortable. We both felt intrusive and outof place, and we both thought that Mrs. Pardiggle would have got oninfinitely better if she had not had such a mechanical way oftaking possession of people. The children sulked and stared; thefamily took no notice of us whatever, except when the young manmade the dog bark, which he usually did when Mrs. Pardiggle wasmost emphatic. We both felt painfully sensible that between us andthese people there was an iron barrier which could not be removedby our new friend. By whom or how it could be removed, we did notknow, but we knew that. Even what she read and said seemed to usto be ill-chosen for such auditors, if it had been imparted ever somodestly and with ever so much tact. As to the little book towhich the man on the floor had referred, we acqulred a knowledge ofit afterwards, and Mr. Jarndyce said he doubted if Robinson Crusoecould have read it, though he had had no other on his desolateisland.   We were much relieved, under these circumstances, when Mrs.   Pardiggle left off.   The man on the floor, then turning his bead round again, saidmorosely, "Well! You've done, have you?""For to-day, I have, my friend. But I am never fatigued. I shallcome to you again in your regular order," returned Mrs. Pardigglewith demonstrative cheerfulness.   "So long as you goes now," said he, folding his arms and shuttinghis eyes with an oath, "you may do wot you like!"Mrs. Pardiggle accordingly rose and made a little vortex in theconfined room from which the pipe itself very narrowly escaped.   Taking one of her young family in each hand, and telling the othersto follow closely, and expressing her hope that the brickmaker andall his house would be improved when she saw them next, she thenproceeded to another cottage. I hope it is not unkind in me to saythat she certainly did make, in this as in everything else, a showthat was not conciliatory of doing charity by wholesale and ofdealing in it to a large extent.   She supposed that we were following her, but as soon as the spacewas left clear, we approached the woman sitting by the fire to askif the baby were ill.   She only looked at it as it lay on her lap. We had observed beforethat when she looked at it she covered her discoloured eye with herhand, as though she wished to separate any association with noiseand violence and ill treatment from the poor little child.   Ada, whose gentle heart was moved by its appearance, bent down totouch its little face. As she did so, I saw what happened and drewher back. The child died.   "Oh, Esther!" cried Ada, sinking on her knees beside it. "Lookhere! Oh, Esther, my love, the little thing! The suffering,quiet, pretty little thing! I am so sorry for it. I am so sorryfor the mother. I never saw a sight so pitiful as this before!   Oh, baby, baby!"Such compassion, such gentleness, as that with which she bent downweeping and put her hand upon the mother's might have softened anymother's heart that ever beat. The woman at first gazed at her inastonishment and then burst into tears.   Presently I took the light burden from her lap, did what I could tomake the baby's rest the prettier and gentler, laid it on a shelf,and covered it with my own handkerchief. We tried to comfort themother, and we whispered to her what Our Saviour said of children.   She answered nothing, but sat weeping--weeping very much.   When I turned, I found that the young man had taken out the dog andwas standing at the door looking in upon us with dry eyes, butquiet. The girl was quiet too and sat in a corner looking on theground. The man had risen. He still smoked his pipe with an airof defiance, but he was silent.   An ugly woman, very poorly clothed, hurried in while I was glancingat them, and coming straight up to the mother, said, "Jenny!   Jenny!" The mother rose on being so addressed and fell upon thewoman's neck.   She also had upon her face and arms the marks of ill usage. Shehad no kind of grace about her, but the grace of sympathy; but whenshe condoled with the woman, and her own tears fell, she wanted nobeauty. I say condoled, but 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 women, coarse andshabby and beaten, so united; to see what they could be to oneanother; to see how they felt for one another, how the heart ofeach to each was softened by the hard trials of their lives. Ithink the best side of such people is almost hidden from us. Whatthe poor are to the poor is little known, excepting to themselvesand God.   We felt it better to withdraw and leave them uninterrupted. Westole out quietly and without notice from any one except the man.   He was leaning against the wall near the door, and finding thatthere was scarcely room for us to pass, went out before us. Heseemed to want to hide that he did this on our account, but weperceived that be did, and thanked him. He made no answer.   Ada was so full of grief all the way home, and Richard, whom wefound at home, was so distressed to see her in tears (though hesaid to me, when she was not present, how beautiful it was too!),that we arranged to return at night with some little comforts andrepeat our visit at the brick-maker's house. We said as little aswe could to Mr. Jarndyce, but the wind changed directly.   Richard accompanied us at night to the scene of our morningexpedition. On our way there, we had to pass a noisy drinking-house, where a number of men were flocking about the door. Amongthem, and prominent in some dispute, was the father of the littlechild. At a short distance, we passed the young man and the dog,in congenial company. The sister was standing laughing and talkingwith 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 andproceeded by ourselves. When we came to the door, we found thewoman who had brought such consolation with her standing therelooking 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 tocatch me away from home, he'd pretty near murder me.""Do you mean your husband?" said I.   "Yes, miss, my master. Jennys asleep, quite worn out. She'sscarcely had the child off her lap, poor thing, these seven daysand nights, except when I've been able to take it for a minute ortwo."As she gave way for us, she went softly in and put what we hadbrought near the miserable bed on which the mother slept. Noeffort had been made to clean the room--it seemed in its naturealmost hopeless of being clean; but the small waxen form from whichso much solemnity diffused itself had been composed afresh, andwashed, and neatly dressed in some fragments of white linen; and onmy handkerchief, which still covered the poor baby, a little bunchof sweet herbs had been laid by the same rough, scarred hands, solightly, so 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 thefamiliar voice seemed to calm her again. She was quiet once more.   How little I thought, when I raised my handkerchief to look uponthe tiny sleeper underneath and seemed to see a halo shine aroundthe child through Ada's drooping hair as her pity bent her head--how little I thought in whose unquiet bosom that handkerchief wouldcome to lie after covering the motionless and peaceful breast! Ionly thought that perhaps the Angel of the child might not be allunconscious of the woman who replaced it with so compassionate ahand; not all unconscious of her presently, when we had takenleave, and left her at the door, by turns looking, and listening interror for herself, and saying in her old soothing manner, "Jenny,Jenny!" Chapter 9 Signs and Tokens I don't know how it is I seem to be always writing about myself. Imean all the time to write about other people, and I try to thinkabout myself as little as possible, and I am sure, when I findmyself coming into the story again, I 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 writewill understand that if these pages contain a great deal about me,I can only suppose it must be because I have really something to dowith them and can't be kept out.   My darling and I read together, and worked, and practised, andfound so much employment for our time that the winter days flew byus like bright-winged birds. Generally in the afternoons, andalways in the evenings, Richard gave us his company. Although hewas one of the most restless creatures in the world, he certainlywas very fond of our society.   He was very, very, very fond of Ada. I mean it, and I had bettersay it at once. I had never seen any young people falling in lovebefore, but I found them out quite soon. I could not say so, ofcourse, or show that I knew anything about it. On the contrary, Iwas so demure and used to seem so unconscious that sometimes Iconsidered within myself while I was sitting at work whether I wasnot growing quite deceitful.   But there was no help for it. All I had to do was to be quiet, andI was as quiet as a mouse. They were as quiet as mice too, so faras any words were concerned, but the innocent manner in which theyrelied more and more upon me as they took more and more to oneanother was so charming that I had great difficulty in not showinghow it interested me.   "Our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman," Richardwould say, coming up to meet me in the garden early, with hispleasant laugh and perhaps the least tinge of a blush, "that Ican't get on without her. Before I begin my harum-scarum day--grinding away at those books and instruments and then galloping uphill and down dale, all the country round, like a highwayman--itdoes me so much good to come and have a steady walk with ourcomfortable friend, that here I am again!""You know, Dame Durden, dear," Ada would say at night, with herhead upon my shoulder and the firelight shining in her thoughtfuleyes, "I don't want to talk when we come upstairs here. Only tosit a little while thinking, with your dear face for company, andto hear the wind and remember the poor sailors at sea--"Ah! Perhaps Richard was going to be a sailor. We had talked itover very often now, and there was some talk of gratifying theinclination of his childhood for the sea. Mr. Jarndyce had writtento a relation of the family, a great Sir Leicester Dedlock, for hisinterest in Richard's favour, generally; and Sir Leicester hadreplied in a gracious manner that he would be happy to advance theprospects of the young gentleman if it should ever prove to bewithin his power, which was not at all probable, and that my Ladysent her compliments to the young gentleman (to whom she perfectlyremembered that she was allied by remote consanguinity) and trustedthat he would ever do his duty in any honourable profession towhich he might devote himself.   "So I apprehend it's pretty clear," said Richard to me, "that Ishall have to work my own way. Never mind! Plenty of people havehad to do that before now, and have done it. I only wish I had thecommand of a clipping privateer to begin with and could carry offthe Chancellor and keep him on short allowance until he gavejudgment in our cause. He'd find himself growing thin, if hedidn't look sharp!"With a buoyancy and hopefulness and a gaiety that hardly everflagged, Richard had a carelessness in his character that quiteperplexed me, principally because he mistook it, in such a very oddway, for prudence. It entered into all his calculations aboutmoney in a singular manner which I don't think I can better explainthan by reverting for a moment to our loan to Mr. Skimpole.   Mr. Jarndyce had ascertained the amount, either from Mr. Skimpolehimself or from Coavinses, and had placed the money in my handswith instructions to me to retain my own part of it and hand therest to Richard. The number of little acts of thoughtlessexpenditure which Richard justified by the recovery of his tenpounds, and the number of times he talked to me as if he had savedor realized that amount, would form a sum in simple addition.   "My prudent Mother Hubbard, why not?" he said to me when he wanted,without the least consideration, to bestow five pounds on thebrickmaker. "I made ten pounds, clear, out of Coavinses'   business.""How was that?" said I.   "Why, I got rid of ten pounds which I was quite content to get ridof 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 gotten pounds more than I expected to have, and consequently I canafford to spend it without being particular."In exactly the same way, when he was persuaded out of the sacrificeof 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 thebrickmaker's affair, so if I have a good rattle to London and backin a post-chaise and put that down at four pounds, I shall havesaved one. And it's a very good thing to save one, let me tellyou: a penny saved is a penny got!"I believe Richard's was as frank and generous a nature as therepossibly can be. He was ardent and brave, and in the midst of allhis wild restlessness, was so gentle that I knew him like a brotherin a few weeks. His gentleness was natural to him and would haveshown itself abundantly even without Ada's influence; but with it,he became one of the most winning of companions, always so ready tobe interested and always so happy, sanguine, and light-hearted. Iam sure that I, sitting with them, and walking with them, andtalking with them, and noticing from day to day how they went on,falling deeper and deeper in love, and saying nothing about it, andeach shyly thinking that this love was the greatest of secrets,perhaps not yet suspected even by the other--I am sure that I wasscarcely less enchanted than they were and scarcely less pleasedwith the pretty dream.   We were going on in this way, when one morning at breakfast Mr.   Jarndyce received a letter, and looking at the superscription,said, "From Boythorn? Aye, aye!" and opened and read it withevident pleasure, announcing to us in a parenthesis when he wasabout half-way through, that Boythorn was "coming down" on a visit.   Now who was Boythorn, we all thought. And I dare say we allthought too--I am sure I did, for one--would Boythorn at allinterfere with what was going forward?   "I went to school with this fellow, Lawrence Boythorn," said Mr.   Jarndyce, tapping the letter as he laid it on the table, "more thanfive and forty years ago. He was then the most impetuous boy inthe world, and he is now the most impetuous man. He was then theloudest boy in the world, and he is now the loudest man. He wasthen the heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, and he is nowthe heartiest and sturdiest man. He is a tremendous fellow.""In stature, sir?" asked Richard.   "Pretty well, Rick, in that respect," said Mr. Jarndyce; "beingsome ten years older than I and a couple of inches taller, with hishead thrown back like an old soldier, his stalwart chest squared,his hands like a clean blacksmith's, and his lungs! There's nosimile for his lungs. Talking, laughing, or snoring, they make thebeams of the house shake."As Mr. Jarndyce sat enjoying the image of his friend Boythorn, weobserved the favourable omen that there was not the leastindication of any change in the wind.   "But it's the inside of the man, the warm heart of the man, thepassion of the man, the fresh blood of the man, Rick--and Ada, andlittle Cobweb too, for you are all interested in a visitor--that Ispeak of," he pursued. "His language is as sounding as his voice.   He is always in extremes, perpetually in the superlative degree.   In his condemnation he is all ferocity. You might suppose him tobe an ogre from what he says, and I believe he has the reputationof one with some people. There! I tell you no more of himbeforehand. You must not be surprised to see him take me under hisprotection, for he has never forgotten that I was a low boy atschool and that our friendship began in his knocking two of my headtyrant's teeth out (he says six) before breakfast. Boythorn andhis man," to me, "will be here this afternoon, my dear."I took care that the necessary preparations were made for Mr.   Boythorn's reception, and we looked forward to his arrival withsome curiosity. The afternoon wore away, however, and he did notappear. The dinner-hour arrived, and still he did not appear. Thedinner was put back an hour, and we were sitting round the firewith no light but the blaze when the hall-door suddenly burst openand the hall resounded with these words, uttered with the greatestvehemence and in a stentorian tone: "We have been misdirected,Jarndyce, by a most abandoned ruffian, who told us to take theturning to the right instead of to the left. He is the mostintolerable scoundrel on the face of the earth. His father musthave been a most consummate villain, ever to have such a son. Iwould 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 hiswhole existence in misdirecting travellers!" returned the other.   "By my soul, I thought him the worst-looking dog I had ever beheldwhen he was telling me to take the turning to the right. And yet Istood before that fellow face to face and didn't knock his brainsout!""Teeth, you mean?" said Mr. Jarndyce.   "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, really making thewhole house vibrate. "What, you have not forgotten it yet! Ha,ha, ha! And that was another most consummate vagabond! By mysoul, the countenance of that fellow when he was a boy was theblackest image of perfidy, cowardice, and cruelty ever set up as ascarecrow in a field of scoundrels. If I were to meet that mostunparalleled despot in the streets to-morrow, I would fell him likea rotten tree!""I have no doubt of it," said Mr. Jarndyce. "Now, will you comeupstairs?""By my soul, Jarndyce," returned his guest, who seemed to refer tohis watch, "if you had been married, I would have turned back atthe garden-gate and gone away to the remotest summits of theHimalaya Mountains sooner than I would have presented myself atthis unseasonable hour.""Not quite so far, I hope?" said Mr. Jarndyce.   "By my life and honour, yes!" cried the visitor. "I wouldn't beguilty of the audacious insolence of keeping a lady of the housewaiting all this time for any earthly consideration. I wouldinfinitely rather destroy myself--infinitely rather!"Talking thus, they went upstairs, and presently we heard him in hisbedroom thundering "Ha, ha, ha!" and again "Ha, ha, ha!" until theflattest echo in the neighbourhood seemed to catch the contagionand to laugh as enjoyingly as he did or as we did when we heard himlaugh.   We all conceived a prepossession in his favour, for there was asterling quality in this laugh, and in his vigorous, healthy voice,and in the roundness and fullness with which he uttered every wordhe spoke, and in the very fury of his superlatives, which seemed togo off like blank cannons and hurt nothing. But we were hardlyprepared to have it so confirmed by his appearance when Mr.   Jarndyce presented him. He was not only a very handsome oldgentleman--upright and stalwart as he had been described to us--with a massive grey head, a fine composure of face when silent, afigure that might have become corpulent but for his being socontinually in earnest that he gave it no rest, and a chin thatmight have subsided into a double chin but for the vehementemphasis in which it was constantly required to assist; but he wassuch a true gentleman in his manner, so chivalrously polite, hisface was lighted by a smile of so much sweetness and tenderness,and it seemed so plain that he had nothing to hide, but showedhimself exactly as he was--incapable, as Richard said, of anythingon a limited scale, and firing away with those blank great gunsbecause he carried no small arms whatever--that really I could nothelp looking at him with equal pleasure as he sat at dinner,whether he smilingly conversed with Ada and me, or was led by Mr.   Jarndyce into some great volley of superlatives, or threw up hishead like a bloodhound and gave out that tremendous "Ha, ha, ha!""You have brought your bird with you, I suppose?" said Mr.   Jarndyce.   "By heaven, he is the most astonishing bird in Europe!" replied theother. "He IS the most wonderful creature! I wouldn't take tenthousand guineas for that bird. I have left an annuity for hissole support in case he should outlive me. He is, in sense andattachment, a phenomenon. And his father before him was one of themost astonishing birds that ever lived!"The subject of this laudation was a very little canary, who was sotame that he was brought down by Mr. Boythorn's man, on hisforefinger, and after taking a gentle flight round the room,alighted on his master's head. To hear Mr. Boythorn presentlyexpressing the most implacable and passionate sentiments, with thisfragile mite of a creature quietly perched on his forehead, was tohave a good illustration of his character, I thought.   "By my soul, Jarndyce," he said, very gently holding up a bit ofbread to the canary to peck at, "if I were in your place I wouldseize every master in Chancery by the throat tomorrow morning andshake him until his money rolled out of his pockets and his bonesrattled in his skin. I would have a settlement out of somebody, byfair means or by foul. If you would empower me to do it, I woulddo it for you with the greatest satisfaction!" (All this time thevery small canary was eating out of his hand.)"I thank you, Lawrence, but the suit is hardly at such a point atpresent," returned Mr. Jarndyce, laughing, "that it would begreatly advanced even by the legal process of shaking the bench andthe whole bar.""There never was such an infernal cauldron as that Chancery on theface of the earth!" said Mr. Boythorn. "Nothing but a mine belowit on a busy day in term time, with all its records, rules, andprecedents collected in it and every functionary belonging to italso, high and low, upward and downward, from its son theAccountant-General to its father the Devil, and the whole blown toatoms with ten thousand hundredweight of gunpowder, would reform itin the least!"It was impossible not to laugh at the energetic gravity with whichhe recommended this strong measure of reform. When we laughed, hethrew up his head and shook his broad chest, and again the wholecountry seemed to echo to his "Ha, ha, ha!" It had not the leasteffect in disturbing the bird, whose sense of security was completeand who hopped about the table with its quick head now on this sideand now on that, turning its bright sudden eye on its master as ifhe were no more than another bird.   "But how do you and your neighbour get on about the disputed rightof way?" said Mr. Jarndyce. "You are not free from the toils ofthe law yourself!""The fellow has brought actions against ME for trespass, and I havebrought actions against HIM for trespass," returned Mr. Boythorn.   "By heaven, he is the proudest fellow breathing. It is morallyimpossible that his name can be Sir Leicester. It must be SirLucifer.""Complimentary to our distant relation!" said my guardianlaughingly to Ada and Richard.   "I would beg Miss Clare's pardon and Mr. Carstone's pardon,"resumed our visitor, "if I were not reassured by seeing in the fairface of the lady and the smile of the gentleman that it is quiteunnecessary and that they keep their distant relation at acomfortable distance.""Or he keeps us," suggested Richard.   "By my soul," exclaimed Mr. Boythorn, suddenly firing anothervolley, "that fellow is, and his father was, and his grandfatherwas, the most stiff-necked, arrogant imbecile, pig-headed numskull,ever, by some inexplicable mistake of Nature, born in any stationof life but a walking-stick's! The whole of that family are themost solemnly conceited and consummate blockheads! But it's nomatter; he should not shut up my path if he were fifty baronetsmelted into one and living in a hundred Chesney Wolds, one withinanother, like the ivory balls in a Chinese carving. The fellow, byhis agent, or secretary, or somebody, writes to me 'Sir LeicesterDedlock, Baronet, presents his compliments to Mr. LawrenceBoythorn, and has to call his attention to the fact that the greenpathway by the old parsonage-house, now the property of Mr.   Lawrence Boythorn, is Sir Leicester's right of way, being in fact aportion of the park of chesney Wold, and that Sir Leicester findsit convenient to close up the same.' I write to the fellow, 'Mr.   Lawrence Boythorn presents his compliments to Sir LeicesterDedlock, Baronet, and has to call HIS attention to the fact that hetotally denies the whole of Sir Leicester Dedlock's positions onevery possible subject and has to add, in reference to closing upthe pathway, that he will be glad to see the man who may undertaketo do it.' The fellow sends a most abandoned villain with one eyeto construct a gateway. I play upon that execrable scoundrel witha 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 itin the morning. He sends his myrmidons to come over the fence andpass and repass. I catch them in humane man traps, fire split peasat their legs, play upon them with the engine--resolve to freemankind from the insupportable burden of the existence of thoselurking ruffians. He brings actions for trespass; I bring actionsfor trespass. He brings actions for assault and battery; I defendthem and continue to assault and batter. Ha, ha, ha!"To hear him say all this with unimaginable energy, one might havethought him the angriest of mankind. To see him at the very sametime, looking at the bird now perched upon his thumb and softlysmoothing its feathers with his forefinger, one might have thoughthim the gentlest. To hear him laugh and see the broad good natureof his face then, one might have supposed that he had not a care inthe world, or a dispute, or a dislike, but that his whole existencewas a summer joke.   "No, no," he said, "no closing up of my paths by any Dedlock!   Though I willingly confess," here he softened in a moment, "thatLady Dedlock is the most accomplished lady in the world, to whom Iwould do any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet with ahead seven hundred years thick, may. A man who joined his regimentat twenty and within a week challenged the most imperious andpresumptuous coxcomb of a commanding officer that ever drew thebreath of life through a tight waist--and got broke for it--is notthe 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 myguardian.   "Most assuredly not!" said Mr. Boythorn, clapping him on theshoulder with an air of protection that had something serious init, though he laughed. "He will stand by the low boy, always.   Jarndyce, you may rely upon him! But speaking of this trespass--with apologies to Miss Clare and Miss Summerson for the length atwhich I have pursued so dry a subject--is there nothing for me fromyour men Kenge and Carboy?""I think not, Esther?" said Mr. Jarndyce.   "Nothing, guardian.""Much obliged!" said Mr. Boythorn. "Had no need to ask, after evenmy slight experience of Miss Summerson's forethought for every oneabout her." (They all encouraged me; they were determined to doit.) "I inquired because, coming from Lincolnshire, I of coursehave not yet been in town, and I thought some letters might havebeen sent down here. I dare say they will report progress to-morrow morning."I saw him so often in the course of the evening, which passed verypleasantly, contemplate Richard and Ada with an interest and asatisfaction that made his fine face remarkably agreeable as he satat a little distance from the piano listening to the music--and hehad small occasion to tell us that he was passionately fond ofmusic, for his face showed it--that I asked my guardian as we satat 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 hazardingwhat was in my thoughts, "there is something so tender in hismanner, after all, and he is so very courtly and gentle to us, and--"Mr. Jarndyce directed his eyes to where he was sitting as I havejust described him.   I said no more.   "You are right, little woman," he answered. "He was all butmarried once. Long ago. And once.""Did the lady die?""No--but she died to him. That time has had its influence on allhis later life. Would you suppose him to have a head and a heartfull of romance yet?""I think, guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is easy tosay that when you have told me so.""He has never since been what he might have been," said Mr.   Jarndyce, "and now you see him in his age with no one near him buthis servant and his little yellow friend. It's your throw, mydear!"I felt, from my guardian's manner, that beyond this point I couldnot pursue the subject without changing the wind. I thereforeforbore to ask any further questions. I was interested, but notcurious. I thought a little while about this old love story in thenight, when I was awakened by Mr. Boythorn's lusty snoring; and Itried to do that very difficult thing, imagine old people youngagain and invested with the graces of youth. But I fell asleepbefore I had succeeded, and dreamed of the days when I lived in mygodmother's house. I am not sufficiently acquainted with suchsubjects to know whether it is at all remarkable that I almostalways dreamed of that period of my life.   With the morning there came a letter from Messrs. Kenge and Carboyto Mr. Boythorn informing him that one of their clerks would waitupon him at noon. As it was the day of the week on which I paid thebills, and added up my books, and made all the household affairs ascompact as possible, I remained at home while Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, andRichard took advantage of a very fine day to make a littleexcursion, Mr. Boythorn was to wait for Kenge and Carboy's clerk andthen was to go on foot to meet them on their return.   Well! I was full of business, examining tradesmen's books, addingup columns, paying money, filing receipts, and I dare say making agreat bustle about it when Mr. Guppy was announced and shown in. Ihad had some idea that the clerk who was to be sent down might bethe young gentleman who had met me at the coach-office, and I wasglad to see him, because he was associated with my presenthappiness.   I scarcely knew him again, he was so uncommonly smart. He had anentirely new suit of glossy clothes on, a shining hat, lilac-kidgloves, a neckerchief of a variety of colours, a large hot-houseflower in his button-hole, and a thick gold ring on his littlefinger. Besides which, he quite scented the dining-room withbear's-grease and other perfumery. He looked at me with anattention that quite confused me when I begged him to take a seatuntil the servant should return; and as he sat there crossing anduncrossing his legs in a corner, and I asked him if he had had apleasant ride, and hoped that Mr. Kenge was well, I never looked athim, but I found him looking at me in the same scrutinizing andcurious way.   When the request was brought to him that he would go up-stairs toMr. Boythorn's room, I mentioned that he would find lunch preparedfor him when he came down, of which Mr. Jarndyce hoped he wouldpartake. He said with some embarrassment, holding the handle of thedoor, '"Shall I have the honour of finding you here, miss?" Ireplied yes, I should be there; and he went out with a bow andanother look.   I thought him only awkward and shy, for he was evidently muchembarrassed; and I fancied that the best thing I could do would beto wait until I saw that he had everything he wanted and then toleave him to himself. The lunch was soon brought, but it remainedfor some time on the table. The interview with Mr. Boythorn was along one, and a stormy one too, I should think, for although hisroom was at some distance I heard his loud voice rising every nowand then like a high wind, and evidently blowing perfect broadsidesof denunciation.   At last Mr. Guppy came back, looking something the worse for theconference. "My eye, miss," he said in a low voice, "he's aTartar!""Pray take some refreshment, sir," said I.   Mr. Guppy sat down at the table and began nervously sharpening thecarving-knife on the carving-fork, still looking at me (as I feltquite sure without looking at him) in the same unusual manner. Thesharpening lasted so long that at last I felt a kind of obligationon me to raise my eyes in order that I might break the spell underwhich he seemed to labour, of 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 ofsomething?""No, thank you," said I.   "Shan't I give you a piece of anything at all, miss?" said Mr.   Guppy, hurriedly drinking off a glass of wine.   "Nothing, thank you," said I. "I have only waited to see that youhave 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 thatI can require to make me comfortable--at least I--not comfortable--I'm never that." He drank off two more glasses of wine, one afteranother.   I thought I had better go.   "I beg your pardon, miss!" said Mr. Guppy, rising when he saw merise. "But would you allow me the favour of a minute's privateconversation?"Not knowing what to say, I sat down again.   "What follows is without prejudice, miss?" said Mr. Guppy, anxiouslybringing a chair towards my table.   "I don't understand what you mean," said I, wondering.   "It's one of our law terms, miss. You won't make any use of it tomy detriment at Kenge and Carboy's or elsewhere. If ourconversation shouldn't lead to anything, I am to be as I was and amnot to be prejudiced in my situation or worldly prospects. Inshort, it's in total confidence.""I am at a loss, sir," said I, "to imagine what you can have tocommunicate in total confidence to me, whom you have never seen butonce; but I should be very sorry to do you any injury.""Thank you, miss. I'm sure of it--that's quite sufficient." Allthis time Mr. Guppy was either planing his forehead with hishandkerchief or tightly rubbing the palm of his left hand with thepalm of his right. "If you would excuse my taking another glass ofwine, miss, I think it might assist me in getting on without acontinual choke that cannot fail to be mutually unpleasant."He did so, and came back again. I took the opportunity of movingwell behind my table.   "You wouldn't allow me to offer you one, would you miss?" said Mr.   Guppy, apparently refreshed.   "Not any," said I.   "Not half a glass?" said Mr. Guppy. "Quarter? No! Then, toproceed. My present salary, Miss Summerson, at Kenge and Carboy's,is two pound a week. When I first had the happiness of looking uponyou, it was one fifteen, and had stood at that figure for alengthened period. A rise of five has since taken place, and afurther rise of five is guaranteed at the expiration of a term notexceeding twelve months from the present date. My mother has alittle property, which takes the form of a small life annuity, uponwhich she lives in an independent though unassuming manner in theOld Street Road. She is eminently calculated for a mother-in-law.   She never interferes, is all for peace, and her disposition easy.   She has her failings--as who has not?--but I never knew her do itwhen company was present, at which time you may freely trust herwith wines, spirits, or malt liquors. My own abode is lodgings atPenton Place, Pentonville. It is lowly, but airy, open at the back,and considered one of the 'ealthiest outlets. Miss Summerson! Inthe mildest language, I adore you. Would you be so kind as to allowme (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 andnot much frightened. I said, "Get up from that ridiculous positionlmmediately, sir, or you will oblige me to break my implied promiseand ring the bell!""Hear me out, miss!" said Mr. Guppy, folding his hands.   "I cannot consent to hear another word, sir," I returned, "Unlessyou get up from the carpet directly and go and sit down at the tableas you ought to do if you have any sense at all."He looked piteously, but slowly rose and did so.   "Yet what a mockery it is, miss," he said with his hand upon hisheart and shaking his head at me in a melancholy manner over thetray, "to be stationed behind food at such a moment. The soulrecoils 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 honour, so likewiseI obey. Would that I could make thee the subject of that vow beforethe shrine!""That is quite impossible," said I, "and entirely out of thequestion.""I am aware," said Mr. Guppy, leaning forward over the tray andregarding me, as I again strangely felt, though my eyes were notdirected to him, with his late intent look, "I am aware that in aworldly point of view, according to all appearances, my offer is apoor one. But, Miss Summerson! Angel! No, don't ring--I have beenbrought up in a sharp school and am accustomed to a variety ofgeneral practice. Though a young man, I have ferreted out evidence,got up cases, and seen lots of life. Blest with your hand, whatmeans might I not find of advancing your interests and pushing yourfortunes! What might I not get to know, nearly concerning you? Iknow nothing now, certainly; but what MIGHT I not if I had yourconfidence, and you set me on?"I told him that he addressed my interest or what he supposed to bemy interest quite as unsuccessfully as he addressed my inclination,and he would now understand that I requested him, if he pleased, togo away immediately.   "Cruel miss," said Mr. Guppy, "hear but another word! I think youmust have seen that I was struck with those charms on the day when Iwaited at the Whytorseller. I think you must have remarked that Icould not forbear a tribute to those charms when I put up the stepsof the 'ackney-coach. It was a feeble tribute to thee, but it waswell meant. Thy image has ever since been fixed in my breast. Ihave walked up and down of an evening opposite Jellyby's house onlyto look upon the bricks that once contained thee. This out of to-day, quite an unnecessary out so far as the attendance, which wasits pretended object, went, was planned by me alone for thee alone.   If I speak of interest, it is only to recommend myself and myrespectful wretchedness. Love was before it, and is before it.""I should be pained, Mr. Guppy," said I, rising and putting my handupon the bell-rope, "to do you or any one who was sincere theinjustice of slighting any honest feeling, however disagreeablyexpressed. If you have really meant to give me a proof of your goodopinion, though ill-timed and misplaced, I feel that I ought tothank you. I have very little reason to be proud, and I am notproud. I hope," I think I added, without very well knowing what Isaid, "that you will now go away as if you had never been soexceedingly foolish and attend to Messrs. Kenge and Carboy'sbusiness.""Half a minute, miss!" cried Mr. Guppy, checking me as I was aboutto ring. "This has been without prejudice?""I will never mention it," said I, "unless you should give me futureoccasion to do so.""A quarter of a minute, miss! In case you should think better atany time, however distant--THAT'S no consequence, for my feelingscan never alter--of anything I have said, particularly what might Inot do, Mr. William Guppy, eighty-seven, Penton Place, or ifremoved, or dead (of blighted hopes or anything of that sort), careof Mrs. Guppy, three hundred and two, Old Street Road, will besufficient."I rang the bell, the servant came, and Mr. Guppy, laying his writtencard upon the table and making a dejected bow, departed. Raising myeyes as he went out, I once more saw him looking at me after he hadpassed the door.   I sat there for another hour or more, finishing my books andpayments and getting through plenty of business. Then I arranged mydesk, and put everything away, and was so composed and cheerful thatI thought I had quite dismissed this unexpected incident. But, whenI went upstairs to my own room, I surprised myself by beginning tolaugh about it and then surprised myself still more by beginning tocry about it. In short, I was in a flutter for a little while andfelt as if an old chord had been more coarsely touched than it everhad been since the days of the dear old doll, long buried in thegarden. Chapter 10 The Law-Writer On the eastern borders of Chancery Lane, that is to say, moreparticularly in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby, law-stationer, pursues his lawful calling. In the shade of Cook'sCourt, at most times a shady place, Mr. Snagsby has dealt in allsorts of blank forms of legal process; in skins and rolls ofparchment; in paper--foolscap, brief, draft, brown, white, whitey-brown, and blotting; in stamps; in office-quills, pens, ink, India-rubber, pounce, pins, pencils, sealing-wax, and wafers; in red tapeand green ferret; in pocket-books, almanacs, diaries, and law lists;in string boxes, rulers, inkstands--glass and leaden--pen-knives,scissors, bodkins, and other small office-cutlery; in short, inarticles too numerous to mention, ever since he was out of his timeand went into partnership with Peffer. On that occasion, Cook'sCourt was in a manner revolutionized by the new inscription in freshpaint, PEFFER AND SNAGSBY, displacing the time-honoured and noteasily to be deciphered legend PEFFER only. For smoke, which is theLondon ivy, had so wreathed itself round Peffer's name and clung tohis dwelling-place that the affectionate parasite quite overpoweredthe 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 thechurchyard of St. Andrews, Holborn, with the waggons and hackney-coaches roaring past him all the day and half the night like onegreat dragon. If he ever steal forth when the dragon is at rest toair himself again in Cook's Court until admonished to return by thecrowing of the sanguine cock in the cellar at the little dairy inCursitor Street, whose ideas of daylight it would be curious toascertain, since he knows from his personal observation next tonothing about it--if Peffer ever do revisit the pale glimpses ofCook's Court, which no law-stationer in the trade can positivelydeny, he comes invisibly, and no one is the worse or wiser.   In his lifetime, and likewise in the period of Snagsby's "time" ofseven long years, there dwelt with Peffer in the same law-stationering premises a niece--a short, shrewd niece, something tooviolently compressed about the waist, and with a sharp nose like asharp autumn evening, inclining to be frosty towards the end. TheCook's Courtiers had a rumour flying among them that the mother ofthis niece did, in her daughter's childhood, moved by too jealous asolicitude that her figure should approach perfection, lace her upevery morning with her maternal foot against the bed-post for astronger hold and purchase; and further, that she exhibitedinternally pints of vinegar and lemon-juice, which acids, they held,had mounted to the nose and temper of the patient. With whichsoeverof the many tongues of Rumour this frothy report originated, iteither never reached or never influenced the ears of young Snagsby,who, having wooed and won its fair subject on his arrival at man'sestate, entered into two partnerships at once. So now, in Cook'sCourt, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby and the niece are one; and theniece still cherishes her figure, which, however 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 flesh, but, tothe neighbours' thinking, one voice too. That voice, appearing toproceed from Mrs. Snagsby alone, is heard in Cook's Court veryoften. Mr. Snagsby, otherwise than as he finds expression throughthese dulcet tones, is rarely heard. He is a mild, bald, timid manwith a shining head and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking outat the back. He tends to meekness and obesity. As he stands at hisdoor in Cook's Court in his grey shop-coat and black calico sleeves,looking up at the clouds, or stands behind a desk in his dark shopwith a heavy flat ruler, snipping and slicing at sheepskin incompany with his two 'prentices, he is emphatically a retiring andunassuming man. From beneath his feet, at such times, as from ashrill ghost unquiet in its grave, there frequently arisecomplainings and lamentations in the voice already mentioned; andhaply, on some occasions when these reach a sharper pitch thanusual, Mr. Snagsby mentions to the 'prentices, "I think my littlewoman is a-giving it to Guster!"This proper name, so used by Mr. Snagsby, has before now sharpenedthe wit of the Cook's Courtiers to remark that it ought to be thename of Mrs. Snagsby, seeing that she might with great force andexpression be termed a Guster, in compliment to her stormycharacter. It is, however, the possession, and the only possessionexcept fifty shillings per annum and a very small box indifferentlyfilled with clothing, of a lean young woman from a workhouse (bysome supposed to have been christened Augusta) who, although she wasfarmed or contracted for during her growing time by an amiablebenefactor of his species resident at Tooting, and cannot fail tohave been developed under the most favourable circumstances, "hasfits," which the parish can't account for.   Guster, really aged three or four and twenty, but looking a roundten years older, goes cheap with this unaccountable drawback offits, and is so apprehensive of being returned on the hands of herpatron saint that except when she is found with her head in thepail, or the sink, or the copper, or the dinner, or anything elsethat happens to be near her at the time of her seizure, she isalways at work. She is a satisfaction to the parents and guardiansof the 'prentices, who feel that there is little danger of herinspiring tender emotions in the breast of youth; she is asatisfaction to Mrs. Snagsby, who can always find fault with her;she is a satisfaction to Mr. Snagsby, who thinks it a charity tokeep her. The law-stationer's establishment is, in Guster's eyes, atemple of plenty and splendour. She believes the little drawing-room upstairs, always kept, as one may say, with its hair in papersand its pinafore on, to be the most elegant apartment inChristendom. The view it commands of Cook's Court at one end (notto mention a squint into Cursitor Street) and of Coavinses' thesheriff's officer's backyard at the other she regards as a prospectof unequalled beauty. The portraits it displays in oil--and plentyof it too--of Mr. Snagsby looking at Mrs. Snagsby and of Mrs.   Snagsby looking at Mr. Snagsby are in her eyes as achievements ofRaphael or Titian. Guster has some recompenses for her manyprivations.   Mr. Snagsby refers everything not in the practical mysteries of thebusiness to Mrs. Snagsby. She manages the money, reproaches thetax-gatherers, appoints the times and places of devotion on Sundays,licenses Mr. Snagsby's entertainments, and acknowledges noresponsibility as to what she thinks fit to provide for dinner,insomuch that she is the high standard of comparison among theneighbouring wives a long way down Chancery Lane on both sides, andeven out in Holborn, who in any domestic passages of arms habituallycall upon their husbands to look at the difference between their(the wives') position and Mrs. Snagsby's, and their (the husbands')behaviour and Mr. Snagsby's. Rumour, always flying bat-like aboutCook's Court and skimming in and out at everybody's windows, doessay that Mrs. Snagsby is jealous and inquisitive and that Mr.   Snagsby is sometimes worried out of house and home, and that if hehad the spirit of a mouse he wouldn't stand it. It is even observedthat the wives who quote him to their self-willed husbands as ashining example in reality look down upon him and that nobody doesso with greater superciliousness than one particular lady whose lordis more than suspected of laying his umbrella on her as aninstrument of correction. But these vague whisperings may arisefrom Mr. Snagsby's being in his way rather a meditative and poeticalman, loving to walk in Staple Inn in the summer-time and to observehow countrified the sparrows and the leaves are, also to loungeabout the Rolls Yard of a Sunday afternoon and to remark (if in goodspirits) that there were old times once and that you'd find a stonecoffin or two now under that chapel, he'll be bound, if you was todig for it. He solaces his imagination, too, by thinking of themany Chancellors and Vices, and Masters of the Rolls who aredeceased; and he gets such a flavour of the country out of tellingthe two 'prentices how he HAS heard say that a brook "as clear ascrystial" once ran right down the middle of Holborn, when Turnstilereally was a turnstile, leading slap away into the meadows--getssuch a flavour of the country out of this that he never wants to gothere.   The day is closing in and the gas is lighted, but is not yet fullyeffective, for it is not quite dark. Mr. Snagsby standing at hisshop-door looking up at the clouds sees a crow who is out late skimwestward over the slice of sky belonging to Cook's Court. The crowflies straight across Chancery Lane and Lincoln's Inn Garden intoLincoln's Inn Fields.   Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr.   Tulkinghorn. It is let off in sets of chambers now, and in thoseshrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots innuts. But its roomy staircases, passages, and antechambers stillremain; and even its painted ceilings, where Allegory, in Romanhelmet and celestial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars,flowers, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes the head ache--aswould seem to be Allegory's object always, more or less. Here,among his many boxes labelled with transcendent names, lives Mr.   Tulkinghorn, when not speechlessly at home in country-houses wherethe 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 canopen.   Like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk of thepresent afternoon. Rusty, out of date, withdrawing from attention,able to afford it. Heavy, broad-backed, old-fashioned, mahogany-and-horsehair chairs, not easily lifted; obsolete tables withspindle-legs and dusty baize covers; presentation prints of theholders of great titles in the last generation or the last but one,environ him. A thick and dingy Turkey-carpet muffles the floorwhere he sits, attended by two candles in old-fashioned silvercandlesticks 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 andtwo broken bits of sealing-wax he is silently and slowly working outwhatever train of indecision is in his mind. Now tbe inkstand topis in the middle, now the red bit of sealing-wax, now the black bit.   That's not it. Mr. Tulkinghorn must gather them all up and beginagain.   Here, beneath the painted ceiling, with foreshortened Allegorystaring down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon him, andhe cutting it dead, Mr. Tulkinghorn has at once his house andoffice. He keeps no staff, only one middle-aged man, usually alittle out at elbows, who sits in a high pew in the hall and israrely overburdened with business. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not in acommon way. He wants no clerks. He is a great reservoir ofconfidences, not to be so tapped. His clients want HIM; he is allin all. Drafts that he requires to be drawn are drawn by special-pleaders in the temple on mysterious instructions; fair copies thathe requires to be made are made at the stationers', expense being noconsideration. The middle-aged man in the pew knows scarcely moreof the affairs of the peerage than any crossing-sweeper in Holborn.   The red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other inkstandtop, the little sand-box. So! You to the middle, you to the right,you to the left. This train of indecision must surely be worked outnow or never. Now! Mr. Tulkinghorn gets up, adjusts hisspectacles, puts on his hat, puts the manuscript in his pocket, goesout, tells the middle-aged man out at elbows, "I shall be backpresently." Very rarely tells him anything more explicit.   Mr. Tulkinghorn goes, as the crow came--not quite so straight, butnearly--to Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. To Snagsby's, Law-Stationer's, Deeds engrossed and copied, Law-Writing executed in allits branches, &c., &c., &c.   It is somewhere about five or six o'clock in the afternoon, and abalmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in Cook's Court. It hovers aboutSnagsby's door. The hours are early there: dinner at half-past oneand supper at half-past nine. Mr. Snagsby was about to descend intothe subterranean regions to take tea when he looked out of his doorjust now and saw the crow who was out late.   "Master at home?"Guster is minding the shop, for the 'prentices take tea in thekitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby; consequently, the robe-maker'stwo daughters, combing their curls at the two glasses in the twosecond-floor windows of the opposite house, are not driving the two'prentices to distraction as they fondly suppose, but are merelyawakening the unprofitable admiration of Guster, whose hair won'tgrow, and never would, and it is confidently thought, never will.   "Master at home?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn.   Master is at home, and Guster will fetch him. Guster disappears,glad to get out of the shop, which she regards with mingled dreadand veneration as a storehouse of awful implements of the greattorture of the law--a place not to be entered after the gas isturned off.   Mr. Snagsby appears, greasy, warm, herbaceous, and chewing. Bolts abit of bread and butter. Says, "Bless 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 manround for me? Pray walk into the back shop, sir." Snagsby hasbrightened in a moment.   The confined room, strong of parchment-grease, is warehouse,counting-house, and copying-office. Mr. Tulkinghorn sits, facinground, on a stool at the desk.   "Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby.""Yes, sir." Mr. Snagsby turns up the gas and coughs behind hishand, modestly anticipating profit. Mr. Snagsby, as a timid man, isaccustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, and so to savewords.   "You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately.""Yes, sir, we did.""There was one of them," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, carelessly feeling--tight, unopenable oyster of the old school!--in the wrong coat-pocket, "the handwriting of which is peculiar, and I rather like.   As I happened to be passing, and thought I had it about me, I lookedin to ask you--but I haven't got it. No matter, any other time willdo. Ah! here it is! I looked in to ask you who copied this."'"Who copied this, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby, taking it, laying it flaton the desk, and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl anda twist of the left hand peculiar to lawstationers. "We gave thisout, sir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work justat that time. I can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, byreferring to my book."Mr. Snagsby takes his book down from the safe, makes another bolt ofthe bit of bread and butter which seemed to have stopped short, eyesthe affidavit aside, and brings his right forefinger travelling downa page of the book, "Jewby--Packer--Jarndyce.""Jarndyce! Here we are, sir," says Mr. Snagsby. "To be sure! Imight have remembered it. This was given out, sir, to a writer wholodges just over on the opposite side of the lane."Mr. Tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before the law-stationer, read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill.   "WHAT do you call him? Nemo?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemo, sir.   Here it is. Forty-two folio. Given out on the Wednesday night ateight o'clock, brought in on the Thursday morning at half afternine.""Nemo!" repeats Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemo is Latin for no one.""It must be English for some one, sir, I think," Mr. Snagsby submitswith his deferential cough. "It is a person's name. Here it is,you see, sir! Forty-two folio. Given out Wednesday night, eighto'clock; brought in Thursday morning, half 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 bydeserting his tea. Mr. Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough toMrs. Snagsby, as who should say, "My dear, a customer!""Half after nine, sir," repeats Mr. Snagsby. "Our law-writers, wholive by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his name, butit's the name he goes by. I remember now, sir, that he gives it ina written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule Office, andthe King's Bench Office, and the Judges' Chambers, and so forth.   You know the kind of document, sir--wanting employ?"Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back ofCoavinses', the sheriff's officer's, where lights shine inCoavinses' windows. Coavinses' coffee-room is at the back, and theshadows of several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon theblinds. Mr. Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning hishead to glance over his shoulder at his little woman and to makeapologetic 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 helived?""Across the lane, sir. In fact, he lodges at a--" Mr. Snagsby makesanother bolt, as 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 coat, pulls on hisblack coat, takes his hat from its peg. "Oh! Here is my littlewoman!" he says aloud. "My dear, will you be so kind as to tell oneof the lads to look after the shop while I step across the lane withMr. Tulkinghorn? Mrs. Snagsby, sir--I shan't be two minutes, mylove!"Mrs. Snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, peepsat them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office,refers to the entries in the book still lying open. Is evidentlycurious.   "You will find that the place is rough, sir," says Mr. Snagsby,walking deferentially in the road and leaving the narrow pavement tothe lawyer; "and the party is very rough. But they're a wild lot ingeneral, sir. The advantage of this particular man is that he neverwants sleep. He'll go at it right on end if you want him to, aslong as ever you like."It is quite dark now, and the gas-lamps have acquired their fulleffect. Jostling against clerks going to post the day's letters,and against counsel and attorneys going home to dinner, and againstplaintiffs and defendants and suitors of all sorts, and against thegeneral crowd, in whose way the forensic wisdom of ages hasinterposed a million of obstacles to the transaction of thecommonest business of life; diving through law and equity, andthrough that kindred mystery, the street mud, which is made ofnobody 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 findit necessary to shovel it away--the lawyer and the law-stationercome to a rag and bottle shop and general emporium of muchdisregarded merchandise, lying and being in the shadow of the wallof Lincoln's Inn, and kept, as is announced in paint, to all whom itmay concern, by 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. Goodevening. Thank you!" Mr. Snagsby lifts his hat and returns to hislittle woman and his tea.   But Mr. Tulkinghorn does not go on to the Fields at present. Hegoes a short way, turns back, comes again to the shop of Mr. Krook,and enters it straight. It is dim enough, with a blot-headed candleor so in the windows, and an old man and a cat sitting in the backpart by a fire. The old man rises and comes forward, with anotherblot-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 anindistinct 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. "ShallI call him down? But it's a weak chance if he'd come, sir!""I'll go up to him, then," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.   "Second floor, sir. Take the candle. Up there!" Mr. Krook, withhis cat beside him, stands at the bottom of the staircase, lookingafter Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Hi-hi!" he says when Mr. Tulkinghorn hasnearly disappeared. The lawyer looks down over the hand-rail. Thecat expands her wicked mouth and snarls at him.   "Order, Lady Jane! Behave yourself to visitors, my lady! You knowwhat they say of my lodger?" whispers Krook, going up a step or two.   "What do they say of him?""They say he has sold himself to the enemy, but you and I knowbetter--he don't buy. I'll tell you what, though; my lodger is soblack-humoured and gloomy that I believe he'd as soon make thatbargain 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 darkdoor on the second floor. He knocks, receives no answer, opens it,and accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so.   The air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished it ifhe had not. It is a small room, nearly black with soot, and grease,and dirt. In the rusty skeleton of a grate, pinched at the middleas if poverty had gripped it, a red coke fire burns low. In thecorner by the chimney stand a deal table and a broken desk, awilderness marked with a rain of ink. In another corner a raggedold portmanteau on one of the two chairs serves for cabinet orwardrobe; no larger one is needed, for it collapses like the cheeksof a starved man. The floor is bare, except that one old mat,trodden to shreds of rope-yarn, lies perishing upon the hearth. Nocurtain veils the darkness of the night, but the discolouredshutters are drawn together, and through the two gaunt holes piercedin them, famine might be staring in--the banshee of the man upon thebed.   For, on a low bed opposite the fire, a confusion of dirty patchwork,lean-ribbed ticking, and coarse sacking, the lawyer, hesitating justwithin the doorway, sees a man. He lies there, dressed in shirt andtrousers, with bare feet. He has a yellow look in the spectraldarkness of a candle that has guttered down until the whole lengthof its wick (still burning) has doubled over and left a tower ofwinding-sheet above it. His hair is ragged, mingling with hiswhiskers and his beard--the latter, ragged too, and grown, like thescum and mist around him, in neglect. Foul and filthy as the roomis, foul and filthy as the air is, it is not easy to perceive whatfumes those are which most oppress the senses in it; but through thegeneral sickliness and faintness, and the odour of stale tobacco,there comes into the lawyer's mouth the bitter, vapid taste ofopium.   "Hallo, my friend!" he cries, and strikes his iron candlestickagainst 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 door, the candle which has drooped so long goesout and leaves him in the dark, with the gaunt eyes in the shuttersstaring down upon the bed. Chapter 11 Our Dear Brother A touch on the lawyer's wrinkled hand as he stands in the dark room,irresolute, makes him start and say, "What's that?""It's me," returns the old man of the house, whose breath is in hisear. "Can't you wake him?""No.""What have you done with your candle?""It's gone out. Here it is."Krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, andtries to get a light. The dying ashes have no light to spare, andhis endeavours are vain. Muttering, after an ineffectual call tohis lodger, that he will go downstairs and bring a lighted candlefrom the shop, the old man departs. Mr. Tulkinghorn, for some newreason that he has, does not await his return in the room, but onthe stairs outside.   The welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as Krook comes slowlyup with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. "Does the mangenerally sleep like this?" inquired the lawyer in a low voice.   "Hi! I don't know," says Krook, shaking his head and lifting hiseyebrows. "I know next to nothing of his habits except that hekeeps himself very close."Thus whispering, they both go in together. As the light goes in,the great eyes in the shutters, darkening, seem to close. Not sothe eyes upon the bed.   "God save us!" exclaims Mr. Tulkinghorn. "He is dead!" Krook dropsthe heavy hand he has taken up so suddenly that the arm swings overthe 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?" saysKrook, with his lean hands spread out above the body like avampire's wings.   Mr. Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing and calls, "Miss Flite!   Flite! Make haste, here, whoever you are! Flite!" Krook followshim with his eyes, and while he is calling, finds opportunity tosteal to the old portmanteau and steal back again.   "Run, Flite, run! The nearest doctor! Run!" So Mr. Krookaddresses a crazy little woman who is his female lodger, who appearsand vanishes in a breath, who soon returns accompanied by a testymedical man brought from his dinner, with a broad, snuffy upper lipand a broad Scotch tongue.   "Ey! Bless the hearts o' ye," says the medical man, looking up atthem after a moment's examination. "He's just as dead as Phairy!"Mr. Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if he hasbeen dead any time.   "Any time, sir?" says the medical gentleman. "It's probable he wullhave been dead aboot three hours.""About that time, I should say," observes a dark young man on theother side of the bed.   "Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?" inquires thefirst.   The dark young man says yes.   "Then I'll just tak' my depairture," replies the other, "for I'm naegude here!" With which remark he finishes his brief attendance andreturns to finish his dinner.   The dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the faceand carefully examines the law-writer, who has established hispretensions to his name by becoming indeed No one.   "I knew this person by sight very well," says he. "He has purchasedopium of me for the last year and a half. Was anybody presentrelated to him?" glancing round upon the three bystanders.   "I was his landlord," grimly answers Krook, taking the candle fromthe surgeon's outstretched hand. "He told me once I was the nearestrelation he had.""He has died," says the surgeon, "of an over-dose of opium, there isno doubt. The room is strongly flavoured with it. There is enoughhere now," taking an old teapot from Mr. Krook, "to kill a dozenpeople.""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 horribleinterest.   "I can't say. I should think it unlikely, as he has been in thehabit of taking so much. But nobody can tell. He was very poor, Isuppose?""I suppose he was. His room--don't look rich," says Krook, whomight have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glancearound. "But I have never been in it since he had it, and he wastoo close to name his circumstances to me.""Did he owe you any rent?""Six weeks.""He will never pay it!" says the young man, resuming hisexamination. "It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead asPharaoh; and to judge from his appearance and condition, I shouldthink it a happy release. Yet he must have been a good figure whena youth, and I dare say, good-looking." He says this, notunfeelingly, while sitting on the bedstead's edge with his facetowards 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?" hecontinues, looking round.   Krook replies, "You might as well ask me to describe the ladieswhose heads of hair I have got in sacks downstairs. Than that hewas my lodger for a year and a half and lived--or didn't live--bylaw-writing, I know no more of him."During this dialogue Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the oldportmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to allappearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near thebed--from the young surgeon's professional interest in death,noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased asan individual; from the old man's unction; and the little crazywoman's awe. His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive ashis rusty clothes. One could not even say he has been thinking allthis while. He has shown neither patience nor impatience, norattention nor abstraction. He has shown nothing but his shell. Aseasily might the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferredfrom its case, as the tone of Mr. Tulkinghorn from his case.   He now interposes, addressing the young surgeon in his unmoved,professional way.   "I looked in here," he observes, "just before you, with theintention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, someemployment at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from mystationer--Snagsby of Cook's Court. Since no one here knowsanything about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby. Ah!"to the little crazy woman, who has often seen him in court, andwhom he has often seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show,to go for the law-stationer. "Suppose you do!"While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigationand covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. Mr. Krookand he interchange a word or two. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing,but stands, ever, near 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 this, has it!   Bless my soul!""Can you give the person of the house any information about thisunfortunate creature, Snagsby?" inquires Mr. Tulkinghorn. "He wasin arrears with his rent, it seems. And he must be buried, youknow.""Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behindhis hand, "I really don't know what advice I could offer, exceptsending for the beadle.""I don't speak of advice," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn. "I couldadvise--""No one better, sir, I am sure," says Mr. Snagsby, with hisdeferential cough.   "I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where hecame from, or to anything concerning him.""I assure you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby after prefacing his replywith his cough of general propitiation, "that I no more know wherehe came from than I know--""Where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the surgeon to help himout.   A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. Mr. Krook,with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next.   "As to his connexions, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, "if a person was tosay to me, "Snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready foryou in the Bank of England if you'll only name one of 'em,' Icouldn't do it, sir! About a year and a half ago--to the best of mybelief, at the time when he first came to lodge at the present ragand bottle shop--""That was the time!" says Krook with a nod.   "About a year and a half ago," says Mr. Snagsby, strengthened, "hecame into our place one morning after breakfast, and finding mylittle woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that appellation)in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting and gave her tounderstand that he was in want of copying work to do and was, not toput too fine a point upon it," a favourite apology for plainspeaking with Mr. Snagsby, which he always offers with a sort ofargumentative frankness, "hard up! My little woman is not ingeneral partial to strangers, particular--not to put too fine apoint upon it--when they want anything. But she was rather took bysomething about this person, whether by his being unshaved, or byhis hair being in want of attention, or by what other ladies'   reasons, I leave you to judge; and she accepted of the specimen, andlikewise of the address. My little woman hasn't a good ear fornames," proceeds Mr. Snagsby after consulting his cough ofconsideration behind his hand, "and she considered Nemo equally thesame as Nimrod. In consequence of which, she got into a habit ofsaying to me at meals, 'Mr. Snagsby, you haven't found Nimrod anywork yet!' or 'Mr. Snagsby, why didn't you give that eight andthirty Chancery folio in Jarndyce to Nimrod?' or such like. Andthat is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our place; andthat is the most I know of him except that he was a quick hand, anda 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 itbrought in on the Thursday morning. All of which--" Mr. Snagsbyconcludes by politely motioning with his hat towards the bed, asmuch as to add, "I have no doubt my honourable friend would confirmif he were in a condition to do it.""Hadn't you better see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn to Krook, "whether hehad 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. Tulkinghorn, "look over the room for him. Hewill 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 youwill hold the candle for Mr. Snagsby, my friend, he'll soon seewhether there is anything to help you.""In the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir," says Snagsby.   Ah, to be sure, so there is! Mr. Tulkinghorn does not appear tohave seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, andthough there is very little else, heaven knows.   The marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-stationerconducts the search. The surgeon leans against the corner of thechimney-piece; Miss Flite peeps and trembles just within the door.   The apt old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breechestied with ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his long-sleeved black coat, and his wisp of limp white neckerchief tied inthe bow the peerage knows so well, stands in exactly the same placeand attitude.   There are some worthless articles of clothing in the oldportmanteau; there is a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicates, thoseturnpike tickets on the road of poverty; there is a crumpled paper,smelling of opium, on which are scrawled rough memoranda--as, took,such a day, so many grains; took, such another day, so many more--begun some time ago, as if with the intention of being regularlycontinued, but soon left off. There are a few dirty scraps ofnewspapers, all referring to coroners' inquests; there is nothingelse. They search the cupboard and the drawer of the ink-splashedtable. There is not a morsel of an old letter or of any otherwriting 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 all, and thebeadle must be called in.   So the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest comeout of the room. "Don't leave the cat there!" says the surgeon;"that won't do!" Mr. Krook therefore drives her out before him, andshe goes furtively downstairs, winding her lithe tail and lickingher lips.   "Good night!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn, and goes home to Allegory andmeditation.   By this time the news has got into the court. Groups of itsinhabitants assemble to discuss the thing, and the outposts of thearmy of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to Mr.   Krook's window, which they closely invest. A policeman has alreadywalked up to the room, and walked down again to the door, where hestands like a tower, only condescending to see the boys at his baseoccasionally; but whenever he does see them, they quail and fallback. Mrs. Perkins, who has not been for some weeks on speakingterms with Mrs. Piper in consequence for an unpleasantnessoriginating in young Perkins' having "fetched" young Piper "acrack," renews her friendly intercourse on this auspicious occasion.   The potboy at the corner, who is a privileged amateur, as possessingofficial knowledge of life and having to deal with drunken menoccasionally, exchanges confidential communications with thepoliceman 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 scoutscome hurrying in from Chancery Lane to know what's the matter. Thegeneral feeling seems to be that it's a blessing Mr. Krook warn'tmade away with first, mingled with a little natural disappointmentthat he was not. In the midst of this sensation, the beadlearrives.   The beadle, though generally understood in the neighbourhood to be aridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity for themoment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the body. Thepoliceman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant of thebarbarous watchmen times, but gives him admission as something thatmust be borne with until government shall abolish him. Thesensation is heightened as the tidings spread from mouth to mouththat the beadle is on the ground and has gone in.   By and by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying thesensation, which has rather languished in the interval. He isunderstood to be in want of witnesses for the inquest to-morrow whocan tell the coroner and jury anything whatever respecting thedeceased. Is immediately referred to innumerable people who cantell nothing whatever. Is made more imbecile by being constantlyinformed that Mrs. Green's son "was a law-writer his-self and knowedhim better than anybody," which son of Mrs. Green's appears, oninquiry, to be at the present time aboard a vessel bound for China,three months out, but considered accessible by telegraph onapplication to the Lords of the Admiralty. Beadle goes into variousshops and parlours, examining the inhabitants, always shutting thedoor first, and by exclusion, delay, and general idiotcyexasperating the public. Policeman seen to smile to potboy. Publicloses interest and undergoes reaction. Taunts the beadle in shrillyouthful voices with having boiled a boy, choruses fragments of apopular song to that effect and importing that the boy was made intosoup for the workhouse. Policeman at last finds it necessary tosupport the law and seize a vocalist, who is released upon theflight of the rest on condition of his getting out of this then,come, and cutting it--a condition he immediately observes. So thesensation dies off for the time; and the unmoved policeman (to whoma little opium, more or less, is nothing), with his shining hat,stiff stock, inflexible great-coat, stout belt and bracelet, and allthings fitting, pursues his lounging way with a heavy tread, beatingthe palms of his white gloves one against the other and stopping nowand then at a street-corner to look casually about for anythingbetween a lost child and a murder.   Under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flittingabout Chancery Lane with his summonses, in which every juror's nameis wrongly spelt, and nothing rightly spelt but the beadle's ownname, which nobody can read or wants to know. The summonses servedand his witnesses forewarned, the beadle goes to Mr. Krook's to keepa small appointment he has made with certain paupers, who, presentlyarriving, are conducted upstairs, where they leave the great eyes inthe shutter something new to stare at, in that last shape whichearthly 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 lainthrough five and forty years, lies there with no more track behindhim 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 conversationwith that excellent woman. The coroner is to sit in the first-floorroom at the Sol's Arms, where the Harmonic Meetings take place twicea week and where the chair is filled by a gentleman of professionalcelebrity, faced by Little Swills, the comic vocalist, who hopes(according to the bill in the window) that his friends will rallyround him and support first-rate talent. The Sol's Arms does abrisk stroke of business all the morning. Even children so requiresustaining under the general excitement that a pieman who hasestablished himself for the occasion at the corner of the court sayshis brandy-balls go off like smoke. What time the beadle, hoveringbetween the door of Mr. Krook's establishment and the door of theSol's Arms, shows the curiosity in his keeping to a few discreetspirits and accepts the compliment of a glass of ale or so inreturn.   At the appointed hour arrives the coroner, for whom the jurymen arewaiting and who is received with a salute of skittles from the gooddry skittle-ground attached to the Sol's Arms. The coronerfrequents more public-houses than any man alive. The smell ofsawdust, beer, tobacco-smoke, and spirits is inseparable in hisvocation from death in its most awful shapes. He is conducted bythe beadle and the landlord to the Harmonic Meeting Room, where heputs his hat on the piano and takes a Windsor-chair at the head of along table formed of several short tables put together andornamented with glutinous rings in endless involutions, made by potsand glasses. As many of the jury as can crowd together at the tablesit there. The rest get among the spittoons and pipes or leanagainst the piano. Over the coroner's head is a small iron garland,the pendant handle of a bell, which rather gives the majesty of thecourt 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 alarge shirt-collar, with a moist eye and an inflamed nose, whomodestly takes a position near the door as one of the generalpublic, but seems familiar with the room too. A whisper circulatesthat this is Little Swills. It is considered not unlikely that hewill get up an imitation of the coroner and make it the principalfeature of the Harmonic Meeting in the evenlng.   "Well, gentlemen--" 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 toinquire into the death of a certain man. Evidence will be givenbefore you as to the circumstances attending that death, and youwill give your verdict according to the--skittles; they must bestopped, you know, beadle!--evidence, and not according to anythingelse. The first thing to be done is to view the body.""Make way there!" cries the beadle.   So they go out in a loose procession, something after the manner ofa straggling funeral, and make their inspection in Mr. Krook's backsecond floor, from which a few of the jurymen retire pale andprecipitately. The beadle is very careful that two gentlemen notvery neat about the cuffs and buttons (for whose accommodation hehas provided a special little table near the coroner in the HarmonicMeeting Room) should see all that is to be seen. For they are thepublic chroniclers of such inquiries by the line; and he is notsuperior to the universal human infirmity, but hopes to read inprint what "Mooney, the active and intelligent beadle of thedistrict," said and did and even aspires to see the name of Mooneyas familiarly and patronizingly mentioned as the name of the hangmanis, 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 distinctionand seated near the coroner between that high judicial officer, abagatelle-board, and the coal-box. The inquiry proceeds. The jurylearn how the subject of their inquiry died, and learn no more abouthim. "A very eminent solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen," saysthe coroner, "who, I am informed, was accidentally present whendiscovery of the death was made, but he could only repeat theevidence you have already heard from the surgeon, the landlord, thelodger, and the law-stationer, and it is not necessary to troublehim. Is anybody in attendance who knows anything more?"Mrs. Piper pushed forward by Mrs. Perkins. Mrs. Piper sworn.   Anastasia Piper, gentlemen. Married woman. Now, Mrs. Piper, whathave you got to say about this?   Why, Mrs. Piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in parentheses andwithout punctuation, but not much to tell. Mrs. Piper lives in thecourt (which her husband is a cabinet-maker), and it has long beenwell beknown among the neighbours (counting from the day next butone before the half-baptizing of Alexander James Piper aged eighteenmonths and four days old on accounts of not being expected to livesuch was the sufferings gentlemen of that child in his gums) as theplaintive--so Mrs. Piper insists on calling the deceased--wasreported to have sold himself. Thinks it was the plaintive's air inwhich that report originatinin. See the plaintive often andconsidered as his air was feariocious and not to be allowed to goabout some children being timid (and if doubted hoping Mrs. Perkinsmay be brought forard for she is here and will do credit to herhusband and herself and family). Has seen the plaintive wexed andworrited by the children (for children they will ever be and youcannot expect them specially if of playful dispositions to beMethoozellers which you was not yourself). On accounts of this andhis dark looks has often dreamed as she see him take a pick-axe fromhis pocket and split Johnny's head (which the child knows not fearand has repeatually called after him close at his eels). Neverhowever see the plaintive take a pick-axe or any other wepping farfrom it. Has seen him hurry away when run and called after as ifnot partial to children and never see him speak to neither child norgrown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the crossingdown the lane over the way round the corner which if he was herewould tell you that he has been seen a-speaking to him frequent).   Says the coroner, is that boy here? Says the beadle, no, sir, he isnot here. Says the coroner, go and fetch him then. In the absenceof the active and intelligent, the coroner converses with Mr.   Tulkinghorn.   Oh! Here's the boy, gentlemen!   Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Now, boy! Butstop a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through a fewpreliminary paces.   Name, Jo. Nothing else that he knows on. Don't know that everybodyhas two names. Never heerd of sich a think. Don't know that Jo isshort for a longer name. Thinks it long enough for HIM. HE don'tfind no fault with it. Spell it? No. HE can't spell it. Nofather, no mother, no friends. Never been to school. What's home?   Knows a broom's a broom, and knows it's wicked to tell a lie. Don'trecollect who told him about the broom or about the lie, but knowsboth. Can't exactly say what'll be done to him arter he's dead ifhe tells a lie to the gentlemen here, but believes it'll besomething wery bad to punish him, and serve him right--and so he'lltell the truth.   "This won't do, gentlemen!" says the coroner with a melancholy shakeof the head.   "Don't you think you can receive his evidence, sir?" asks anattentive juryman.   "Out of the question," says the coroner. "You have heard the boy.   'Can't exactly say' won't do, you know. We can't take THAT in acourt of justice, gentlemen. It's terrible depravity. Put the boyaside."Boy put aside, to the great edification of the audience, especiallyof Little Swills, the comic vocalist.   Now. Is there any other witness? No other witness.   Very well, gentlemen! Here's a man unknown, proved to have been inthe 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 tolead you to the conclusion that he committed suicide, you will cometo that conclusion. If you think it is a case of accidental death,you will find a verdict accordingly.   Verdict accordingly. Accidental death. No doubt. Gentlemen, youare discharged. Good afternoon.   While the coroner buttons his great-coat, Mr. Tulkinghorn and hegive private audience to the rejected witness in a corner.   That graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom herecognized just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimeshooted and pursued about the streets. That one cold winter nightwhen he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, theman turned to look at him, and came back, and having questioned himand found that he had not a friend in the world, said, "Neither haveI. Not one!" and gave him the price of a supper and a night'slodging. That the man had often spoken to him since and asked himwhether he slept sound at night, and how he bore cold and hunger,and whether he ever wished to die, and similar strange questions.   That when the man had no money, he would say in passing, "I am aspoor as you to-day, Jo," but that when he had any, he had always (asthe boy most heartily believes) been glad to give him some.   "He was wery good to me," says the boy, wiping his eyes with hiswretched 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 tome, he wos!"As he shuffles downstairs, Mr. Snagsby, lying in wait for him, putsa half-crown in his hand. "If you ever see me coming past yourcrossing with my little woman--I mean a lady--" says Mr. Snagsbywith his finger on his nose, "don't allude to it!"For some little time the jurymen hang about the Sol's Armscolloquially. In the sequel, half-a-dozen are caught up in a cloudof pipe-smoke that pervades the parlour of the Sol's Arms; twostroll to Hampstead; and four engage to go half-price to the play atnight, and top up with oysters. Little Swills is treated on severalhands. Being asked what he thinks of the proceedings, characterizesthem (his strength lying in a slangular direction) as "a rummystart." The landlord of the Sol's Arms, finding Little Swills sopopular, commends him highly to the jurymen and public, observingthat for a song in character he don't know his equal and that thatman's character-wardrobe would fill a cart.   Thus, gradually the Sol's Arms melts into the shadowy night and thenflares out of it strong in gas. The Harmonic Meeting hour arriving,the gentleman of professional celebrity takes the chair, is faced(red-faced) by Little Swills; their friends rally round them andsupport first-rate talent. In the zenith of the evening, LittleSwills says, "Gentlemen, if you'll permit me, I'll attempt a shortdescription of a scene of real life that came off here to-day." Ismuch applauded and encouraged; goes out of the room as Swills; comesin as the coroner (not the least in the world like him); describesthe inquest, with recreative intervals of piano-forte accompaniment,to the refrain: With his (the coroner's) tippy tol li doll, tippytol lo doll, tippy tol li doll, Dee!   The jingling piano at last is silent, and the Harmonic friends rallyround their pillows. Then there is rest around the lonely figure,now laid in its last earthly habitation; and it is watched by thegaunt eyes in the shutters through some quiet hours of night. Ifthis forlorn man could have been prophetically seen lying here bythe mother at whose breast he nestled, a little child, with eyesupraised to her loving face, and soft hand scarcely knowing how toclose upon the neck to which it crept, what an impossibility thevision would have seemed! Oh, if in brighter days the now-extinguished fire within him ever burned for one woman who held himin her heart, where is she, while these ashes are above the ground!   It is anything but a night of rest at Mr. Snagsby's, in Cook'sCourt, where Guster murders sleep by going, as Mr. Snagsby himselfallows--not to put too fine a point upon it--out of one fit intotwenty. The occasion of this seizure is that Guster has a tenderheart and a susceptible something that possibly might have beenimagination, but for Tooting and her patron saint. Be it what itmay, now, it was so direfully impressed at tea-time by Mr. Snagsby'saccount of the inquiry at which he had assisted that at supper-timeshe projected herself into the kitchen, preceded by a flying Dutchcheese, and fell into a fit of unusual duration, which she only cameout of to go into another, and another, and so on through a chain offits, with short intervals between, of which she has patheticallyavailed herself by consuming them in entreaties to Mrs. Snagsby notto give her warning "when she quite comes to," and also in appealsto the whole establishment to lay her down on the stones and go tobed. Hence, Mr. Snagsby, at last hearing the cock at the littledairy in Cursitor Street go into that disinterested ecstasy of hison the subject of daylight, says, drawing a long breath, though themost patient of men, "I thought you was dead, I am sure!"What question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he settles when hestrains himself to such an extent, or why he should thus crow (somen crow on various triumphant public occasions, however) about whatcannot be of any moment to him, is his affair. It is enough thatdaylight comes, morning comes, noon comes.   Then the active and intelligent, who has got into the morning papersas such, comes with his pauper company to Mr. Krook's and bears offthe body of our dear brother here departed to a hemmed-inchurchyard, pestiferous and obscene, whence malignant diseases arecommunicated to the bodies of our dear brothers and sisters who havenot departed, while our dear brothers and sisters who hang aboutofficial back-stairs--would to heaven they HAD departed!--are verycomplacent and agreeable. Into a beastly scrap of ground which aTurk would reject as a savage abomination and a Caffre would shudderat, they bring our dear brother here departed to receive Christianburial.   With houses looking on, on every side, save where a reeking littletunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate--with every villainyof life in action close on death, and every poisonous element ofdeath in action close on life--here they lower our dear brother downa foot or two, here sow him in corruption, to be raised incorruption: an avenging ghost at many a sick-bedside, a shamefultestimony to future ages how civilization and barbarism walked thisboastful island together.   Come night, come darkness, for you cannot come too soon or stay toolong by such a place as this! Come, straggling lights into thewindows of the ugly houses; and you who do iniquity therein, do itat least with this dread scene shut out! Come, flame of gas,burning so sullenly above the iron gate, on which the poisoned airdeposits its witch-ointment slimy to the touch! It is well that youshould call to every passerby, "Look here!"With the night comes a slouching figure through the tunnel-court tothe outside of the iron gate. It holds the gate with its hands andlooks in between the bars, stands looking in for a little while.   It then, with an old broom it carries, softly sweeps the step andmakes the archway clean. It does so very busily and trimly, looksin again a little while, and so departs.   Jo, is it thou? Well, well! Though a rejected witness, who "can'texactly say" what will be done to him in greater hands than men's,thou art not quite in outer darkness. There is something like adistant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this: "He wos werygood to me, he wos!" Chapter 12 On the Watch It has left off raining down in Lincolnshire at last, and ChesneyWold has taken heart. Mrs. Rouncewell is full of hospitable cares,for Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming home from Paris. Thefashionable intelligence has found it out and communicates the gladtidings to benighted England. It has also found out that they willentertain a brilliant and distinguished circle of the ELITE of theBEAU MONDE (the fashionable intelligence is weak in English, but agiant refreshed in French) at the ancient and hospitable family seatin Lincolnshire.   For the greater honour of the brilliant and distinguished circle,and of Chesney Wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the bridgein the park is mended; and the water, now retired within its properlimits and again spanned gracefully, makes a figure in the prospectfrom the house. The clear, cold sunshine glances into the brittlewoods and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leavesand drying the moss. It glides over the park after the movingshadows of the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, allday. It looks in at the windows and touches the ancestral portraitswith bars and patches of brightness never contemplated by thepainters. Athwart the picture of my Lady, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a broad bend-sinister of light that strikes downcrookedly into the hearth and seems to rend it.   Through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp wind, my Lady andSir Leicester, in their travelling chariot (my Lady's woman and SirLeicester's man affectionate in the rumble), start for home. With aconsiderable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plungingdemonstrations on the part of two bare-backed horses and twocentaurs with glazed hats, jack-boots, and flowing manes and tails,they rattle out of the yard of the Hotel Bristol in the PlaceVendome and canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered colonnade ofthe Rue de Rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of aheadless king and queen, off by the Place of Concord, and theElysian Fields, and the Gate of the Star, out of Paris.   Sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast, for even here my LadyDedlock has been bored to death. Concert, assembly, opera, theatre,drive, nothing is new to my Lady under the worn-out heavens. Onlylast Sunday, when poor wretches were gay--within the walls playingwith children among the clipped trees and the statues in the PalaceGarden; walking, a score abreast, in the Elysian Fields, made moreElysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; between whilesfiltering (a few) through the gloomy Cathedral of Our Lady to say aword or two at the base of a pillar within flare of a rusty littlegridiron-full of gusty little tapers; without the walls encompassingParis with dancing, love-making, wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking,tomb-visiting, billiard card and domino playing, quack-doctoring,and much murderous refuse, animate and inanimate--only last Sunday,my Lady, in the desolation of Boredom and the clutch of GiantDespair, almost hated her own maid for being in spirits.   She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness of soullies before her, as it lies behind--her Ariel has put a girdle of itround the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped--but the imperfectremedy is always to fly from the last place where it has beenexperienced. Fling Paris back into the distance, then, exchangingit for endless avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees! And, whennext beheld, let it be some leagues away, with the Gate of the Stara white speck glittering in the sun, and the city a mere mound in aplain--two dark square towers rising out of it, and light and shadowdescending on it aslant, like the angels in Jacob's dream!   Sir Leicester is generally in a complacent state, and rarely bored.   When he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his owngreatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man to have soinexhaustible a subject. After reading his letters, he leans backin his corner of the carriage and generally reviews his importanceto society.   "You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?" says myLady after a long time. She is fatigued with reading. Has almostread 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 it, "a message to you. Ourstopping to change horses as I came to his postscript drove it outof my memory. I beg you'll excuse me. He says--" Sir Leicester isso long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it that my Ladylooks a little irritated. "He says 'In the matter of the right ofway--' I beg your pardon, that's not the place. He says--yes!   Here I have it! He says, 'I beg my respectful compliments to myLady, who, I hope, has benefited by the change. Will you do me thefavour to mention (as it may interest her) that I have something totell her on her return in reference to the person who copied theaffidavit in the Chancery suit, which so powerfully stimulated hercuriosity. I have seen him.'"My Lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window.   "That's the message," observes Sir Leicester.   "I should like to walk a little," says my Lady, still looking out ofher window.   "Walk?" repeats Sir Leicester in a tone of surprise.   "I should like to walk a little," says my Lady with unmistakabledistinctness. "Please to stop the carriage."The carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights from therumble, opens the door, and lets down the steps, obedient to animpatient motion of my Lady's hand. My Lady alights so quickly andwalks away so quickly that Sir Leicester, for all his scrupulouspoliteness, is unable to assist her, and is left behind. A space ofa minute or two has elapsed before he comes up with her. Shesmiles, looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with him for aquarter of a mile, is very much bored, and resumes her seat in thecarriage.   The rattle and clatter continue through the greater part of threedays, with more or less of bell-jingling and whip-cracking, and moreor less plunging of centaurs and bare-backed horses. Their courtlypoliteness to each other at the hotels where they tarry is the themeof general admiration. Though my Lord IS a little aged for my Lady,says Madame, the hostess of the Golden Ape, and though he might beher amiable father, one can see at a glance that they love eachother. One observes my Lord with his white hair, standing, hat inhand, to help my Lady to and from the carriage. One observes myLady, how recognisant of my Lord's politeness, with an inclinationof her gracious head and the concession of her so-genteel fingers!   It is ravishing!   The sea has no appreciation of great men, but knocks them about likethe small fry. It is habitually hard upon Sir Leicester, whosecountenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage-cheese and inwhose aristocratic system it effects a dismal revolution. It is theRadical of Nature to him. Nevertheless, his dignity gets over itafter stopping to refit, and he goes on with my Lady for ChesneyWold, lying only one night in London on the way to Lincolnshire.   Through the same cold sunlight, colder as the day declines, andthrough the same sharp wind, sharper as the separate shadows of baretrees gloom together in the woods, and as the Ghost's Walk, touchedat the western corner by a pile of fire in the sky, resigns itselfto coming night, they drive into the park. The rooks, swinging intheir lofty houses in the elm-tree avenue, seem to discuss thequestion of the occupancy of the carriage as it passes underneath,some agreeing that Sir Leicester and my Lady are come down, somearguing with malcontents who won't admit it, now all consenting toconsider the question disposed of, now all breaking out again inviolent debate, incited by one obstinate and drowsy bird who willpersist in putting in a last contradictory croak. Leaving them toswing and caw, the travelling chariot rolls on to the house, wherefires gleam warmly through some of the windows, though not throughso many as to give an inhabited expression to the darkening mass offront. But the brilliant and distinguished circle will soon dothat.   Mrs. Rouncewell is in attendance and receives Sir Leicester'scustomary 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, SirLeicester?""In excellent health, Mrs. Rouncewell.""My Lady is looking charmingly well," says Mrs. Rouncewell withanother curtsy.   My Lady signifies, without profuse expenditure of words, that she isas wearily well as she can hope to be.   But Rosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper; and my Lady,who has not subdued the quickness of her observation, whatever elseshe may have conquered, asks, "Who is that girl?""A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Rosa.""Come here, Rosa!" Lady Dedlock beckons her, with even anappearance of interest. "Why, do you know how pretty you are,child?" she says, touching her shoulder with her two forefingers.   Rosa, very much abashed, says, "No, if you please, my Lady!" andglances up, and glances down, and don't know where to look, butlooks all the prettier.   "How old are you?""Nineteen, my Lady.""Nineteen," repeats my Lady thoughtfully. "Take care they don'tspoil you by flattery.""Yes, my Lady."My Lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved fingersand goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where Sir Leicesterpauses for her as her knightly escort. A staring old Dedlock in apanel, as large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn't know whatto make of it, which was probably his general state of mind in thedays of Queen Elizabeth.   That evening, in the housekeeper's room, Rosa can do nothing butmurmur Lady Dedlock's praises. She is so affable, so graceful, sobeautiful, so elegant; has such a sweet voice and such a thrillingtouch that Rosa can feel it yet! Mrs. Rouncewell confirms all this,not without personal pride, reserving only the one point ofaffability. Mrs. Rouncewell is not quite sure as to that. Heavenforbid that she should say a syllable in dispraise of any member ofthat excellent family, above all, of my Lady, whom the whole worldadmires; but if my Lady would only be "a little more free," notquite so cold and distant, Mrs. Rounceweil thinks she would be moreaffable.   "'Tis almost a pity," Mrs. Rouncewell adds--only "almost" because itborders on impiety to suppose that anything could be better than itis, in such an express dispensation as the Dedlock affairs--"that myLady has no family. If she had had a daughter now, a grown younglady, to interest her, I think she would have had the only kind ofexcellence she wants.""Might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother?" saysWatt, who has been home and come back again, he is such a goodgrandson.   "More and most, my dear," returns the housekeeper with dignity, "arewords it's not my place to use--nor so much as to hear--applied toany 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 alwaysreason to be.""Well," says Watt, "it's to be hoped they line out of their prayer-books a certain passage for the common people about pride andvainglory. Forgive me, grandmother! Only a joke!""Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, my dear, are not fit subjects forjoking.""Sir Leicester is no joke by any means," says Watt, "and I humblyask his pardon. I suppose, grandmother, that even with the familyand their guests down here, there is no ojection to my prolonging mystay at the Dedlock Arms for a day or two, as any other travellermight?""Surely, none in the world, child.""I am glad of that," says Watt, "because I have an inexpressibledesire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neighbourhood."He happens to glance at Rosa, who looks down and is very shy indeed.   But according to the old superstition, it should be Rosa's ears thatburn, and not her fresh bright cheeks, for my Lady's maid is holdingforth about her at this moment with surpassing energy.   My Lady's maid is a Frenchwoman of two and thirty, from somewhere inthe southern country about Avignon and Marseilles, a large-eyedbrown woman with black hair who would be handsome but for a certainfeline mouth and general uncomfortable tightness of face, renderingthe jaws too eager and the skull too prominent. There is somethingindefinably keen and wan about her anatomy, and she has a watchfulway of looking out of the corners of her eyes without turning herhead which could be pleasantly dispensed with, especially when sheis in an ill humour and near knives. Through all the good taste ofher dress and little adornments, these objections so expressthemselves that she seems to go about like a very neat she-wolfimperfectly tamed. Besides being accomplished in all the knowledgeappertaining to her post, she is almost an Englishwoman in heracquaintance with the language; consequently, she is in no want ofwords to shower upon Rosa for having attracted my Lady's attention,and she pours them out with such grim ridicule as she sits at dinnerthat her companion, the affectionate man, is rather relieved whenshe arrives at the spoon stage of that performance.   Ha, ha, ha! She, Hortense, been in my Lady's service since fiveyears and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet,caressed--absolutely caressed--by my Lady on the moment of herarriving at the house! Ha, ha, ha! "And do you know how pretty youare, child?" "No, my Lady." You are right there! "And how old areyou, child! And take care they do not spoil you by flattery,child!" Oh, how droll! It is the BEST thing altogether.   In short, it is such an admirable thing that Mademoiselle Hortensecan't forget it; but at meals for days afterwards, even among hercountrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop ofvisitors, relapses into silent enjoyment of the joke--an enjoymentexpressed, in her own convivial manner, by an additional tightnessof face, thin elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise look,which intense appreciation of humour is frequently reflected in myLady's mirrors when my Lady is not among them.   All the mirrors in the house are brought into action now, many ofthem after a long blank. They reflect handsome faces, simperingfaces, youthful faces, faces of threescore and ten that will notsubmit to be old; the entire collection of faces that have come topass a January week or two at Chesney Wold, and which thefashionable intelligence, a mighty hunter before the Lord, huntswith a keen scent, from their breaking cover at the Court of St.   James's to their being run down to death. The place in Lincolnshireis all alive. By day guns and voices are heard ringing in thewoods, horsemen and carriages enliven the park roads, servants andhangers-on pervade the village and the Dedlock Arms. Seen by nightfrom distant openings in the trees, the row of windows in the longdrawing-room, where my Lady's picture hangs over the great chimney-piece, is like a row of jewels set in a black frame. On Sunday thechill little church is almost warmed by so much gallant company, andthe general flavour of the Dedlock dust is quenched in delicateperfumes.   The brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it nocontracted amount of education, sense, courage, honour, beauty, andvirtue. Yet there is something a little wrong about it in despiteof its immense advantages. What can it be?   Dandyism? There is no King George the Fourth now (more the pity) toset the dandy fashion; there are no clear-starched jack-towelneckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves, no stays.   There are no caricatures, now, of effeminate exquisites so arrayed,swooning in opera boxes with excess of delight and being revived byother dainty creatures poking long-necked scent-bottles at theirnoses. There is no beau whom it takes four men at once to shakeinto his buckskins, or who goes to see all the executions, or who istroubled with the self-reproach of having once consumed a pea. Butis there dandyism in the brilliant and distinguished circlenotwithstanding, dandyism of a more mischievous sort, that has gotbelow the surface and is doing less harmless things than jack-towelling itself and stopping its own digestion, to which norational person need particularly object?   Why, yes. It cannot be disguised. There ARE at Chesney Wold thisJanuary week some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashion, whohave set up a dandyism--in religion, for instance. Who in merelackadaisical want of an emotion have agreed upon a little dandytalk about the vulgar wanting faith in things in general, meaning inthe things that have been tried and found wanting, as though a lowfellow should unaccountably lose faith in a bad shilling afterfinding it out! Who would make the vulgar very picturesque andfaithful by putting back the hands upon the clock of time andcancelling a few hundred years of history.   There are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion, not so new,but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on the worldand to keep down all its realities. For whom everything must belanguid and pretty. Who have found out the perpetual stoppage. Whoare to rejoice at nothing and be sorry for nothing. Who are not tobe disturbed by ideas. On whom even the fine arts, attending inpowder and walking backward like the Lord Chamberlain, must arraythemselves in the milliners' and tailors' patterns of pastgenerations and be particularly careful not to be in earnest or toreceive any impress from the moving age.   Then there is my Lord Boodle, of considerable reputation with hisparty, who has known what office is and who tells Sir LeicesterDedlock with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not seeto what the present age is tending. A debate is not what a debateused to be; the House is not what the House used to be; even aCabinet is not what it formerly was. He perceives with astonishmentthat supposing the present government to be overthrown, the limitedchoice of the Crown, in the formation of a new ministry, would liebetween Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle--supposing it to beimpossible for the Duke of Foodle to act with Goodle, which may beassumed to be the case in consequence of the breach arising out ofthat affair with Hoodle. Then, giving the Home Department and theleadership of the House of Commons to Joodle, the Exchequer toKoodle, the Colonies to Loodle, and the Foreign Office to Moodle,what are you to do with Noodle? You can't offer him the Presidencyof the Council; that is reserved for Poodle. You can't put him inthe Woods and Forests; that is hardly good enough for Quoodle. Whatfollows? That the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces(as is made manifest to the patriotism of Sir Leicester Dedlock)because you can't provide for Noodle!   On the other hand, the Right Honourable William Buffy, M.P.,contends across the table with some one else that the shipwreck ofthe country--about which there is no doubt; it is only the manner ofit that is in question--is attributable to Cuffy. If you had donewith Cuffy what you ought to have done when he first came intoParliament, and had prevented him from going over to Duffy, youwould have got him into alliance with Fuffy, you would have had withyou the weight attaching as a smart debater to Guffy, you would havebrought to bear upon the elections the wealth of Huffy, you wouldhave got in for three counties Juffy, Kuffy, and Luffy, and youwould have strengthened your administration by the officialknowledge and the business habits of Muffy. All this, instead ofbeing as you now are, dependent on the mere caprice of Puffy!   As to this point, and as to some minor topics, there are differencesof opinion; but it is perfectly clear to the brilliant anddistinguished circle, all round, that nobody is in question butBoodle and his retinue, and Buffy and HIS retinue. These are thegreat actors for whom the stage is reserved. A People there are, nodoubt--a certain large number of supernumeraries, who are to beoccasionally addressed, and relied upon for shouts and choruses, ason the theatrical stage; but Boodle and Buffy, their followers andfamilies, their heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, arethe born first-actors, managers, and leaders, and no others canappear upon the scene for ever and ever.   In this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at Chesney Wold thanthe brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself inthe long run. For it is, even with the stillest and politestcircles, as with the circle the necromancer draws around him--verystrange appearances may be seen in active motion outside. With thisdifference, that being realities and not phantoms, there is thegreater danger of their breaking in.   Chesney Wold is quite full anyhow, so full that a burning sense ofinjury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies'-maids, and is notto he extinguished. Only one room is empty. It is a turret chamberof the third order of merit, plainly but comfortably furnished andhaving an old-fashioned business air. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's room,and is never bestowed on anybody else, for he may come at any time.   He is not come yet. It is his quiet habit to walk across the parkfrom the village in fine weather, to drop into this room as if hehad never been out of it since he was last seen there, to request aservant to inform Sir Leicester that he is arrived in case he shouldbe wanted, and to appear ten minutes before dinner in the shadow ofthe library-door. He sleeps in his turret with a complaining flag-staff over his head, and has some leads outside on which, any finemorning when he is down here, his black figure may be seen walkingbefore breakfast like a larger species of rook.   Every day before dinner, my Lady looks for him in the dusk of thelibrary, but he is not there. Every day at dinner, my Lady glancesdown the table for the vacant place that would be waiting to receivehim if he had just arrived, but there is no vacant place. Everynight my Lady casually asks her maid, "Is Mr. Tulkinghorn come?"Every night the answer is, "No, my Lady, not yet."One night, while having her hair undressed, my Lady loses herself indeep thought after this reply until she sees her own brooding facein the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously observingher.   "Be so good as to attend," says my Lady then, addressing thereflection of Hortense, "to your business. You can contemplate yourbeauty at another time.""Pardon! It was your Ladyship's beauty.""That," says my Lady, "you needn't contemplate at all."At length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the brightgroups of figures which have for the last hour or two enlivened theGhost's Walk are all dispersed and only Sir Leicester and my Ladyremain upon the terrace, Mr. Tulkinghorn appears. He comes towardsthem at his usual methodical pace, which is never quickened, neverslackened. He wears his usual expressionless mask--if it be a mask--and carries family secrets in every limb of his body and everycrease of his dress. Whether his whole soul is devoted to the greator whether he yields them nothing beyond the services he sells ishis personal secret. He keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of hisclients; he is his own client in that matter, and will never betrayhimself.   "How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?" says Sir Leicester, giving him hishand.   Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. Sir Leicester is quite well. MyLady is quite well. All highly satisfactory. The lawyer, with hishands behind him, walks at Sir Leicester's side along the terrace.   My Lady walks upon the other side.   "We expected you before," says Sir Leicester. A graciousobservation. As much as to say, "Mr. Tulkinghorn, we remember yourexistence 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. Tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head and says he ismuch obliged.   "I should have come down sooner," he explains, "but that I have beenmuch engaged with those matters in the several suits betweenyourself and Boythorn.""A man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes Sir Leicester withseverity. "An extremely dangerous person in any community. A manof a very low character of mind.""He is obstinate," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.   "It is natural to such a man to be so," says Sir Leicester, lookingmost profoundly obstinate himself. "I am not at all surprised tohear it.""The only question is," pursues the lawyer, "whether you will giveup anything.""No, sir," replies Sir Leicester. "Nothing. I give up?""I don't mean anything of importance. That, of course, I know youwould not abandon. I mean any minor point.""Mr. Tulkinghorn," returns Sir Leicester, "there can be no minorpoint between myself and Mr. Boythorn. If I go farther, and observethat I cannot readily conceive how ANY right of mine can be a minorpoint, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an individualas in reference to the family position I have it in charge tomaintain."Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. "I have now myinstructions," he says. "Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal oftrouble--""It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn," Sir Leicesterinterrupts him, "TO give trouble. An exceedingly ill-conditioned,levelling person. A person who, fifty years ago, would probablyhave been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding, andseverely punished--if not," adds Sir Leicester after a moment'spause, "if not hanged, drawn, and quartered."Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden inpassing this capital sentence, as if it were the next satisfactorything to having the sentence executed.   "But night is coming on," says he, "and my Lady will take cold. Mydear, let us go in."As they turn towards the hall-door, Lady Dedlock addresses Mr.   Tulkinghorn for the first time.   "You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing Ihappened to inquire about. It was like you to remember thecircumstance; I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me ofit again. I can't imagine what association I had with a hand likethat, but I surely had some.""You had some?" Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.   "Oh, yes!" returns my Lady carelessly. "I think I must have hadsome. And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer ofthat actual thing--what is it!--affidavit?""Yes.""How very odd!"They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground floor, lightedin the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. The fire glowsbrightly on the panelled wall and palely on the window-glass, where,through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscapeshudders in the wind and a grey mist creeps along, the onlytraveller besides the waste of clouds.   My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and SirLeicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer standsbefore the fire with his hand out at arm's length, shading his face.   He looks across his arm at my Lady.   "Yes," he says, "I inquired about the man, and found him. And, whatis very strange, I found him--""Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid!" Lady Dedlocklanguidly anticipates.   "I found him dead.""Oh, dear me!" remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked bythe 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. "Ithink the less said--""Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story out" (it is my Ladyspeaking). "It is quite a story for twilight. How very shocking!   Dead?"Mr, Tulkinghorn 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 point, though he still feelsthat to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes isreally--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 mypower to tell you. I should amend that phrase, however, by sayingthat he had unquestionably died of his own act, though whether byhis own deliberate intention or by mischance can never certainly beknown. The coroner's jury found that he took the poisonaccidentally.""And what kind of man," my Lady asks, "was this deplorablecreature?""Very difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his bead. "Hehad lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with his gipsy colourand his wild black hair and beard, that I should have considered himthe commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he hadonce been something better, both in appearance and condition.""What did they call the wretched being?""They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew hisname.""Not even any one who had attended on him?""No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, I foundhim.""Without any clue to anything more?""Without any; there was," says the lawyer meditatively, "an oldportmanteau, but-- No, there were no papers."During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, LadyDedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in theircustomary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another--aswas natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject.   Sir Leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression ofthe Dedlock on the staircase. The story being told, he renews hisstately protest, saying that as it is quite clear that noassociation in my Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poorwretch (unless he was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear nomore about a subject so far removed from my Lady's station.   "Certainly, a collection of horrors," says my Lady, gathering up hermantles and furs, "but they interest one for the moment! Have thekindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me."Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference and holds it open while shepasses out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued mannerand insolent grace. They meet again at dinner--again, next day--again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the sameexhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable tobe bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine. Mr.   Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of nobleconfidences, so oddly but of place and yet so perfectly at home.   They appear to take as little note of one another as any two peopleenclosed within the same walls could. But whether each evermorewatches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some greatreservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for theother, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to knowhow much the other knows--all this is hidden, for the time, in theirown hearts. Chapter 13 Esther's Narrative We held many consultations about what Richard was to be, firstwithout Mr. Jarndyce, as he had requested, and afterwards with him,but it was a long time before we seemed to make progress. Richardsaid he was ready for anything. When Mr. Jarndyce doubted whetherhe might not already be too old to enter the Navy, Richard said hehad thought of that, and perhaps he was. When Mr. Jarndyce askedhim what he thought of the Army, Richard said he had thought ofthat, too, and it wasn't a bad idea. When Mr. Jarndyce advised himto try and decide within himself whether his old preference for thesea was an ordinary boyish inclination or a strong impulse, Richardanswered, Well he really HAD tried very often, and he couldn't makeout.   "How much of this indecision of character," Mr. Jarndyce said to me,"is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of uncertainty andprocrastination on which he has been thrown from his birth, I don'tpretend to say; but that Chancery, among its other sins, isresponsible for some of it, I can plainly see. It has engendered orconfirmed in him a habit of putting off--and trusting to this, that,and the other chance, without knowing what chance--and dismissingeverything as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. The character ofmuch older and steadier people may be even changed by thecircumstances surrounding them. It would be too much to expect thata boy's, in its formation, should be the subject of such influencesand escape them."I felt this to be true; though if I may venture to mention what Ithought besides, I thought it much to be regretted that Richard'seducation had not counteracted those influences or directed hischaracter. He had been eight years at a public school and hadlearnt, I understood, to make Latin verses of several sorts in themost admirable manner. But I never heard that it had been anybody'sbusiness to find out what his natural bent was, or where hisfailings lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to HIM. HE had beenadapted to the verses and had learnt the art of making them to suchperfection that if he had remained at school until he was of age, Isuppose he could only have gone on making them over and over againunless he had enlarged his education by forgetting how to do it.   Still, although I had no doubt that they were very beautiful, andvery improving, and very sufficient for a great many purposes oflife, and always remembered all through life, I did doubt whetherRichard would not have profited by some one studying him a little,instead of his studying them quite so much.   To be sure, I knew nothing of the subject and do not even now knowwhether the young gentlemen of classic Rome or Greece made verses tothe same extent--or whether the young gentlemen of any country everdid.   "I haven't the least idea," said Richard, musing, "what I had betterbe. 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 capitalprofession!""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 greatestenthusiasm. "We have got it at last. M.R.C.S.!"He was not to be laughed out of it, though he laughed at itheartily. He said he had chosen his profession, and the more hethought of it, the more he felt that his destiny was clear; the artof healing was the art of all others for him. Mistrusting that heonly came to this conclusion because, having never had much chanceof finding out for himself what he was fitted for and having neverbeen guided to the discovery, he was taken by the newest idea andwas glad to get rid of the trouble of consideration, I wonderedwhether the Latin verses often ended in this or whether Richard'swas a solitary case.   Mr. Jarndyce took great pains to talk with him seriously and to putit to his good sense not to deceive himself in so important amatter. Richard was a little grave after these interviews, butinvariably told Ada and me that it was all right, and then began totalk about something else.   "By heaven!" cried Mr. Boythorn, who interested himself strongly inthe subject--though I need not say that, for he could do nothingweakly; "I rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit and gallantrydevoting himself to that noble profession! The more spirit there isin it, the better for mankind and the worse for those mercenarytask-masters and low tricksters who delight in putting thatillustrious art at a disadvantage in the world. By all that is baseand despicable," cried Mr. Boythorn, "the treatment of surgeonsaboard ship is such that I would submit the legs--both legs--ofevery member of the Admiralty Board to a compound fracture andrender it a transportable offence in any qualified practitioner toset them if the system were not wholly changed in eight and fortyhours!""Wouldn't you give them a week?" asked Mr. Jarndyce.   "No!" cried Mr. Boythorn firmly. "Not on any consideration! Eightand forty hours! As to corporations, parishes, vestry-boards, andsimilar gatherings of jolter-headed clods who assemble to exchangesuch speeches that, by heaven, they ought to be worked inquicksilver mines for the short remainder of their miserableexistence, if it were only to prevent their detestable English fromcontaminating a language spoken in the presence of the sun--as tothose fellows, who meanly take advantage of the ardour of gentlemenin the pursuit of knowledge to recompense the inestimable servicesof the best years of their lives, their long study, and theirexpensive education with pittances too small for the acceptance ofclerks, I would have the necks of every one of them wrung and theirskulls arranged in Surgeons' Hall for the contemplation of the wholeprofession in order that its younger members might understand fromactual measurement, in early life, HOW thick skulls may become!"He wound up this vehement declaration by looking round upon us witha most agreeable smile and suddenly thundering, "Ha, ha, ha!" overand over again, until anybody else might have been expected to bequite subdued by the exertion.   As Richard still continued to say that he was fixed in his choiceafter repeated periods for consideration had been recommended by Mr.   Jarndyce and had expired, and he still continued to assure Ada andme in the same final manner that it was "all right," it becameadvisable to take Mr. Kenge into council. Mr. Kenge, therefore,came down to dinner one day, and leaned back in his chair, andturned 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 alittle girl.   "Ah!" said Mr. Kenge. "Yes. Well! A very good profession, Mr.   Jarndyce, a very good profession.""The course of study and preparation requires to be diligentlypursued," 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 areworth much," said Mr. Jarndyce, "it is not a special considerationwhich another choice would be likely to escape.""Truly," said Mr. Kenge. "And Mr. Richard Carstone, who has someritoriously acquitted himself in the--shall I say the classicshades?--in which his youth had been passed, will, no doubt, applythe habits, if not the principles and practice, of versification inthat tongue in which a poet was said (unless I mistake) to be born,not made, to the more eminently practical field of action on whichhe enters.""You may rely upon it," said Richard in his off-hand manner, "that Ishall go at it and do my best.""Very well, Mr. Jarndyce!" said Mr. Kenge, gently nodding his head.   "Really, when we are assured by Mr. Richard that he means to go atit and to do his best," nodding feelingly and smoothly over thoseexpressions, "I would submit to you that we have only to inquireinto the best mode of carrying out the object of his ambition. Now,with reference to placing Mr. Richard with some sufficiently eminentpractitioner. 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 situation, now. Is thereany 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 rangeof experience.""Very requisite, no doubt," returned Mr. Kenge. "I think this maybe easily arranged, Mr. Jarndyce? We have only, in the first place,to discover a sufficiently eligible practitioner; and as soon as wemake our want--and shall I add, our ability to pay a premium?--known, our only difficulty will be in the selection of one from alarge number. We have only, in the second place, to observe thoselittle formalities which are rendered necessary by our time of lifeand our being under the guardianship of the court. We shall soonbe--shall I say, in Mr. Richard's own light-hearted manner, 'goingat it'--to our heart's content. It is a coincidence," said Mr.   Kenge with a tinge of melancholy in his smile, "one of thosecoincidences which may or may not require an explanation beyond ourpresent limited faculties, that I have a cousin in the medicalprofession. He might be deemed eligible by you and might bedisposed to respond to this proposal. I can answer for him aslittle as for you, but he MIGHT!"As this was an opening in the prospect, it was arranged that Mr.   Kenge should see his cousin. And as Mr. Jarndyce had beforeproposed to take us to London for a few weeks, it was settled nextday that we should make our visit at once and combine Richard'sbusiness with it.   Mr. Boythorn leaving us within a week, we took up our abode at acheerful lodging near Oxford Street over an upholsterer's shop.   London was a great wonder to us, and we were out for hours and hoursat a time, seeing the sights, which appeared to be less capable ofexhaustion than we were. We made the round of the principaltheatres, too, with great delight, and saw all the plays that wereworth seeing. I mention this because it was at the theatre that Ibegan to be made uncomfortable again by Mr. Guppy.   I was sitting in front of the box one night with Ada, and Richardwas in the place he liked best, behind Ada's chair, when, happeningto look down into the pit, I saw Mr. Guppy, with his hair flatteneddown upon his head and woe depicted in his face, looking up at me.   I felt all through the performance that he never looked at theactors but constantly looked at me, and always with a carefullyprepared expression of the deepest misery and the profoundestdejection.   It quite spoiled my pleasure for that night because it was so veryembarrassing and so very ridiculous. But from that time forth, wenever went to the play without my seeing Mr. Guppy in the pit,always with his hair straight and flat, his shirt-collar turneddown, and a general feebleness about him. If he were not there whenwe went in, and I began to hope he would not come and yielded myselffor a little while to the interest of the scene, I was certain toencounter his languishing eyes when I least expected it and, fromthat time, to be quite sure that they were fixed upon me all theevening.   I really cannot express how uneasy this made me. If he would onlyhave brushed up his hair or turned up his collar, it would have beenbad enough; but to know that that absurd figure was always gazing atme, and always in that demonstrative state of despondency, put sucha constraint upon me that I did not like to laugh at the play, or tocry at it, or to move, or to speak. I seemed able to do nothingnaturally. As to escaping Mr. Guppy by going to the back of thebox, I could not bear to do that because I knew Richard and Adarelied on having me next them and that they could never have talkedtogether so happily if anybody else had been in my place. So thereI sat, not knowing where to look--for wherever I looked, I knew Mr.   Guppy's eyes were following me--and thinking of the dreadful expenseto which this young man was putting himself on my account.   Sometimes I thought of telling Mr. Jarndyce. Then I feared that theyoung man would lose his situation and that I might ruin him.   Sometimes I thought of confiding in Richard, but was deterred by thepossibility of his fighting Mr. Guppy and giving him black eyes.   Sometimes I thought, should I frown at him or shake my head. Then Ifelt I could not do it. Sometimes I considered whether I shouldwrite to his mother, but that ended in my being convinced that toopen a correspondence would he to make the matter worse. I alwayscame to the conclusion, finally, that I could do nothing. Mr.   Guppy's perseverance, all this time, not only produced him regularlyat any theatre to which we went, but caused him to appear in thecrowd as we were coming out, and even to get up behind our fly--where I am sure I saw him, two or three times, struggling among themost dreadful spikes. After we got home, he haunted a post oppositeour house. The upholsterer's where we lodged being at the corner oftwo streets, and my bedroom window being opposite the post, I wasafraid to go near the window when I went upstairs, lest I should seehim (as I did one moonlight night) leaning against the post andevidenfly catching cold. If Mr. Guppy had not been, fortunately forme, engaged in the daytime, I really should have had no rest fromhim.   While we were making this round of gaieties, in which Mr. Guppy soextraordinarily participated, the business which had helped to bringus to town was not neglected. Mr. Kenge's cousin was a Mr. BayhamBadger, who had a good practice at Chelsea and attended a largepublic institution besides. He was quite willing to receive Richardinto his house and to superintend his studies, and as it seemed thatthose could be pursued advantageously under Mr. Badger's roof, andMr. Badger liked Richard, and as Richard said he liked Mr. Badger"well enough," an agreement was made, the Lord Chancellor's consentwas obtained, and it was all settled.   On the day when matters were concluded between Richard and Mr.   Badger, we were all under engagement to dine at Mr. Badger's house.   We were to be "merely a family party," Mrs. Badger's note said; andwe found no lady there but Mrs. Badger herself. She was surroundedin the drawing-room by various objects, indicative of her painting alittle, 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 heraccomplishments that she rouged a little, I do not mean that therewas any harm in it.   Mr. Bayham Badger himself was a pink, fresh-faced, crisp-lookinggentleman with a weak voice, white teeth, light hair, and surprisedeyes, some years younger, I should say, than Mrs. Bayham Badger. Headmired her exceedingly, but principally, and to begin with, on thecurious ground (as it seemed to us) of her having had threehusbands. We had barely taken our seats when he said to Mr.   Jarndyce quite triumphantly, "You would hardly suppose that I amMrs. Bayham Badger's third!""Indeed?" said Mr. Jarndyce.   "Her third!" said Mr. Badger. "Mrs. Bayham Badger has not theappearance, Miss Summerson, of a lady who has had two formerhusbands?"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 firsthusband, was a very distinguished officer indeed. The name ofProfessor Dingo, my immediate predecessor, is one of Europeanreputation."Mrs. Badger overheard him and smiled.   "Yes, my dear!" Mr. Badger replied to the smile, "I was observing toMr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson that you had had two formerhusbands--both very distinguished men. And they found it, as peoplegenerally do, difficult to believe.""I was barely twenty," said Mrs. Badger, "when I married CaptainSwosser of the Royal Navy. I was in the Mediterranean with him; Iam quite a sailor. On the twelfth anniversary of my wedding-day, Ibecame 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 attachedto the day.""So that Mrs. Badger has been married to three husbands--two of themhighly distinguished men," said Mr. Badger, summing up the facts,"and each time upon the twenty-first of March at eleven in theforenoon!"We all expressed our admiration.   "But for Mr. Badger's modesty," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I would takeleave 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. Badger, "what do I always tell you? Thatwithout any affectation of disparaging such professional distinctionas I may have attained (which our friend Mr. Carstone will have manyopportunities of estimating), I am not so weak--no, really," saidMr. Badger to us generally, "so unreasonable--as to put myreputation on the same footing with such first-rate men as CaptainSwosser and Professor Dingo. Perhaps you may be interested, Mr.   Jarndyce," continued Mr. Bayham Badger, leading the way into thenext drawing-room, "in this portrait of Captain Swosser. It wastaken on his return home from the African station, where he hadsuffered from the fever of the country. Mrs. Badger considers ittoo yellow. But it's a very fine head. A very fine head!"We all echoed, "A very fine head!""I feel when I look at it," said Mr. Badger, "'That's a man I shouldlike to have seen!' It strikingly bespeaks the first-class man thatCaptain Swosser pre-eminently was. On the other side, ProfessorDingo. I knew him well--attended him in his last illness--aspeaking likeness! Over the piano, Mrs. Bayham Badger when Mrs.   Swosser. Over the sofa, Mrs. Bayham Badger when Mrs. Dingo. OfMrs. Bayham Badger IN ESSE, I possess the original and have nocopy."Dinner was now announced, and we went downstairs. It was a verygenteel entertainment, very handsomely served. But the captain andthe professor still ran in Mr. Badger's head, and as Ada and I hadthe honour of being under his particular care, we had the fullbenefit 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 presentedto 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 occasion, andON an occasion I produce some very special claret I happen to have.   (James, Captain Swosser's wine!) Mr. Jarndyce, this is a wine thatwas imported by the captain, we will not say how many years ago.   You will find it very curious. My dear, I shall he happy to takesome of this wine with you. (Captain Swosser's claret to yourmistress, James!) My love, your health!"After dinner, when we ladies retired, we took Mrs. Badger's firstand second husband with us. Mrs. Badger gave us in the drawing-rooma biographical sketch of the life and services of Captain Swosserbefore his marriage and a more minute account of him dating from thetime 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. Badger, shaking her head. "Shewas a noble vessel. Trim, ship-shape, all a taunto, as CaptainSwosser used to say. You must excuse me if I occasionally introducea nautical expression; I was quite a sailor once. Captain Swosserloved 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 quarter-deck where we stood as partners in the dance to mark the spot wherehe fell--raked fore and aft (Captain Swosser used to say) by thefire from my tops. It was his naval way of mentioning my eyes."Mrs. Badger shook her head, sighed, and looked in the glass.   "It was a great change from Captain Swosser to Professor Dingo," sheresumed with a plaintive smile. "I felt it a good deal at first.   Such an entire revolution in my mode of life! But custom, combinedwith science--particularly science--inured me to it. Being theprofessor's sole companion in his botanical excursions, I almostforgot that I had ever been afloat, and became quite learned. It issingular that the professor was the antipodes of Captain Swosser andthat Mr. Badger is not in the least like either!"We then passed into a narrative of the deaths of Captain Swosser andProfessor Dingo, both of whom seem to have had very bad complaints.   In the course of it, Mrs. Badger signified to us that she had nevermadly loved but once and that the object of that wild affection,never to be recalled in its fresh enthusiasm, was Captain Swosser.   The professor was yet dying by inches in the most dismal manner, andMrs. Badger was giving us imitations of his way of saying, withgreat difficulty, "Where is Laura? Let Laura give me my toast andwater!" when the entrance of the gentlemen consigned him to thetomb.   Now, I observed that evening, as I had observed for some days past,that Ada and Richard were more than ever attached to each other'ssociety, which was but natural, seeing that they were going to beseparated so soon. I was therefore not very much surprised when wegot home, and Ada and I retired upstairs, to find Ada more silentthan usual, though I was not quite prepared for her coming into myarms and beginning to speak to me, with her face hidden.   "My darling Esther!" murmured Ada. "I have a great secret to tellyou!"A mighty secret, my pretty one, no 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 Ada, very much startled by theidea of my doing so.   "Now, I wonder who it can be about?" said I, pretending to consider.   "It's about--" said Ada in a whisper. "It's about--my cousinRichard!""Well, my own!" said I, kissing her bright hair, which was all Icould see. "And what about him?""Oh, Esther, you would never guess!"It was so pretty to have her clinging to me in that way, hiding herface, and to know that she was not crying in sorrow but in a littleglow of joy, and pride, and hope, that I would not help her justyet.   "He says--I know it's very foolish, we are both so young--but hesays," with a burst of tears, "that he loves me dearly, Esther.""Does he indeed?" said I. "I never heard of such a thing! Why, mypet of pets, I could have told you that weeks and weeks ago!"To see Ada lift up her flushed face in joyful surprise, and hold meround the neck, and laugh, and cry, and blush, was so pleasant!   "Why, my darling," said I, "what a goose you must take me for! Yourcousin Richard has been loving you as plainly as he could for Idon't know how long!""And yet you never said a word about it!" cried Ada, kissing 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 thehardest-hearted duenna in the world. Not being that yet, I said novery freely.   "And now," said I, "I 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 Ada, shaking her head.   "Why, you never mean to say--" I was beginning in joke.   But Ada, looking up and smiling through her tear's, cried, "Yes, Ido! You know, you know I do!" And then sobbed out, "With all myheart I do! With all my whole heart, Esther!"I told her, laughing, why I had known that, too, just as well as Ihad known the other! And we sat before the fire, and I had all thetalking to myself for a little while (though there was not much ofit); 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 I, "I should think mycousin 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 youwouldn'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 simplicitythat would have won my heart if she had not won it long before, "butI think he's waiting at the door."There he was, of course. They brought a chair on either side of me,and put me between them, and really seemed to have fallen in lovewith me instead of one another, they were so confiding, and sotrustful, and so fond of me. They went on in their own wild way fora little while--I never stopped them; I enjoyed it too much myself--and then we gradually fell to considering how young they were, andhow there must be a lapse of several years before this early lovecould come to anything, and how it could come to happiness only ifit were real and lasting and inspired them with a steady resolutionto do their duty to each other, with constancy, fortitude, andperseverance, each always for the other's sake. Well! Richard saidthat he would work his fingers to the bone for Ada, and Ada saidthat she would work her fingers to the bone for Richard, and theycalled me all sorts of endearing and sensible names, and we satthere, advising and talking, half the night. Finally, before weparted, I gave them my promise to speak to their cousin John to-morrow.   So, when to-morrow came, I went to my guardian after breakfast, inthe room that was our town-substitute for the growlery, and told himthat I had it in trust to tell him something.   "Well, little woman," said he, shutting up his book, "if you haveaccepted the trust, there can be no harm in it.""I hope not, guardian," said I. "I can guarantee that there is nosecrecy in it. For it only happened yesterday.""Aye? And what is it, Esther?""Guardian," said I, "you remember the happy night when first we camedown 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 mistaken, I saw that I did so.   "Because--" said I with a little hesitation.   "Yes, my dear!" said he. "Don't hurry.""Because," said I, "Ada and Richard have fallen in love. And havetold each other so.""Already!" cried my guardian, quite astonished.   "Yes!" said I. "And to tell you the truth, guardian, I ratherexpected it.""The deuce you did!" said he.   He sat considering for a minute or two, with his smile, at once sohandsome and so kind, upon his changing face, and then requested meto let them know that he wished to see them. When they came, heencircled Ada with one arm in his fatherly way and addressed himselfto Richard with a cheerful gravity.   "Rick," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I am glad to have won your confidence.   I hope to preserve it. When I contemplated these relations betweenus four which have so brightened my life and so invested it with newinterests and pleasures, I certainly did contemplate, afar off, thepossibility 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 wasafar off, Rick, afar off!""We look afar off, sir," returned Richard.   "Well!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "That's rational. Now, hear me, mydears! 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 veryeasily broken, or it might become a chain of lead. But I will notdo that. Such wisdom will come soon enough, I dare say, if it is tocome at all. I will assume that a few years hence you will be inyour hearts to one another what you are to-day. All I say beforespeaking to you according to that assumption is, if you DO change--if you DO come to find that you are more commonplace cousins to eachother as man and woman than you were as boy and girl (your manhoodwill excuse me, Rick!)--don't be ashamed still to confide in me, forthere will be nothing monstrous or uncommon in it. I am only yourfriend and distant kinsman. I have no power over you whatever. ButI wish and hope to retain your confidence if I do nothing to forfeitit.""I am very sure, sir," returned Richard, "that I speak for Ada toowhen I say that you have the strongest power over us both--rooted inrespect, gratitude, and affection--strengthening every day.""Dear cousin John," said Ada, on his shoulder, "my father's placecan never be empty again. All the love and duty I could ever haverendered to him is transferred to you.""Come!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "Now for our assumption. Now we liftour eyes up and look hopefully at the distance! Rick, the world isbefore you; and it is most probable that as you enter it, so it willreceive you. Trust in nothing but in Providence and your ownefforts. Never separate the two, like the heathen waggoner.   Constancy in love is a good thing, but it means nothing, and isnothing, without constancy in every kind of effort. If you had theabilities of all the great men, past and present, you could donothing well without sincerely meaning it and setting about it. Ifyou entertain the supposition that any real success, in great thingsor in small, ever was or could be, ever will or can be, wrested fromFortune by fits and starts, leave that wrong idea here or leave yourcousin Ada here.""I will leave IT here, sir," replied Richard smiling, "if I broughtit here just now (but I hope I did not), and will work my way on tomy cousin Ada in the hopeful distance.""Right!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "If you are not to make her happy, whyshould you pursue her?""I wouldn't make her unhappy--no, not even for her love," retortedRichard proudly.   "Well said!" cried Mr. Jarndyce. "That's well said! She remainshere, in her home with me. Love her, Rick, in your active life, noless than in her home when you revisit it, and all will go well.   Otherwise, all will go ill. That's the end of my preaching. Ithink you and Ada had better take a walk."Ada tenderly embraced him, and Richard heartily shook hands withhim, and then the cousins went out of the room, looking back againdirectly, though, to say that they would wait for me.   The door stood open, and we both followed them with our eyes asthey passed down the adjoining room, on which the sun was shining,and out at its farther end. Richard with his head bent, and herhand drawn through his arm, was talking to her very earnestly; andshe looked up in his face, listening, and seemed to see nothingelse. So young, so beautiful, so full of hope and promise, theywent on lightly through the sunlight as their own happy thoughtsmight then be traversing the years to come and making them allyears of brightness. So they passed away into the shadow and weregone. It was only a burst of light that had been so radiant. Theroom darkened as they went out, and 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 thecore of so much that is good!" said Mr. Jarndyce, shaking his head.   "I have said nothing to Ada, Esther. She has her friend andcounsellor always near." And he laid his hand lovingly upon myhead.   I could not help showing that I was a little moved, though I didall I could to conceal it.   "Tut tut!" said he. "But we must take care, too, that our littlewoman's life is not all consumed in care for others.""Care? My dear guardian, I believe I am the happiest creature inthe world!""I believe so, too," said he. "But some one may find out whatEsther never will--that the little woman is to be held inremembrance above all other people!"I have omitted to mention in its place that there was some one elseat the family dinner party. It was not a lady. It was agentleman. It was a gentleman of a dark complexion--a youngsurgeon. He was rather reserved, but I thought him very sensibleand agreeable. At least, Ada asked me if I did not, and I saidyes. Chapter 14 Deportment ichard left us on the very next evening, to begin his newcareer, and committed Ada to my charge with great lovefor her, and great trust in me. It touched me then toreflect, and it touches me now, more nearly, to remember (havingwhat I have to tell) how they both thought of me, even at thatengrossing time. I was a part of all their plans, for the present andthe future. I was to write to Richard once a week, making myfaithful report of Ada who was to write to him every alternate day.   I was to be informed, under his own hand, of all his labours andsuccesses; I was to observe how resolute and persevering he wouldbe; I was to be Ada’s bridesmaid when they were married; I was tolive 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, youknow!” said Richard, to crown all.   A shade crossed Ada’s face.   “My dearest Ada,” asked Richard pausing, “why not?”   “It had better declare us poor at once,” said Ada.   “O! I don’t know about that,” returned Richard; “but, at allevents, it won’t declare anything at once. It hasn’t declaredanything in Heaven knows how many years.”   “Too true,” said Ada.   “Yes, but,” urged Richard, answering what her look suggestedrather than her words, “the longer it goes on, dear cousin, thenearer it must be to a settlement one way or other. Now, is notthat reasonable?”   “You know best, Richard. But I am afraid if we trust to it, it willmake us unhappy.”   “But, my Ada, we are not going to trust to it!” cried Richard.   “We know it better than to trust to it. We only say that if it shouldmake us rich, we have no constitutional objection to being rich.   The Court is, by solemn settlement of law, our grim old guardian,and we are to suppose that what it gives us (when it gives usanything) is our right. It is not necessary to quarrel with ourright.”   “No,” said Ada, “but it may be better to forget all about it.”   “Well, well!” cried Richard, “then we will forget all about it! Weconsign the whole thing to oblivion. Dame Durden puts on herapproving face, and it’s done!”   “Dame Durden’s approving face,” said I, looking out of the boxin which I was packing his books, “was not very visible when youcalled it by that name; but it does approve, and she thinks youcan’t do better.”   So, Richard said there was an end of it,―and immediatelybegan, on no other foundation, to build as many castles in the airas would man the great wall of China. He went away in highspirits. Ada and I, prepared to miss him very much, commencedour quieter career.   On our arrival in London, we had called with Mr Jarndyce atMrs 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, andhad taken Miss Jellyby with her. Besides the tea-drinking, therewas to be some considerable speech-making and letter-writing on the general merits of the cultivation of coffee, conjointly withnatives, at the Settlement of Borrioboola-Gha. All this involved, nodoubt, sufficient active exercise of pen and ink, to make herdaughter’s part in the proceedings, anything but a holiday.   It being, now, beyond the time appointed for Mrs Jellyby’sreturn, we called again. She was in town, but not at home, havinggone to Mile End, directly after breakfast, on some Borrioboolanbusiness, arising out of a Society called the East London BranchAid Ramification. As I had not seen Peepy on the occasion of ourlast call (when he was not to be found anywhere, and when thecook rather thought he must have strolled away with thedustman’s cart), I now inquired for him again. The oyster shells hehad been building a house with were still in the passage, but hewas nowhere discoverable, and the cook supposed that he had“gone after the sheep.” When we repeated, with some surprise,“The sheep?” she said, O yes, on market days he sometimesfollowed them quite out of town, and came back in such a state asnever was!   I was sitting at the window with my Guardian, on the followingmorning, and Ada was busy writing―of course to Richard―whenMiss Jellyby was announced, and entered, leading the identicalPeepy, whom she had made some endeavours to renderpresentable, by wiping the dirt into corners of his face and hands,and making his hair very wet and then violently frizzling it withher fingers. Everything the dear child wore, was either too largefor him or too small. Among his other contradictory decorations hehad the hat of a Bishop, and the little gloves of a baby. His bootswere, on a small scale, the boots of a ploughman: while his legs, socrossed and recrossed with scratches that they looked like maps,were bare, below a very short pair of plaid drawers finished offwith two frills of perfectly different patterns. The deficient buttonson his plaid frock had evidently been supplied from one of MrJellyby’s coats, they were so extremely brazen and so much toolarge. Most extraordinary specimens of needlework appeared onseveral parts of his dress, where it had been hastily mended; and Irecognised the same hand on Miss Jellyby’s. She was, however,unaccountably improved in her appearance, and looked verypretty. She was conscious of poor little Peepy being but a failureafter all her trouble, and she showed it as she came in, by the wayin which she glanced, first at him and then at us.   “O dear me!” said my Guardian, “Due East!”   Ada and I gave her a cordial welcome, and presented her to MrJarndyce; to whom she said, as she sat down:   “Ma’s compliments, and she hopes you’ll excuse her, becauseshe’s correcting proofs of the plan. She’s going to put out fivethousand new circulars, and she knows you’ll be interested to hearthat. 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 MrsJellyby. O dear me! This is a very wind!”   We were busy with Peepy; taking off his clerical hat; asking himif he remembered us; and so on. Peepy retired behind his elbow atfirst, but relented at the sight of sponge-cake, and allowed me totake him on my lap, where he sat munching quietly. Mr Jarndycethen withdrawing into the temporary Growlery, Miss Jellybyopened 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 ifI was a what’s-his-name-man and a brother!”   I tried to say something soothing.   “O, it’s of no use, Miss Summerson,” exclaimed Miss Jellyby,“though I thank you for the kind intention all the same. I knowhow I am used, and I am not to be talked over. You wouldn’t betalked over, if you were used so. Peepy, go and play at Wild Beastsunder 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 painsto dress you any more.”   “Yes, I will go, Caddy!” cried Peepy, who was really a goodchild, and who was so moved by his sister’s vexation that he wentat once.   “It seems a little thing to cry about,” said poor Miss Jellyby,apologetically; “but I am quite worn out. I was directing the newcirculars till two this morning. I detest the whole thing so, that thatalone makes my head ache till I can’t see out of my eyes. And lookat that poor unfortunate child. Was there ever such a fright as heis!”   Peepy, happily unconscious of the defects in his appearance, saton the carpet behind one of the legs of the piano, looking calmlyout of his den at us, while he ate his cake.   “I have sent him to the other end of the room,” observed MissJellyby, drawing her chair nearer ours, “because I don’t want himto hear the conversation. Those little things are so sharp! I wasgoing to say, we really are going on worse than ever. Pa will be abankrupt before long, and then I hope Ma will be satisfied.   There’ll be nobody but Ma to thank for it.”   We said we hoped Mr Jellyby’s affairs were not in so bad a stateas that.   “It’s of no use hoping, though it’s very kind of you!” returnedMiss Jellyby, shaking her head. “Pa told me, only yesterdaymorning, (and dreadfully unhappy he is,) that he couldn’t weatherthe storm. I should be surprised if he could. When all ourtradesmen send into our house any stuff they like, and theservants do what they like with it, and I have no time to improvethings if I knew how, and Ma don’t care about anything, I shouldlike to make out how Pa is to weather the storm. I declare if I wasPa I’d run away!”   “My dear!” said I, smiling. “Your papa, no doubt, considers hisfamily.”   “O yes, his family is all very fine, Miss Summerson,” repliedMiss Jellyby; “but what comfort is his family to him? His family isnothing but bills, dirt, waste, noise, tumbles downstairs, confusion,and wretchedness. His scrambling home, from week’s-end toweek’s-end, is like one great washing-day―only nothing’swashed!”   Miss Jellyby tapped her foot upon the floor, and wiped her eyes.   “I am sure I pity Pa to that degree,” she said, “and am so angrywith Ma, that I can’t find words to express myself! However, I amnot 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 ofthat!” said poor Miss Jellyby.   I must confess that I could not help feeling rather angry withMrs Jellyby, myself; seeing and hearing this neglected girl, andknowing how much of bitterly satirical truth there was in what shesaid.   “If it wasn’t that we had been intimate when you stopped at ourhouse,” pursued Miss Jellyby, “I should have been ashamed tocome here today, 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 notlikely to see you again, the next time you come to town.”   She said this with such great significance that Ada and Iglanced at one another, foreseeing something more.   “No!” said Miss Jellyby, shaking her head. “Not at all likely! Iknow I may trust you two. I am sure you won’t betray me. I amengaged.”   “Without their knowledge at home?” said I.   “Why, good gracious me, Miss Summerson,” she returned,justifying herself in a fretful but not angry manner, “how can it beotherwise? You know what Ma is―and I needn’t make poor Pamore miserable by telling him.”   “But would it not be adding to his unhappiness to marrywithout his knowledge or consent, my dear?” said I.   “No,” said Miss Jellyby, softening. “I hope not. I should try tomake him happy and comfortable when he came to see me; andPeepy and the others should take it in turns to come and stay withme; and they should have some care taken of them, then.”   There was a good deal of affection in poor Caddy. She softenedmore and more while saying this, and cried so much over theunwonted little home-picture she had raised in her mind, thatPeepy, in his cave under the piano, was touched, and turnedhimself over on his back with loud lamentations. It was not until Ihad brought him to kiss his sister, and had restored him to hisplace in my lap, and had shown him that Caddy was laughing (shelaughed expressly for the purpose), that we could recall his peaceof mind; even then, it was for some time conditional on his takingus in turns by the chin, and smoothing our faces all over with hishand. At last, as his spirits were not yet equal to the piano, we puthim on a chair to look out of window; and Miss Jellyby, holdinghim by one leg, resumed her confidence.   “It began in your coming to our house,” she said.   We naturally asked how?   “I felt I was so awkward,” she replied, “that I made up my mindto 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 insight; but, I was quite determined to be taught to dance, and so Iwent to Mr Turveydrop’s Academy in Newman Street.”   “And was it there, my dear―” I began.   “Yes, it was there,” said Caddy, “and I am engaged to MrTurveydrop. There are two Mr Turveydrops, father and son. MyMr Turveydrop is the son, of course. I only wish I had been betterbrought up, and was likely to make him a better wife; for I am veryfond of him.”   “I am sorry to hear this,” said I, “I must confess.”   “I don’t know why you should be sorry,” she retorted a littleanxiously, “but 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 connection, and itmight break his heart, or give him some other shock, if he was toldof it abruptly. Old Mr Turveydrop is a very gentlemanly manindeed―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 Peepy, whose leg had undergoneso much on account of his sister’s unconsciously jerking it like abell-rope whenever she was emphatic, that the afflicted child nowbemoaned his sufferings with a very low-spirited noise. As heappealed to me for compassion, and as I was only a listener, Iundertook to hold him. Miss Jellyby proceeded, after beggingPeepy’s pardon with a kiss, and assuring him that she hadn’tmeant to do it.   “That’s the state of the case,” said Caddy. “If I ever blamemyself, I shall think it’s Ma’s fault. We are to be married wheneverwe can, and then I shall go to Pa at the office and write to Ma. Itwon’t much agitate Ma: I am only pen and ink to her. One greatcomfort is,” said Caddy, with a sob, “that I shall never hear ofAfrica after I am married. Young Mr Turveydrop hates it for mysake; and if old Mr Turveydrop knows there is such a place, it’s asmuch as he does.”   “It was he who was very gentlemanly, I think?” said I.   “Very gentlemanly, indeed,” said Caddy. “He is celebratedalmost everywhere, for his Deportment.”   “Does he teach?” asked Ada.   “No, he don’t teach anything in particular,” replied Caddy. “Buthis Deportment is beautiful.”   Caddy went on to say, with considerable hesitation andreluctance, that there was one thing more she wished us to know,and felt we ought to know, and which she hoped would not offendus. It was, that she had improved her acquaintance with MissFlite, the little crazy old lady; and that she frequently went thereearly in the morning, and met her lover for a few minutes beforebreakfast―only for a few minutes. “I go there, at other times,” saidCaddy, “but Prince does not come then. Young Mr Turveydrop’sname is Prince; I wish it wasn’t, because it sounds like a dog, butof course he didn’t christen himself. Old Mr Turveydrop had himchristened Prince, in remembrance of the Prince Regent. Old MrTurveydrop adored the Prince Regent on account of hisDeportment. I hope you won’t think the worse of me for havingmade these little appointments at Miss Flite’s, where I first wentwith you; because I like the poor thing for her own sake and Ibelieve she likes me. If you could see young Mr Turveydrop, I amsure you would think well of him―at least, I am sure you couldn’tpossibly think any ill of him. I am going there now, for my lesson. Icouldn’t ask you to go with me, Miss Summerson; but if youwould,” said Caddy, who had said all this, earnestly andtremblingly, “I should be very glad―very glad.”   It happened that we had arranged with my Guardian to go toMiss Flite’s that day. We had told him of our former visit, and ouraccount had interested him; but something had always happenedto prevent our going there again. As I trusted that I might havesufficient influence with Miss Jellyby to prevent her taking anyvery rash step, if I fully accepted the confidence she was so willingto place in me, poor girl, I proposed that she and I and Peepyshould go to the Academy, and afterwards meet my Guardian andAda at Miss Flite’s―whose name I now learnt for the first time.   This was on condition that Miss Jellyby and Peepy should comeback with us to dinner. The last article of the agreement beingjoyfully acceded to by both, we smartened Peepy up a little, withthe assistance of a few pins, some soap and water, and ahairbrush; and went out: bending our steps towards NewmanStreet, which was very near.   I found the Academy established in a sufficiently dingy house atthe corner of an archway, with busts in all the staircase windows.   In the same house there were also established, as I gathered fromthe plates on the door, a drawing-master, a coal-merchant (therewas, certainly, no room for his coals), and a lithographic artist. Onthe plate which, in size and situation, took precedence of all therest, I read, Mr TURVEYDROP. The door was open, and the hallwas blocked up by a grand piano, a harp, and several othermusical instruments in cases, all in progress of removal, and alllooking rakish in the daylight. Miss Jellyby informed me that theAcademy had been lent, last night, for a concert.   We went upstairs―it had been quite a fine house once, when itwas anybody’s business to keep it clean and fresh, and nobody’sbusiness to smoke in it all day―and into Mr Turveydrop’s greatroom, which was built out into a mews at the back, and waslighted by a skylight. It was a bare, resounding room, smelling ofstables; with cane forms along the walls; and the walls ornamentedat regular intervals with painted lyres, and little cut-glassbranches for candles, which seemed to be shedding their old-fashioned drops as other branches might shed autumn leaves.   Several young lady pupils, ranging from thirteen or fourteen yearsof age to two or three and twenty, were assembled; and I waslooking among them for their instructor, when Caddy, pinchingmy arm, repeated the ceremony of introduction. “MissSummerson, Mr Prince Turveydrop!”   I curtseyed to a little blue-eyed fair man of youthfulappearance, with flaxen hair parted in the middle, and curling atthe ends all round his head. He had a little fiddle, which we usedto call at school a kit, under his left arm, and its little bow in thesame band. His little dancing shoes were particularly diminutive,and he had a little innocent, feminine manner, which not onlyappe aled to me in an amiable way, but made this singular effectupon me: that I received the impression that he was like hismother, and that his mother had not been much considered orwell used.”   “I am very happy to see Miss Jellyby’s friend,” he said, bowinglow to me. “I began to fear,” with timid tenderness, “as it was pastthe usual time, that Miss Jellyby was not coming.”   “I beg you will have the goodness to attribute that to me, whohave detained her, and to receive my excuses, sir,” said I.   “O dear!” said he.   “And pray,” I entreated, “do not allow me to be the cause of anymore delay.”   With that apology I withdrew to a seat between Peepy (who,being well used to it, had already climbed into a corner place) andan old lady of a censorious countenance, whose two nieces were inthe class, and who was very indignant with Peepy’s boots. PrinceTurveydrop then tinkled the strings of his kit with his fingers, andthe young ladies stood up to dance. Just then, there appeared froma side-door, old Mr Turveydrop, in the full lustre of hisDeportment.   He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion, false teeth,false whiskers, and a wig. He had a fur collar, and he had a paddedbreast to his coat, which only wanted a star or a broad blue ribbonto be complete. He was pinched in, and swelled out, and got up,and strapped down, as much as he could possibly bear. He hadsuch a neckcloth on (puffing his very eyes out of their naturalshape), and his chin and even his ears so sunk into it, that itseemed as though he must inevitably double up, if it were castloose. He had, under his arm, a hat of great size and weight,shelving downward from the crown to the brim; and in his hand apair of white gloves, with which he flapped it, as he stood poisedon one leg, in a high-shouldered, round-elbowed state of elegancenot to be surpassed. He had a cane, he had an eyeglass, he had asnuff-box, he had rings, he had wristbands, he had everything butany touch of nature; he was not like youth, he was not like age, hewas like nothing in the world but a model of Deportment.   “Father! A visitor. Miss Jellyby’s friend, Miss Summerson.”   “Distinguished,” said Mr Turveydrop, “by Miss Summerson’spresence.” As he bowed to me in that tight state, I almost believe Isaw creases come into the whites of his eyes.   “My father,” said the son, aside to me, with quite an affectingbelief in him, “is a celebrated character. My father is greatlyadmired.”   “Go on, Prince! Go on!” said Mr Turveydrop, standing with hisback to the fire, and waving his gloves condescendingly. “Go on,my son!”   At this command, or by this gracious permission, the lessonwent on. Prince Turveydrop, sometimes, played the kit, dancing;sometimes played the piano, standing: sometimes hummed thetune with what little breath he could spare, while he set a pupilright; always conscientiously moved with the least proficientthrough every step and every part of the figure; and never restedfor an instant. His distinguished father did nothing whatever, butstand before the fire, a model of Deportment.   “And he never does anything else,” said the old lady of thecensorious countenance. “Yet would you believe that it’s his nameon 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 fromhim,” returned the old lady. “Look at the son’s dress!” It certainlywas plain―threadbare―almost shabby. “Yet the father must begarnished and tricked out,” said the old lady, “because of hisDeportment. I’d deport him! Transport him would be better!”   I felt curious to know more, concerning this person. I asked,“Does he give lessons in Deportment, now?”   “Now!” returned the old lady, shortly. “Never did.”   After a moment’s consideration, I suggested that perhapsfencing 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 lady, becoming moreand more incensed against the Master of Deportment as she dweltupon the subject, gave me some particulars of his career, withstrong assurances that they were mildly stated.   He had married a meek little dancing-mistress, with a tolerableconnection (having never in his life before done anything butdeport himself), and had worked her to death, or had, at the best,suffered her to work herself to death, to maintain him in thoseexpenses which were indispensable to his position. At once toexhibit his Deportment to the best models, and to keep the bestmodels constantly before himself, he had found it necessary tofrequent all public places of fashionable and lounging resort; to beseen at Brighton and elsewhere at fashionable times; and to leadan idle life in the very best clothes. To enable him to do this, theaffectionate little dancing-mistress had toiled and laboured, andwould have toiled and laboured to that hour, if her strength hadlasted so long. For, the mainspring of the story was, that, in spiteof the man’s absorbing selfishness, his wife (overpowered by hisDeportment) had, to the last, believed in him, and had, on herdeath-bed, in the most moving terms, confided him to their son asone who had an inextinguishable claim upon him, and whom hecould never regard with too much pride and deference. The son,inheriting his mother’s belief, and having the Deportment alwaysbefore him, had lived and grown in the same faith, and now, atthirty years of age, worked for his father twelve hours a-day, andlooked up to him with veneration on the old imaginary pinnacle.   “The airs the fellow gives himself!” said my informant, shakingher head at old Mr Turveydrop with speechless indignation, as hedrew on his tight gloves: of course unconscious of the homage shewas rendering. “He fully believes he is one of the aristocracy! Andhe is so condescending to the son he so egregiously deludes thatyou might suppose him the most virtuous of parents. O!” said theold lady, apostrophising him with infinite vehemence, “I could biteyou!”   I could not help being amused, though I heard the old lady outwith feelings of real concern. It was difficult to doubt her, with thefather and son before me. What I might have thought of themwithout the old lady’s account, or what I might have thought of theold lady’s account without them, I cannot say. There was a fitnessof things in the whole that carried conviction with it.   My eyes were yet wandering, from young Mr Turveydropworking so hard to old Mr Turveydrop deporting himself sobeautifully, when the latter came ambling up to me, and enteredinto conversation.   He asked me, first of all, whether I conferred a charm and adistinction on London by residing in it? I did not think itnecessary to reply that I was perfectly aware I should not do that,in any case, but merely told him where I did reside.   “A lady so graceful and accomplished,” he said, kissing his rightglove, and afterwards extending it towards the pupils, “will lookleniently on the deficiencies here. We do our best to polish―polish―polish!”   He sat down beside me; taking some pains to sit on the form, Ithought, in imitation of the print of his illustrious model on thesofa. And really he did look very like it.   “To polish―polish―polish!” he repeated, taking a pinch ofsnuff and gently fluttering his fingers. “But we are not―if I maysay so, to one formed to be graceful both by Nature and Art;” withthe high-shouldered bow, which it seemed impossible for him tomake without lifting up his eyebrows and shutting his eyes―“weare not what we used to be in point of Deportment.”   “Are we not, sir?” said I.   “We have degenerated,” he returned, shaking his head, whichhe could do, to a very limited extent, in his cravat. “A levelling ageis not favourable to Deportment. It develops vulgarity. Perhaps Ispeak with some little partiality. It may not be for me to say that Ihave been called, for some years now, Gentleman Turveydrop; orthat His Royal Highness the Prince Regent did me the honour toinquire, on my removing my hat as he drove out of the Pavilion atBrighton (that fine building) ‘Who is he? Who the Devil is he? Whydon’t I know him? Why hasn’t he thirty thousand a year?’ Butthese are little matters of anecdote―the general property,ma’am,―still repeated occasionally, among the upper classes.”   “Indeed?” said I.   He replied with the high-shouldered bow. “Where what is leftamong us of Deportment,” he added, “still lingers. England―alas,my country!―has degenerated very much, and is degeneratingevery day. She has not many gentlemen left. We are few. I seenothing to succeed us, but a race of weavers.”   “One might hope that the race of gentlemen would beperpetuated here,” said I.   “You are very good,” he smiled, with the high-shouldered bowagain. “You flatter me. But, no―no! I have never been able toimbue my poor boy with that part of his art. Heaven forbid that Ishould dispar age 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. Allthat can be acquired, he has acquired. All that can be imparted, hecan impart. But there are things”―he took another pinch of snuffand made the bow again, as if to add, “this kind of thing, forinstance.”   I glanced towards the centre of the room, where Miss Jellyby’slover, now engaged with single pupils, was undergoing greaterdrudgery than ever.   “My amiable child,” murmured Mr Turveydrop, adjusting hiscravat.   “Your son is indefatigable,” said I.   “It is my reward,” said Mr Turveydrop, “to hear you say so. Insome respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted mother.   She was a devoted creature. But Wooman, lovely Wooman,” saidMr Turveydrop, with very disagreeable gallantry, “what a sex youare!”   I rose and joined Miss Jellyby, who was, by this time, putting onher bonnet. The time allotted to a lesson having fully elapsed,there was a general putting on of bonnets. When Miss Jellyby andthe unfortunate Prince found an opportunity to become betrothedI don’t know, but they certainly found none, on this occasion, toexchange a dozen words.   “My dear,” said Mr Turveydrop benignly to his son, “do youknow the hour?”   “No, father.” The son had no watch. The father had ahandsome gold one, which he pulled out, with an air that was anexample to mankind.   “My son,” said he “it’s two o’clock. Recollect your school atKensington at three.”   “That’s time enough for me, father,” said Prince. “I can take amorsel of dinner, standing, and be off.”   “My dear boy,” returned his father, “you 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 Turveydrop, shutting hiseyes and lifting up his shoulders, with modest consciousness, “thatI must show myself, as usual, about town.”   “You had better dine out comfortably, somewhere,” said hisson.   “My dear child, I intend to. I shall take my little meal, I think, atthe French house, in the Opera Colonnade.”   “That’s right. Good-bye, father!” said Prince, shaking hands.   “Good-bye, my son. Bless you!”   Mr Turveydrop said this in quite a pious manner, and it seemedto do his son good; who, in parting from him, was so pleased withhim, so dutiful to him, and so proud of him, that I almost felt as if itwere an unkindness to the younger man not to be able to believeimplicitly in the elder. The few moments that were occupied byPrince in taking leave of us (and particularly of one of us, as I saw,being in the secret), enhanced by favourable impression of hisalmost childish character. I felt a liking for him, and a compassionfor him, as he put his little kit in his pocket―and with it his desireto stay a little while with Caddy―and went away good-humouredly to his cold mutton and his school at Kensington, thatmade me scarcely less irate with his father than the censorious oldlady.   The father opened the room door for us, and bowed us out in amanner, I must acknowledge, worthy of his shining original. In thesame style he presently passed us on the other side of the street,on his way to the aristocratic part of the town, where he was goingto show himself among the few other gentlemen left. For somemoments, I was so lost in reconsidering what I had heard and seenin Newman Street, that I was quite unable to talk to Caddy, oreven to fix my attention on what she said to me: especially when Ibegan to inquire in my mind whether there were, or ever hadbeen, any other gentlemen, not in the dancing profession, wholived and founded a reputation entirely on their Deportment. Thisbecame so bewildering, and suggested the possibility of so manyMr Turveydrops, that I said, “Esther, you must make up yourmind to abandon this subject altogether, and attend to Caddy.” Iaccordingly did so, and we chatted all the rest of the way toLincoln’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 werenot so anxious about his spelling, and took less pains to make itclear, he would do better; but he put so many unnecessary lettersinto short words, that they sometimes quite lost their Englishappearance. “He does it with the best intention,” observed Caddy,“but it hasn’t the effect he means, poor fellow!” Caddy then wenton to reason, how could he be expected to be a scholar, when hehad passed his whole life in the dancing-school, and had donenothing but teach and fag, fag and teach, morning, noon, andnight! And what did it matter? She could write letters enough forboth, as she knew to her cost, and it was far better for him to beamiable than learned. “Besides, it’s not as if I was anaccomplished girl who had any right to give herself airs,” saidCaddy. “I know little enough, I am sure; thanks to Ma!”   “There’s another thing I want to tell you, now we are alone,”   continued Caddy; “which I should not have liked to mentionunless you had seen Prince, Miss Summerson. You know what ahouse ours is. It’s of no use my trying to learn anything that wouldbe useful for Prince’s wife to know, in our house. We live in such astate of muddle that it’s impossible, and I have only been moredisheartened whenever I have tried. So I get a little practicewith―who do you think? Poor Miss Flite! Early in the morning, Ihelp her to tidy her room, and clean her birds; and I make her cupof coffee for her (of course she taught me), and I have learnt tomake it so well that Prince says it’s the very best coffee he evertasted, and would quite delight old Mr Turveydrop, who is veryparticular indeed about his coffee. I can make little puddings too;and I know how to buy neck of mutton, and tea, and sugar, andbutter, and a good many housekeeping things. I am not clever atmy needle, yet,” said Caddy, glancing at the repairs on Peepy’sfrock, “but perhaps I shall improve. And since I have beenengaged 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 andpretty, and to feel ashamed of Peepy and myself too; but, on thewhole, I hope I am better-tempered than I was, and more forgivingto Ma.”   The poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her heart, andtouched mine. “Caddy, my love,” I replied, “I begin to have a greataffection for you, and I hope we shall become friends.” “Oh, doyou?” cried Caddy; “how happy that would make me!” “My dearCaddy,” said I, “let us be friends from this time, and let us oftenhave a chat about these matters, and try to find the right waythrough them.” Caddy was overjoyed. I said everything I could, inmy old-fashioned way, to comfort and encourage her; and I wouldnot have objected to old Mr Turveydrop, that day, for any smallerconsideration than a settlement on his daughter-in-law.   By this time we were come to Mr Krook’s, whose private doorstood open. There was a bill, pasted on the door-post, announcinga room to let on the second floor. It reminded Caddy to tell me aswe 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 open, we lookedin. It was the room with the dark door, to which Miss Flite hadsecretly directed my attention when I was last in the house. A sadand desolate place it was; a gloomy, sorrowful place, that gave mea strange sensation of mournfulness and even dread. “You lookpale,” said Caddy, when we came out, “and cold!” I felt as if theroom had chilled me.   We had walked slowly, while we were talking; and my Guardianand Ada were here before us. We found them in Miss Flite’sgarret. They were looking at the birds, while a medical gentlemanwho was so good as to attend Miss Flite with much solicitude andcompassion, spoke with her cheerfully by the fire.   “I have finished my professional visit,” he said coming forward.   “Miss Flite is much better, and may appear in Court (as her mindis set upon it) tomorrow. She has been greatly missed there, Iunderstand.”   Miss Flite received the compliment with complacency, anddropped a general curtsey to us.   “Honoured, indeed,” said she, “by another visit from the Wardsin Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy to receive Jarndyce of Bleak Housebeneath my humble roof!” with a special curtsey. “Fitz-Jarndyce,my dear;” she had bestowed that name on Caddy, it appeared, andalways called her by it; “a double welcome!”   “Has she been very ill?” asked Mr Jarndyce of the gentlemanwhom we had found in attendance on her. She answered forherself directly, though he had put the question in a whisper.   “O decidedly unwell! O very unwell indeed,” she said,confidentially. “Not pain, you know―trouble. Not bodily so muchas nervous, nervous! The truth is,” in a subdued voice andtrembling, “we have had death here. There was poison in thehouse. I am very susceptible to such horrid things. It frightenedme. Only Mr Woodcourt knows how much. My physician, MrWoodcourt!” with great stateliness. “The Wards in Jarndyce―Jarndyce of Bleak House―Fitz-Jarndyce!”   “Miss Flite―” said Mr Woodcourt, in a grave kind of voice, as ifhe were appealing to her while speaking to us; and laying his handgently on her arm; “Miss Flite describes her illness with her usualaccuracy. She was alarmed by an occurrence in the house whichmight have alarmed a stronger person, and was made ill by thedistress and agitation. She brought me here, in the first hurry ofthe discovery, though too late for me to be of any use to theunfortunate man. I have compensated myself for thatdisappointment by coming here since, and being of some small useto her.   “The kindest physician in the college,” whispered Miss Flite tome. “I expect a judgement. On the day of Judgement. And shallthen confer estates.”   “She will be as well, in a day or two,” said Mr Woodcourt,looking at her with an observant smile, “as she ever will be. Inother words, quite well of course. Have you heard of her goodfortune?”   “Most extraordinary!” said Miss Flite, smiling brightly. “Younever heard of such a thing, my dear! Every Saturday,Conversation Kenge, or Guppy (Clerk to Conversation K.), placesin my hand a paper of shillings. Shillings. I assure you! Always thesame number in the paper. Always one for every day in the week.   Now you know, really! So well-timed, is it not? Ye-es! Fromwhence do these papers come, you 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 herright forefinger in a most significant manner, “that the LordChancellor, aware of the length of time during which the GreatSeal has been open, (for it has been open a long time!) forwardsthem. Until the Judgement I expect, is given. Now that’s verycreditable, you know. To confess in that way that he is a little slowfor human life. So delicate! Attending Court the other day―Iattend it regularly―with my documents―I taxed him with it, andhe almost confessed. That is, I smiled at him from my bench, andhe smiled at me from his bench. But it’s great good fortune, is itnot? And Fitz-Jarndyce lays the money out for me to greatadvantage. O, I assure you to the greatest advantage!”   I congratulated her (as she addressed herself to me) upon thisfortunate addition to her income, and wished her a longcontinuance of it. I did not speculate upon the source from whichit came, or wonder whose humanity was so considerate. MyGuardian stood before me contemplating the birds, and I had noneed to look beyond him.   “And what do you call these little fellows, ma’am?” said he inhis pleasant voice. “Have they any names?”   “I can answer for Miss Flite that they have,” said I, “for shepromised to tell us what they were. Ada remembers?”   Ada remembered very well.   “Did I?” said Miss Flite―“who’s that at my door? What are youlistening at my door for, Krook?”   The old man of the house, pushing it open before him,appeared there with his fur-cap in his hand, and his cat at hisheels.   “I warn’t listening, Miss Flite,” he said. “I was going to give arap with my knuckles, only you’re so quick!”   “Make your cat go down. Drive her away!” the old lady angrilyexclaimed.   “Bah, bah!―There ain’t no danger, gentlefolks,” said Mr Krook,looking slowly and sharply from one to another, until he hadlooked 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 adignified air. “M, quite M! What do you want, Krook, when I havecompany?”   “Hi!” said the old man. “You know I am the Chancellor.”   “Well?” returned Miss Flite. “What of that?”   “For the Chancellor,” said the old man with a chuckle, “not tobe acquainted with a Jarndyce is queer, ain’t it, Miss Flite?   Mightn’t I take the liberty?―Your servant, sir. I know Jarndyceand Jarndyce a’most as well as you do, sir. I knowed old SquireTom, sir. I never to my knowledge see you afore though, not evenin Court. Yet, I go there a mortal sight of times in the course of theyear, taking one day with another.”   “I never go there,” said Mr Jarndyce (which he never did onany consideration). “I would sooner go―somewhere else.”   “Would you, though?” returned Krook, grinning. “You’rebearing hard upon my noble and learned brother in your meaning,sir; though perhaps it is but nat’ral in a Jarndyce. The burnt child,sir! What, you’re looking at my lodger’s birds, Mr Jarndyce?” Theold man had come by little and little into the room, until he nowtouched my Guardian with his elbow, and looked close up into hisface with his spectacled eyes. “It’s one of her strange ways, thatshe’ll never tell the names of these birds if she can help it, thoughshe named ’em all.” This was in a whisper. “Shall I run ’em over,Flite?” he asked aloud, winking at us and pointing at her as sheturned away, affecting to sweep the grate.   “If you like,” she answered hurriedly.   The old man, looking up at the cages, after another look at us,went 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, andSpinach. That’s the whole collection,” said the old man, “allcooped up together, by my noble and learned brother.”   “This is a bitter wind!” muttered my Guardian.   “When my noble and learned brother gives his Judgement,they’re to be let go free,” said Krook, winking at us again. “Andthen,” he added, whispering and grinning, “if that ever was tohappen―which it won’t―the birds that have never been cagedwould kill ’em.”   “If ever the wind was in the east,” said my Guardian,pretending to look out of the window for a weathercock, “I thinkit’s there today!”   We found it very difficult to get away from the house. It was notMiss Flite who detained us; she was as reasonable a little creaturein consulting the convenience of others, as there possibly could be.   It was Mr Krook. He seemed unable to detach himself from MrJarndyce. If he had been linked to him, he could hardly haveattended him more closely. He proposed to show us his Court ofChancery, and all the strange medley it contained; during thewhole of our inspection (prolonged by himself) he kept close to MrJarndyce, and sometimes detained him, under one pretence orother, until we had passed on, as if he were tormented by aninclination to enter upon some secret subject, which he could notmake up his mind to approach. I cannot imagine a countenanceand manner more singularly expressive of caution and indecision,and a perpetual impulse to do something he could not resolve toventure on, than Mr Krook was, that day. His watchfulness of myGuardian was incessant. He rarely removed his eyes from his face.   If he went on beside him, he observed him with the slyness of anold white fox. If he went before he looked back. When we stoodstill, he got opposite to him, and drawing his hand across andacross his open mouth with a curious expression of a sense ofpower, and turning up his eyes, and lowering his grey eyebrowsuntil they appeared to be shut, seemed to scan every lineament ofhis face.   At last, having been (always attended by the cat) all over thehouse, and having seen the whole stock of miscellaneous lumber,which was certainly curious, we came into the back part of theshop. Here, on the head of an empty barrel stood on end, were anink-bottle, some old stumps of pens, and some dirty playbills; and,against the wall, were pasted several large printed alphabets inseveral 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 atmy time of life.”   “It would be easier to be taught by some one,” said myGuardian.   “Ay, but they might teach me wrong!” returned the old man,with a wonderfully suspicious flash of his eye. “I don’t know what Imay have lost, by not being learnd afore. I wouldn’t like to loseanything by being learnd 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 oldman, turning up his spectacles on his forehead, and rubbing hishands. “I don’t suppose as anybody would―but I’d rather trust myown self than another!”   These answers, and his manner, were strange enough to causemy Guardian to inquire of Mr Woodcourt, as we all walked acrossLincoln’s Inn together, whether Mr Krook were really, as hislodger represented him, deranged? The young surgeon replied,no, he had seen no reason to think so. He was exceedinglydistrustful, as ignorance usually was, and he was always more orless under the influence of raw gin; of which he drank greatquantities, and of which he and his back-shop, as we might haveobserved, smelt strongly; but he did not think him mad, as yet.   On our way home, I so conciliated Peepy’s affections by buyinghim a windmill and two flour-sacks, that he would suffer nobodyelse to take off his hat and gloves, and would sit nowhere but at myside. Caddy sat upon the other side of me, next to Ada, to whomwe imparted the whole history of the engagement as soon as wegot back. We made much of Caddy, and Peepy too; and Caddybrightened exceedingly; and my Guardian was as merry as wewere; and we were all very happy indeed; until Caddy went homeat night in a hackney-coach, with Peepy fast asleep, but holdingtight to the windmill.   I have forgotten to mention―at least I have not mentioned―that Mr Woodcourt was the same dark young surgeon whom wehad met at Mr Badger’s. Or, that Mr Jarndyce invited him todinner that day. Or, that he came. Or, that when they were allgone, and I said to Ada, “Now, my darling, let us have a little talkabout Richard!” Ada laughed and said― But, I don’t think it matters what my darling said. She was always merry. Chapter 15 Bell Yard While we were in London Mr. Jarndyce was constantly beset by thecrowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose proceedings had somuch astonished us. Mr. Quale, who presented himself soon afterour arrival, was in all such excitements. He seemed to projectthose two shining knobs of temples of his into everything that wenton and to brush his hair farther and farther back, until the veryroots were almost ready to fly out of his head in inappeasablephilanthropy. All objects were alike to him, but he was alwaysparticularly ready for anything in the way of a testimonial to anyone. His great power seemed to be his power of indiscriminateadmiration. He would sit for any length of time, with the utmostenjoyment, bathing his temples in the light of any order ofluminary. Having first seen him perfectly swallowed up inadmiration of Mrs. Jellyby, I had supposed her to be the absorbingobject of his devotion. I soon discovered my mistake and found himto be train-bearer and organ-blower to a whole procession ofpeople.   Mrs. Pardiggle came one day for a subscription to something, andwith her, Mr. Quale. Whatever Mrs. Pardiggle said, Mr. Qualerepeated to us; and just as he had drawn Mrs. Jellyby out, he drewMrs. Pardiggle out. Mrs. Pardiggle wrote a letter of introductionto my guardian in behalf of her eloquent friend Mr. Gusher. WithMr. Gusher appeared Mr. Quale again. Mr. Gusher, being a flabbygentleman with a moist surface and eyes so much too small for hismoon of a face that they seemed to have been originally made forsomebody else, was not at first sight prepossessing; yet he wasscarcely seated before Mr. Quale asked Ada and me, not inaudibly,whether he was not a great creature--which he certainly was,flabbily speaking, though Mr. Quale meant in intellectual beauty--and whether we were not struck by his massive configuration ofbrow. In short, we heard of a great many missions of various sortsamong this set of people, but nothing respecting them was half soclear to us as that it was Mr. Quale's mission to be in ecstasieswith everybody else's mission and that it was the most popularmission of all.   Mr. Jarndyce had fallen into this company in the tenderness of hisheart and his earnest desire to do all the good in his power; butthat he felt it to be too often an unsatisfactory company, wherebenevolence took spasmodic forms, where charity was assumed as aregular uniform by loud professors and speculators in cheapnotoriety, vehement in profession, restless and vain in action,servile in the last degree of meanness to the great, adulatory ofone another, and intolerable to those who were anxious quietly tohelp the weak from failing rather than with a great deal of blusterand self-laudation to raise them up a little way when they weredown, he plainly told us. When a testimonial was originated to Mr.   Quale by Mr. Gusher (who had already got one, originated by Mr.   Quale), and when Mr. Gusher spoke for an hour and a half on thesubject to a meeting, including two charity schools of small boysand girls, who were specially reminded of the widow's mite, andrequested to come forward with halfpence and be acceptablesacrifices, I think the wind was in the east for three whole weeks.   I mention this because I am coming to Mr. Skimpole again. Itseemed to me that his off-hand professions of childishness andcarelessness were a great relief to my guardian, by contrast withsuch things, and were the more readily believed in since to findone perfectly undesigning and candid man among many opposites couldnot fail to give him pleasure. I should be sorry to imply that Mr.   Skimpole divined this and was politic; I really never understoodhim well enough to know. What he was to my guardian, he certainlywas to the rest of the world.   He had not been very well; and thus, though he lived in London, wehad seen nothing of him until now. He appeared one morning in hisusual agreeable way and as full of pleasant spirits as ever.   Well, he said, here he was! He had been bilious, but rich men wereoften bilious, and therefore he had been persuading himself that hewas a man of property. So he was, in a certain point of view--inhis expansive intentions. He had been enriching his medicalattendant in the most lavish manner. He had always doubled, andsometimes quadrupled, his fees. He had said to the doctor, "Now,my dear doctor, it is quite a delusion on your part to suppose thatyou attend me for nothing. I am overwhelming you with money--in myexpansive intentions--if you only knew it!" And really (he said)he meant it to that degree that he thought it much the same asdoing it. If he had had those bits of metal or thin paper to whichmankind attached so much importance to put in the doctor's hand, hewould have put them in the doctor's hand. Not having them, hesubstituted the will for the deed. Very well! If he really meantit--if his will were genuine and real, which it was--it appeared tohim that it was the same as coin, and cancelled the obligation.   "It may be, partly, because I know nothing of the value of money,"said Mr. Skimpole, "but I often feel this. It seems so reasonable!   My butcher says to me he wants that little bill. It's a part ofthe pleasant unconscious poetry of the man's nature that he alwayscalls it a 'little' bill--to make the payment appear easy to bothof 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 thelittle bill. You are paid. I mean it.'""But, suppose," said my guardian, laughing, "he had meant the meatin the bill, instead of providing it?""My dear Jarndyce," he returned, "you surprise me. You take thebutcher's position. A butcher I once dealt with occupied that veryground. Says he, 'Sir, why did you eat spring lamb at eighteenpence a pound?' 'Why did I eat spring lamb at eighteen-pence apound, 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!' 'Mygood fellow,' said I, 'pray let us reason like intellectual beings.   How could that be? It was impossible. You HAD got the lamb, and Ihave NOT got the money. You couldn't really mean the lamb withoutsending it in, whereas I can, and do, really mean the money withoutpaying 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 thathe was influenced by passion, not by reason. Passion reminds me ofBoythorn. He writes me that you and the ladies have promised him ashort visit at his bachelor-house in Lincolnshire.""He is a great favourite with my girls," said Mr. Jarndyce, "and Ihave promised for them.""Nature forgot to shade him off, I think," observed Mr. Skimpole toAda and me. "A little too boisterous--like the sea. A little toovehement--like a bull who has made up his mind to consider everycolour scarlet. But I grant a sledge-hammering sort of merit inhim!"I should have been surprised if those two could have thought veryhighly of one another, Mr. Boythorn attaching so much importance tomany things and Mr. Skimpole caring so little for anything.   Besides which, I had noticed Mr. Boythorn more than once on thepoint of breaking out into some strong opinion when Mr. Skimpolewas referred to. Of course I merely joined Ada in saying that wehad been greatly pleased with him.   "He has invited me," said Mr. Skimpole; "and if a child may trusthimself 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 willcost money? Shillings perhaps? Or pounds? Or something of thatsort? By the by, Coavinses. You remember our friend Coavinses,Miss Summerson?"He asked me as the subject arose in his mind, in 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 it, for I had already recalled withanything but a serious association the image of the man sitting onthe 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 callsit. He came yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter's birthday. I putit to him, 'This is unreasonable and inconvenient. If you had ablue-eyed daughter you wouldn't like ME to come, uninvited, on HERbirthday?' But he stayed."Mr. Skimpole laughed at the pleasant absurdity and lightly touchedthe piano by which he was seated.   "And he told me," he said, playing little chords where I shall putfull stops, "The Coavinses had left. Three children. No mother.   And that Coavinses' profession. Being unpopular. The risingCoavinses. Were at a considerable disadvantage."Mr. Jarndyce got up, rubbing his head, and began to walk about.   Mr. Skimpole played the melody of one of Ada's favourite songs.   Ada and I both looked at Mr. Jarndyce, thinking that we knew whatwas passing in his mind.   After walking and stopping, and several times leaving off rubbinghis head, and beginning again, my guardian put his hand upon thekeys and stopped Mr. Skimpole's playing. "I don't like this,Skimpole," he said thoughtfully.   Mr. Skimpole, who had quite forgotten the subject, looked upsurprised.   "The man was necessary," pursued my guardian, walking backward andforward in the very short space between the piano and the end ofthe room and rubbing his hair up from the back of his head as if ahigh east wind had blown it into that form. "If we make such mennecessary by our faults and follies, or by our want of worldlyknowledge, or by our misfortunes, we must not revenge ourselvesupon them. There was no harm in his trade. He maintained hischildren. One would like to know more about this.""Oh! Coavinses?" cried Mr. Skimpole, at length perceiving what hemeant. "Nothing easier. A walk to Coavinses' headquarters, andyou can know what you will."Mr. Jarndyce nodded to us, who were only waiting for the signal.   "Come! We will walk that way, my dears. Why not that way as soonas another!" We were quickly ready and went out. Mr. Skimpolewent with us and quite enjoyed the expedition. It was so new andso refreshing, he said, for him to want Coavinses instead ofCoavinses wanting him!   He took us, first, to Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, where therewas a house with barred windows, which he called Coavinses' Castle.   On our going into the entry and ringing a bell, a very hideous boycame out of a sort of office and looked at us over a spiked wicket.   "Who did you want?" said the boy, fitting two of the spikes intohis chin.   "There was a follower, or an officer, or something, here," said Mr.   Jarndyce, "who 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 shop, left hand side, nameof Blinder.""Was he--I don't know how to shape the question--" murmured myguardian, "industrious?""Was Neckett?" said the boy. "Yes, wery much so. He was nevertired of watching. He'd set upon a post at a street corner eightor ten hours at a stretch if he undertook to do it.""He might have done worse," I heard my guardian soliloquize. "Hemight have undertaken to do it and not done it. Thank you. That'sall I want."We left the boy, with his head on one side and his arms on thegate, fondling and sucking the spikes, and went back to Lincoln'sInn, where Mr. Skimpole, who had not cared to remain nearerCoavinses, awaited us. Then we all went to Bell Yard, a narrowalley at a very short distance. We soon found the chandler's shop.   In it was a good-natured-looking old woman with a dropsy, or anasthma, or perhaps both.   "Neckett's children?" said she in reply to my inquiry. "Yes,Surely, miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right opposite thestairs." And she handed me the key across the counter.   I glanced at the key and glanced at her, but she took it forgranted that I knew what to do with it. As it could only beintended for the children's door, I came out without askmg any morequestions and led the way up the dark stairs. We went as quietlyas we could, but four of us made some noise on the aged boards, andwhen we came to the second story we found we had disturbed a manwho was standing there looking out of his room.   "Is it Gridley that's wanted?" he said, fixing his eyes on me withan angry stare.   "No, sir," said I; "I am going higher up."He looked at Ada, and at Mr. Jarndyce, and at Mr. Skimpole, fixingthe same angry stare on each in succession as they passed andfollowed me. Mr. Jarndyce gave him good day. "Good day!" he saidabruptly and fiercely. He was a tall, sallow man with a carewornhead on which but little hair remained, a deeply lined face, andprominent eyes. He had a combative look and a chafing, irritablemanner which, associated with his figure--still large and powerful,though evidently in its decline--rather alarmed me. He had a penin his hand, and in the glimpse I caught of his room in passing, Isaw that it was covered with a litter of papers.   Leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room. I tappedat the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, "We are lockedin. Mrs. Blinder's got the key!"I applied the key on hearing this and opened the door. In a poorroom with a sloping ceiling and containing very little furniturewas a mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing andhushing a heavy child of eighteen months. There was no fire,though the weather was cold; both children were wrapped in somepoor shawls and tippets as a substitute. Their clothing was not sowarm, however, but that their noses looked red and pinched andtheir small figures shrunken as the boy walked up and down nursingand hushing the child with its head on his shoulder.   "Who has locked you up here alone?" we naturally asked.   "Charley," said the boy, standing 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 boy, "and Emma," patting the limp bonnet of thechild he was nursing. "And Charley.""Where is Charley now?""Out a-washing," said the boy, beginning to walk up and down againand taking the nankeen bonnet much too near the bedstead by tryingto gaze at us at the same time.   We were looking at one another and at these two children when therecame into the room a very little girl, childish in figure butshrewd and older-looking in the face--pretty-faced too--wearing awomanly sort of bonnet much too large for her and drying her barearms on a womanly sort of apron. Her fingers were white andwrinkled with washing, and the soap-suds were yet smoking which shewiped off her arms. But for this, she might have been a childplaying at washing and imitating a poor working-woman with a quickobservation of the truth.   She had come running from some place in the neighbourhood and hadmade all the haste she could. Consequently, though she was verylight, she was out of breath and could not speak at first, as shestood panting, and wiping her arms, and looking quietly at us.   "Oh, here's Charley!" said the boy.   The child he was nursing stretched forth its arms and cried out tobe taken by Charley. The little girl took it, in a womanly sort ofmanner belonging to the apron and the bonnet, and stood looking atus over the burden that clung to her most affectionately.   "Is it possible," whispered my guardian as we put a chair for thelittle creature and got her to sit down with her load, the boykeeping close to her, holding to her apron, "that this child worksfor the rest? Look at this! For God's sake, look at this!"It was a thing to look at. The three children close together, andtwo of them relying solely on the third, and the third so young andyet with an air of age and steadiness that sat so strangely on thechildish 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 her, halfplayfully yet all the more compassionately and mournfully.   "And do you live alone here with these babies, Charley?" said myguardian.   "Yes, sir," returned the child, looking up into his face withperfect confidence, "since father died.""And how do you live, Charley? Oh! Charley," said my guardian,turning his face away for a moment, "how do you live?""Since father died, sir, I've gone out to work. I'm out washingto-day.""God help you, Charley!" said my guardian. "You're not tall enoughto reach the tub!""In pattens I am, sir," she said quickly. "I've got a high pair asbelonged to mother.""And when did mother die? Poor mother!""Mother died just after Emma was born," said the child, glancing atthe face upon her bosom. "Then father said I was to be as good amother to her as I could. And so I tried. And so I worked at homeand did cleaning and nursing and washing for a long time before Ibegan to go out. And that's how I know how; don't you see, sir?""And do you often go out?""As often as I can," said Charley, opening 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 safe, sir, don't you see?" said Charley. "Mrs.   Blinder comes up now and then, and Mr. Gridley comes up sometimes,and perhaps I can run in sometimes, and they can play you know, andTom an't afraid of being locked up, are you, Tom?"'"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'tthey, Tom?""Yes, Charley," said Tom, "almost quite bright.""Then he's as good as gold," said the little creature--Oh, in sucha motherly, womanly way! "And when Emma's tired, he puts her tobed. And when he's tired he goes to bed himself. And when I comehome and light the candle and has a bit of supper, he sits up againand has it with me. Don't you, Tom?""Oh, yes, Charley!" said Tom. "That I do!" And either in thisglimpse of the great pleasure of his life or in gratitude and lovefor Charley, who was all in all to him, he laid his face among thescanty folds of her frock and passed from laughing into crying.   It was the first time since our entry that a tear had been shedamong these children. The little orphan girl had spoken of theirfather and their mother as if all that sorrow were subdued by thenecessity of taking courage, and by her childish importance inbeing able to work, and by her bustling busy way. But now, whenTom cried, although she sat quite tranquil, looking quietly at us,and did not by any movement disturb a hair of the head of either ofher little charges, I saw two silent tears fall down her face.   I stood at the window with Ada, pretending to look at thehousetops, and the blackened stack of chimneys, and the poorplants, and the birds in little cages belonging to the neighbours,when I found that Mrs. Blinder, from the shop below, had come in(perhaps it had taken her all this time to get upstairs) and wastalking to my guardian.   "It's not much to forgive 'em the rent, sir," she said; "who couldtake it from them!"'"Well, well!" said my guardian to us two. "It is enough that thetime will come when this good woman will find that it WAS much, andthat 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. Blinder, getting herheavy breath by painful degrees. "She's as handy as it's possibleto be. Bless you, sir, the way she tended them two children afterthe mother died was the talk of the yard! And it was a wonder tosee her with him after he was took ill, it really was! 'Mrs.   Blinder,' he said to me the very last he spoke--he was lying there--'Mrs. Blinder, whatever my calling may have been, I see a angelsitting in this room last night along with my child, and I trusther to Our Father!'""He had no other calling?" said my guardian.   "No, sir," returned Mrs. Blinder, "he was nothing but a follerers.   When he first came to lodge here, I didn't know what he was, and Iconfess that when I found out I gave him notice. It wasn't likedin the yard. It wasn't approved by the other lodgers. It is NOT agenteel calling," said Mrs. Blinder, "and most people do object toit. Mr. Gridley objected to it very strong, and he is a goodlodger, 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 thetime came, and I knew no other ill of him, I was in doubts. He waspunctual and diligent; he did what he had to do, sir," said Mrs.   Blinder, unconsciously fixing Mr. Skimpole with her eye, "and it'ssomething 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 couldarrange it with the other lodgers and should not so much mind itsbeing liked or disliked in the yard. Mr. Gridley gave his consentgruff--but gave it. He was always gruff with him, but he has beenkind to the children since. A person is never known till a personis proved.""Have many people been kind to the children?" asked Mr. Jarndyce.   "Upon the whole, not so bad, sir," said Mrs. Blinder; "butcertainly not so many as would have been if their father's callinghad been different. Mr. Coavins gave a guinea, and the follerersmade up a little purse. Some neighbours in the yard that hadalways joked and tapped their shoulders when he went by cameforward with a little subscription, and--in general--not so bad.   Similarly with Charlotte. Some people won't employ her because shewas a follerer's child; some people that do employ her cast it ather; some make a merit of having her to work for them, with thatand all her draw-backs upon her, and perhaps pay her less and putupon her more. But she's patienter than others would be, and isclever too, and always willing, up to the full mark of her strengthand over. So I should say, in general, not so bad, sir, but mightbe better."Mrs. Blinder sat down to give herself a more favourable opportunityof recovering her breath, exhausted anew by so much talking beforeit was fully restored. Mr. Jarndyce was turning to speak to uswhen his attention was attracted by the abrupt entrance into theroom of the Mr. Gridley who had been mentioned and whom we had seenon our way up.   "I don't know what you may be doing here, ladies and gentlemen," hesaid, as if he resented our presence, "but you'll excuse my comingin. 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 regardedas a friend by the children, though his face retained its sterncharacter and his manner to us was as rude as it could be. Myguardian noticed it and respected it.   "No one, surely, would come here to stare about him," he saidmildly.   "May be so, sir, may be so," returned the other, taking Tom uponhis knee and waving him off impatiently. "I don't want to arguewith ladies and gentlemen. I have had enough of arguing to lastone man his life.""You have sufficient reason, I dare say," said Mr. Jarndyce, "forbeing chafed and irritated--""There again!" exclaimed the man, becoming violently angry. "I amof a quarrelsome temper. I am irascible. I am not polite!""Not very, I think.""Sir," said Gridley, putting down the child and going up to him asif he meant to strike him, "do you know anything of Courts ofEquity?""Perhaps I do, to my sorrow.""To your sorrow?" said the man, pausing in his wrath. "if so, Ibeg your pardon. I am not polite, I know. I beg your pardon!   Sir," with renewed violence, "I have been dragged for five andtwenty years over burning iron, and I have lost the habit oftreading upon velvet. Go into the Court of Chancery yonder and askwhat is one of the standing jokes that brighten up their businesssometimes, and they will tell you that the best joke they have isthe man from Shropshire. I," he said, beating one hand on theother passionately, "am the man from Shropshire.""I believe I and my family have also had the honour of furnishingsome entertainment in the same grave place," said my guardiancomposedly. "You may have heard my name--Jarndyce.""Mr. Jarndyce," said Gridley with a rough sort of salutation, "youbear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear mine. More thanthat, I tell you--and I tell this gentleman, and these youngladies, if they are friends of yours--that if I took my wrongs inany other way, I should be driven mad! It is only by resentingthem, and by revenging them in my mind, and by angrily demandingthe justice I never get, that I am able to keep my wits together.   It is only that!" he said, speaking in a homely, rustic way andwith great vehemence. "You may tell me that I over-excite myself.   I answer that it's in my nature to do it, under wrong, and I mustdo it. There's nothing between doing it, and sinking into thesmiling state of the poor little mad woman that haunts the court.   If I was once to sit down under it, I should become imbecile."The passion and heat in which he was, and the manner in which hisface worked, and the violent gestures with which he accompaniedwhat he said, were most painful to see.   "Mr. Jarndyce," he said, "consider my case. As true as there is aheaven above us, this is my case. I am one of two brothers. Myfather (a farmer) made a will and left his farm and stock and soforth to my mother for her life. After my mother's death, all wasto come to me except a legacy of three hundred pounds that I wasthen to pay my brother. My mother died. My brother some timeafterwards claimed his legacy. I and some of my relations saidthat he had had a part of it already in board and lodging and someother things. Now mind! That was the question, and nothing else.   No one disputed the will; no one disputed anything but whether partof that three hundred pounds had been already paid or not. Tosettle that question, my brother filing a bill, I was obliged to gointo this accursed Chancery; I was forced there because the lawforced me and would let me go nowhere else. Seventeen people weremade defendants to that simple suit! It first came on after twoyears. 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 anotherwho had been left out and must begin all over again. The costs atthat time--before the thing was begun!--were three times thelegacy. My brother would have given up the legacy, and joyful, toescape more costs. My whole estate, left to me in that will of myfather's, has gone in costs. The suit, still undecided, has falleninto rack, and ruin, and despair, with everything else--and here Istand, this day! Now, Mr. Jarndyce, in your suit there arethousands and thousands involved, where in mine there are hundreds.   Is mine less hard to bear or is it harder to bear, when my wholeliving was in it and has been thus shamefully sucked away?"Mr. Jarndyce said that he condoled with him with all his heart andthat he set up no monopoly himself in being unjustly treated bythis 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'tlook to individuals. It's the system. I mustn't go into court andsay, '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 therefoream dismissed?' My Lord knows nothing of it. He sits there toadminister the system. I mustn't go to Mr. Tulkinghorn, thesolicitor in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and say to him when he makes mefurious by being so cool and satisfied--as they all do, for I knowthey gain by it while I lose, don't I?--I mustn't say to him, 'Iwill have something out of some one for my ruin, by fair means orfoul!' HE is not responsible. It's the system. But, if I do noviolence to any of them, here--I may! I don't know what may happenif I am carried beyond myself at last! I will accuse theindividual workers of that system against me, face to face, beforethe great eternal bar!"His passion was fearful. I could not have believed in such ragewithout seeing it.   "I have done!" he said, sitting down and wiping his face. "Mr.   Jarndyce, I have done! I am violent, I know. I ought to know it.   I have been in prison for contempt of court. I have been in prisonfor threatening the solicitor. I have been in this trouble, andthat trouble, and shall be again. I am the man from Shropshire,and I sometimes go beyond amusing them, though they have found itamusing, too, to see me committed into custody and brought up incustody and all that. It would be better for me, they tell me, ifI restrained myself. I tell them that if I did restrain myself Ishould become imbecile. I was a good-enough-tempered man once, Ibelieve. 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 nothingcould hold my wits together. It would be far better for you, Mr.   Gridley,' the Lord Chancellor told me last week, 'not to waste yourtime here, and to stay, usefully employed, down in Shropshire.'   'My Lord, my Lord, I know it would,' said I to him, 'and it wouldhave been far better for me never to have heard the name of yourhigh office, but unhappily for me, I can't undo the past, and thepast drives me here!' Besides," he added, breaking fiercely out,"I'll shame them. To the last, I'll show myself in that court toits shame. If I knew when I was going to die, and could be carriedthere, and had a voice to speak with, I would die there, saying,'You have brought me here and sent me from here many and many atime. Now send me out feet foremost!'"His countenance had, perhaps for years, become so set in itscontentious expression that it did not soften, even now when he wasquiet.   "I came to take these babies down to my room for an hour," he said,going to them again, "and let them play about. I didn't mean tosay 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? Comethen, little one!" He took the youngest child on his arm, whereshe was willing enough to be carried. "I shouldn't wonder if wefound a ginger-bread soldier downstairs. Let's go and look forhim!"He made his former rough salutation, which was not deficient in acertain respect, to Mr. Jarndyce, and bowing slightly to us, wentdownstairs to his room.   Upon that, Mr. Skimpole began to talk, for the first time since ourarrival, in his usual gay strain. He said, Well, it was reallyvery pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves topurposes. Here was this Mr. Gridley, a man of a robust will andsurprising energy--intellectually speaking, a sort of inharmoniousblacksmith--and he could easily imagine that there Gridley was,years ago, wandering about in life for something to expend hissuperfluous combativeness upon--a sort of Young Love among thethorns--when the Court of Chancery came in his way and accommodatedhim with the exact thing he wanted. There they were, matched, everafterwards! Otherwise he might have been a great general, blowingup all sorts of towns, or he might have been a great politician,dealing in all sorts of parliamentary rhetoric; but as it was, heand the Court of Chancery had fallen upon each other in thepleasantest way, and nobody was much the worse, and Gridley was, soto speak, from that hour provided for. Then look at Coavinses!   How delightfully poor Coavinses (father of these charming children)illustrated the same principle! He, Mr. Skimpole, himself, hadsometimes repined at the existence of Coavinses. He had foundCoavinses in his way. He could had dispensed with Coavinses.   There had been times when, if he had been a sultan, and his grandvizier had said one morning, "What does the Commander of theFaithful require at the hands of his slave?" he might have evengone so far as to reply, "The head of Coavinses!" But what turnedout to be the case? That, all that time, he had been givingemployment to a most deserving man, that he had been a benefactorto Coavinses, that he had actually been enabling Coavinses to bringup these charming children in this agreeable way, developing thesesocial virtues! Insomuch that his heart had just now swelled andthe tears had come into his eyes when he had looked round the roomand thought, "I was the great patron of Coavinses, and his littlecomforts were MY work!"There was something so captivating in his light way of touchingthese fantastic strings, and he was such a mirthful child by theside of the graver childhood we had seen, that he made my guardiansmile even as he turned towards us from a little private talk withMrs. Blinder. We kissed Charley, and took her downstairs with us,and stopped outside the house to see her run away to her work. Idon't know where she was going, but we saw her run, such a little,little creature in her womanly bonnet and apron, through a coveredway at the bottom of the court and melt into the city's strife andsound like a dewdrop in an ocean. Chapter 16 Tom-all-Alone's My Lady Dedlock is restless, very restless. The astonishedfashionable intelligence hardly knows where to have her. To-dayshe is at Chesney Wold; yesterday she was at her house in town; to-morrow she may be abroad, for anything the fashionable intelligencecan with confidence predict. Even Sir Leicester's gallantry hassome trouble to keep pace with her. It would have more but thathis other faithful ally, for better and for worse--the gout--dartsinto the old oak bedchamber at Chesney Wold and grips him by bothlegs.   Sir Leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demon, but still ademon of the patrician order. All the Dedlocks, in the direct maleline, through a course of time during and beyond which the memoryof man goeth not to the contrary, have had the gout. It can beproved, sir. Other men's fathers may have died of the rheumatismor may have taken base contagion from the tainted blood of the sickvulgar, but the Dedlock family have communicated somethingexclusive even to the levelling process of dying by dying of theirown family gout. It has come down through the illustrious linelike the plate, or the pictures, or the place in Lincolnshire. Itis among their dignities. Sir Leicester is perhaps not whollywithout an impression, though he has never resolved it into words,that the angel of death in the discharge of his necessary dutiesmay observe to the shades of the aristocracy, "My lords andgentlemen, I have the honour to present to you another Dedlockcertified to have arrived per the family gout."Hence Sir Leicester yields up his family legs to the familydisorder as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure.   He feels that for a Dedlock to be laid upon his back andspasmodically twitched and stabbed in his extremities is a libertytaken somewhere, but he thinks, "We have all yielded to this; itbelongs to us; it has for some hundreds of years been understoodthat we are not to make the vaults in the park interesting on moreignoble terms; and I submit myself to the compromise.   And a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and gold inthe midst of the great drawing-room before his favourite picture ofmy Lady, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down the longperspective, through the long line of windows, and alternating withsoft reliefs of shadow. Outside, the stately oaks, rooted for agesin the green ground which has never known ploughshare, but wasstill a chase when kings rode to battle with sword and shield androde a-hunting with bow and arrow, bear witness to his greatness.   Inside, his forefathers, looking on him from the walls, say, "Eachof us was a passing reality here and left this coloured shadow ofhimself and melted into remembrance as dreamy as the distant voicesof the rooks now lulling you to rest," and hear their testimony tohis greatness too. And he is very great this day. And woe toBoythorn or other daring wight who shall presumptuously contest aninch with him!   My Lady is at present represented, near Sir Leicester, by herportrait. She has flitted away to town, with no intention ofremaining there, and will soon flit hither again, to the confusionof the fashionable intelligence. The house in town is not preparedfor her reception. It is muffled and dreary. Only one Mercury inpowder gapes disconsolate at the hall-window; and he mentioned lastnight to another Mercury of his acquaintance, also accustomed togood society, that if that sort of thing was to last--which itcouldn't, for a man of his spirits couldn't bear it, and a man ofhis figure couldn't be expected to bear it--there would be noresource for him, upon his honour, but to cut his throat!   What connexion can there be between the place in Lincolnshire, thehouse in town, the Mercury in powder, and the whereabout of Jo theoutlaw with the broom, who had that distant ray of light upon himwhen he swept the churchyard-step? What connexion can there havebeen between many people in the innumerable histories of this worldwho from opposite sides of great gulfs have, nevertheless, beenvery curiously brought together!   Jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, ifany link there be. He sums up his mental condition when asked aquestion by replying that he "don't know nothink." He knows thatit's hard to keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather, andharder still to live by doing it. Nobody taught him even thatmuch; he found it out.   Jo lives--that is to say, Jo has not yet died--in a ruinous placeknown to the like of him by the name of Tom-all-Alone's. It is ablack, dilapidated street, avoided by all decent people, where thecrazy houses were seized upon, when their decay was far advanced,by some bold vagrants who after establishing their own possessiontook to letting them out in lodgings. Now, these tumblingtenements contain, by night, a swarm of misery. As on the ruinedhuman wretch vermin parasites appear, so these ruined shelters havebred a crowd of foul existence that crawls in and out of gaps inwalls and boards; and coils itself to sleep, in maggot numbers,where the rain drips in; and comes and goes, fetching and carryingfever and sowing more evil in its every footprint than Lord Coodle,and Sir Thomas Doodle, and the Duke of Foodle, and all the finegentlemen in office, down to Zoodle, shall set right in fivehundred years--though born expressly to do it.   Twice lately there has been a crash and a cloud of dust, like thespringing of a mine, in Tom-all-Alone's; and each time a house hasfallen. These accidents have made a paragraph in the newspapersand have filled a bed or two in the nearest hospital. The gapsremain, and there are not unpopular lodgings among the rubbish. Asseveral more houses are nearly ready to go, the next crash in Tom-all-Alone's may be expected to be a good one.   This desirable property is in Chancery, of course. It would be aninsult to the discernment of any man with half an eye to tell himso. Whether "Tom" is the popular representative of the originalplaintiff or defendant in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, or whether Tomlived here when the suit had laid the street waste, all alone,until other settlers came to join him, or whether the traditionaltitle is a comprehensive name for a retreat cut off from honestcompany and put out of the pale of hope, perhaps nobody knows.   Certainly Jo don't know.   "For I don't," says Jo, "I don't know nothink."It must be a strange state to be like Jo! To shuffle through thestreets, unfamiliar with the shapes, and in utter darkness as tothe meaning, of those mysterious symbols, so abundant over theshops, and at the corners of streets, and on the doors, and in thewindows! To see people read, and to see people write, and to seethe postmen deliver letters, and not to have the least idea of allthat language--to be, to every scrap of it, stone blind and dumb!   It must be very puzzling to see the good company going to thechurches on Sundays, with their books in their hands, and to think(for perhaps Jo DOES think at odd times) what does it all mean, andif it means anything to anybody, how comes it that it means nothingto me? To be hustled, and jostled, and moved on; and really tofeel that it would appear to be perfectly true that I have nobusiness here, or there, or anywhere; and yet to be perplexed bythe consideration that I AM here somehow, too, and everybodyoverlooked me until I became the creature that I am! It must be astrange state, not merely to be told that I am scarcely human (asin the case of my offering myself for a witness), but to feel it ofmy own knowledge all my life! To see the horses, dogs, and cattlego by me and to know that in ignorance I belong to them and not tothe superior beings in my shape, whose delicacy I offend! Jo'sideas of a criminal trial, or a judge, or a bishop, or a govemment,or that inestimable jewel to him (if he only knew it) theConstitution, should be strange! His whole material and immateriallife is wonderfully strange; his death, the strangest thing of all.   Jo comes out of Tom-all-Alone's, meeting the tardy morning which isalways late in getting down there, and munches his dirty bit ofbread as he comes along. His way lying through many streets, andthe houses not yet being open, he sits down to breakfast on thedoor-step of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel inForeign Parts and gives it a brush when he has finished as anacknowledgment of the accommodation. He admires the size of theedifice and wonders what it's all about. He has no idea, poorwretch, of the spiritual destitution of a coral reef in the Pacificor what it costs to look up the precious souls among the coco-nutsand bread-fruit.   He goes to his crossing and begins to lay it out for the day. Thetown awakes; the great tee-totum is set up for its daily spin andwhirl; all that unaccountable reading and writing, which has beensuspended for a few hours, recommences. Jo and the other loweranimals get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. It ismarket-day. The blinded oxen, over-goaded, over-driven, neverguided, run into wrong places and are beaten out, and plunge red-eyed and foaming at stone walls, and often sorely hurt theinnocent, and often sorely hurt themselves. Very like Jo and hisorder; very, very like!   A band of music comes and plays. Jo listens to it. So does a dog--a drover's dog, waiting for his master outside a butcher's shop,and evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon his mindfor some hours and is happily rid of. He seems perplexedrespecting three or four, can't remember where he left them, looksup and down the street as half expecting to see them astray,suddenly pricks up his ears and remembers all about it. Athoroughly vagabond dog, accustomed to low company and public-houses; a terrific dog to sheep, ready at a whistle to scamper overtheir backs and tear out mouthfuls of their wool; but an educated,improved, developed dog who has been taught his duties and knowshow to discharge them. He and Jo listen to the music, probablywith much the same amount of animal satisfaction; likewise as toawakened association, aspiration, or regret, melancholy or joyfulreference to things beyond the senses, they are probably upon apar. But, otherwise, how far above the human listener is thebrute!   Turn that dog's descendants wild, like Jo, and in a very few yearsthey will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark--butnot their bite.   The day changes as it wears itself away and becomes dark anddrizzly. Jo fights it out at his crossing among the mud andwheels, the horses, whips, and umbrellas, and gets but a scanty sumto pay for the unsavoury shelter of Tom-all-Alone's. Twilightcomes on; gas begins to start up in the shops; the lamplighter,with his ladder, runs along the margin of the pavement. A wretchedevening is beginning to close in.   In his chambers Mr. Tulkinghorn sits meditating an application tothe nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant. Gridley, adisappointed suitor, has been here to-day and has been alarming.   We are not to be put in bodily fear, and that ill-conditionedfellow shall be held to bail again. From the ceiling,foreshortened Allegory, in the person of one impossible Romanupside down, points with the arm of Samson (out of joint, and anodd one) obtrusively toward the window. Why should Mr.   Tulkinghorn, for such no reason, look out of window? Is the handnot always pointing there? So he does not look out of window.   And if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by? There arewomen enough in the world, Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks--too many; theyare at the bottom of all that goes wrong in it, though, for thematter of that, they create business for lawyers. What would it beto see a woman going by, even though she were going secretly? Theyare all secret. Mr. Tulkinghorn knows that very well.   But they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and hishouse behind, between whose plain dress and her refined mannerthere is something exceedingly inconsistent. She should be anupper servant by her attire, yet in her air and step, though bothare hurried and assumed--as far as she can assume in the muddystreets, which she treads with an unaccustomed foot--she is a lady.   Her face is veiled, and still she sufficiently betrays herself tomake more than one of those who pass her look round sharply.   She never turns her head. Lady or servant, she has a purpose inher and can follow it. She never turns her head until she comes tothe crossing where Jo plies with his broom. He crosses with herand begs. Still, she does not turn her head until she has landedon 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 herveil.   "I don't know," says Jo, staring moodily at the veil, "nothinkabout 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, doyou 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 Jo, following. "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! Youdidn't know him, did you?""How dare you ask me if I knew him?""No offence, my lady," says Jo with much humility, for even he hasgot 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 sayinganything offensive, merely as a tribute of admiration.   "Listen and be silent. Don't talk to me, and stand farther fromme! Can you show me all those places that were spoken of in theaccount I read? The place he wrote for, the place he died at, theplace 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 nod, having also nodded as each other place wasmentioned.   "Go before me and show me all those dreadful places. Stop oppositeto each, and don't speak to me unless I speak to you. Don't lookback. Do what I want, and I will pay you well."Jo attends closely while the words are being spoken; tells them offon his broom-handle, finding them rather hard; pauses to considertheir meaning; considers it satisfactory; and nods his ragged head.   "I'm fly," says Jo. "But fen larks, you 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 moneythan you ever had in your life."Jo screws up his mouth into a whistle, gives his ragged head a rub,takes his broom under his arm, and leads the way, passing deftlywith his bare feet over the hard stones and through the mud andmire.   Cook's Court. Jo stops. A pause.   "Who lives here?""Him wot give him his writing and give me half a bull," says Jo ina 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 asked, "In which room?""In the back room up there. You can see the winder from thiscorner. Up there! That's where I see him stritched out. This isthe public-ouse where I was took to.""Go on to the next!"It is a longer walk to the next, but Jo, relieved of his firstsuspicions, sticks to the forms imposed upon him and does not lookround. By many devious ways, reeking with offence of many kinds,they come to the little tunnel of a court, and to the gas-lamp(lighted now), and to the iron gate.   "He was put there," says Jo, holding to the bars and looking in.   "Where? Oh, what a scene of horror!""There!" says Jo, pointing. "Over yinder. Arnong them piles ofbones, and close to that there kitchin winder! They put him werynigh the top. They was obliged to stamp upon it to git it in. Icould unkiver it for you with my broom if the gate was open.   That's why they locks it, I s'pose," giving it a shake. "It'salways locked. Look at the rat!" cries Jo, excited. "Hi! Look!   There he goes! Ho! Into the ground!"The servant shrinks into a corner, into a corner of that hideousarchway, with its deadly stains contaminating her dress; andputting out her two hands and passionately telling him to keep awayfrom her, for he is loathsome to her, so 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 Jo, stillstaring.   "Is it blessed?""Which?" says Jo, in the last degree amazed.   "Is it blessed?""I'm blest if I know," says Jo, staring more than ever; "but Ishouldn't think it warn't. Blest?" repeats Jo, something troubledin his mind. "It an't done it much good if it is. Blest? Ishould 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 totake of what she has said herself. She draws off her glove to getsome money from her purse. Jo silently notices how white and smallher hand is and what a jolly servant she must be to wear suchsparkling rings.   She drops a piece of money in his hand without touching it, andshuddering as their hands approach. "Now," she adds, "show me thespot again!"Jo thrusts the handle of his broom between the bars of the gate,and with his utmost power of elaboration, points it out. Atlength, looking 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-lightand to be overpowered at finding that it is yellow--gold. His nextis to give it a one-sided bite at the edge as a test of itsquality. His next, to put it in his mouth for safety and to sweepthe step and passage with great care. His job done, he sets offfor Tom-all-Alone's, stopping in the light of innumerable gas-lampsto produce the piece of gold and give it another one-sided bite asa reassurance of its being genuine.   The Mercury in powder is in no want of society to-night, for myLady goes to a grand dinner and three or four balls. Sir Leicesteris fidgety down at Chesney Wold, with no better company than thegoat; he complains to Mrs. Rouncewell that the rain makes such amonotonous pattering on the terrace that he can't read the papereven by the fireside in his own snug dressing-room.   "Sir Leicester would have done better to try the other side of thehouse, my dear," says Mrs. Rouncewell to Rosa. "His dressing-roomis on my Lady's side. And in all these years I never heard thestep upon the Ghost's Walk more distinct than it is to-night!" Chapter 17 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 quickabilities, his good spirits, his good temper, his gaiety andfreshness, was always delightful. But though I liked him more andmore the better I knew him, I still felt more and more how much itwas to be regretted that he had been educated in no habits ofapplication and concentration. The system which had addressed himin exactly the same manner as it had addressed hundreds of otherboys, all varying in character and capacity, had enabled him todash through his tasks, always with fair credit and often withdistinction, but in a fitful, dazzling way that had confirmed hisreliance on those very qualities in himself which it had been mostdesirable to direct and train. They were good qualities, withoutwhich no high place can be meritoriously won, but like fire andwater, though excellent servants, they were very bad masters. Ifthey had been under Richard's direction, they would have been hisfriends; but Richard being under their direction, they became hisenemies.   I write down these opinions not because I believe that this or anyother thing was so because I thought so, but only because I didthink so and I want to be quite candid about all I thought and did.   These were my thoughts about Richard. I thought I often observedbesides how right my guardian was in what he had said, and that theuncertainties and delays of the Chancery suit had imparted to hisnature something of the careless spirit of a gamester who felt thathe was part of a great gaming system.   Mr. and Mrs. Bayham Badger coming one afternoon when my guardianwas not at home, in the course of conversation I naturally inquiredafter Richard.   "Why, Mr. Carstone," said Mrs. Badger, "is very well and is, Iassure you, a great acquisition to our society. Captain Swosserused to say of me that I was always better than land a-head and abreeze a-starn to the midshipmen's mess when the purser's junk hadbecome as tough as the fore-topsel weather earings. It was hisnaval way of mentioning generally that I was an acquisition to anysociety. 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 no, as Mrs. Badger's insinuating tone seemed to require suchan answer.   "Nor Miss Clare?" said Mrs. Bayham Badger sweetly.   Ada said no, too, and looked uneasy.   "Why, you see, my dears," said Mrs. Badger, "--you'll excuse mecalling 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. Badger, "so perfectly charming. You see, my dears,that although I am still young--or Mr. Bayham Badger pays me thecompliment of saying so--""No," Mr. Badger called out like some one contradicting at a publicmeeting. "Not at all!""Very well," smiled Mrs. Badger, "we will say still young.""Undoubtedly," said Mr. Badger.   "My dears, though still young, I have had many opportunities ofobserving young men. There were many such on board the dear oldCrippler, I assure you. After that, when I was with CaptainSwosser in the Mediterranean, I embraced every opportunity ofknowing and befriending the midshipmen under Captain Swosser'scommand. YOU never heard them called the young gentlemen, mydears, and probably wonld not understand allusions to their pipe-claying their weekly accounts, but it is otherwise with me, forblue water has been a second home to me, and I have been quite asailor. 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. Badger, speaking of her former husbands as if they wereparts of a charade, "I still enjoyed opportunities of observingyouth. The class attendant on Professor Dingo's lectures was alarge one, and it became my pride, as the wife of an eminentscientific man seeking herself in science the utmost consolation itcould impart, to throw our house open to the students as a kind ofScientific Exchange. Every Tuesday evening there was lemonade anda 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. Badgerreverentially. "There must have been great intellectual frictiongoing on there under the auspices of such a man!""And now," pursued Mrs. Badger, "now that I am the wife of my dearthird, Mr. Badger, I still pursue those habits of observation whichwere formed during the lifetime of Captain Swosser and adapted tonew and unexpected purposes during the lifetime of Professor Dingo.   I therefore have not come to the consideration of Mr. Carstone as aneophyte. And yet I am very much of the opinion, my dears, that hehas not chosen his profession advisedly."Ada looked so very anxious now that I asked Mrs. Badger on what shefounded her supposition.   "My dear Miss Summerson," she replied, "on Mr. Carstone's characterand conduct. He is of such a very easy disposition that probablyhe would never think it worthwhile to mention how he really feels,but he feels languid about the profession. He has not thatpositive interest in it which makes it his vocation. If he has anydecided impression in reference to it, I should say it was that itis a tiresome pursuit. Now, this is not promising. Young men likeMr. Allan Woodcourt who take it from a strong interest in all thatit can do will find some reward in it through a great deal of workfor a very little money and through years of considerable enduranceand disappointment. But I am quite convinced that this would neverbe the case with Mr. Carstone.""Does Mr. Badger think so too?" asked Ada timidly.   "Why," said Mr. Badger, "to tell the truth, Miss Clare, this viewof the matter had not occurred to me until Mrs. Badger mentionedit. But when Mrs. Badger put it in that light, I naturally gavegreat consideration to it, knowing that Mrs. Badger's mind, inaddition to its natural advantages, has had the rare advantage ofbeing formed by two such very distinguished (I will even sayillustrious) public men as Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy andProfessor Dingo. The conclusion at which I have arrived is--inshort, is Mrs. Badger's conclusion.""It was a maxim of Captain Swosser's," said Mrs. Badger, "speakingin his figurative naval manner, that when you make pitch hot, youcannot 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 tome that this maxim is applicable to the medical as well as to thenautical profession.   "To all professions," observed Mr. Badger. "It was admirably saidby Captain Swosser. Beautifully said.""People objected to Professor Dingo when we were staying in thenorth of Devon after our marriage," said Mrs. Badger, "that hedisfigured some of the houses and other buildings by chipping offfragments of those edifices with his little geological hammer. Butthe professor replied that he knew of no building save the Templeof Science. The principle is the same, I think?""Precisely the same," said Mr. Badger. "Finely expressed! Theprofessor made the same remark, Miss Summerson, in his lastillness, when (his mind wandering) he insisted on keeping hislittle hammer under the pillow and chipping at the countenances ofthe attendants. The ruling passion!"Although we could have dispensed with the length at which Mr. andMrs. Badger pursued the conversation, we both felt that it wasdisinterested in them to express the opinion they had communicatedto us and that there was a great probability of its being sound.   We agreed to say nothing to Mr. Jarndyce until we had spoken toRichard; and as he was coming next evening, we resolved to have avery serious talk with him.   So after he had been a little while with Ada, I went in and foundmy darling (as I knew she would be) prepared to consider himthoroughly right in whatever he said.   "And how do you get on, Richard?" said I. I always sat down on theother 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 pettriumphantly.   I tried to look at my pet in the wisest manner, but of course Icouldn't.   "Well enough?" I repeated.   "Yes," said Richard, "well enough. It's rather jog-trotty andhumdrum. 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 aswell as anything else, it will do very well, I hope.""Oh, yes, I hope so," returned Richard, carelessly tossing his hairfrom his forehead. "After all, it may be only a kind of probationtill our suit is--I forgot though. I am not to mention the suit.   Forbidden ground! Oh, yes, it's all right enough. Let us talkabout something else."Ada would have done so willingly, and with a full persuasion thatwe had brought the question to a most satisfactory state. But Ithought it would be useless to stop there, so I began again.   "No, but Richard," said I, "and my dear Ada! Consider howimportant it is to you both, and what a point of honour it istowards your cousin, that you, Richard, should be quite in earnestwithout 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 Richardis right."What was the use of my trying to look wise when she was so pretty,and so engaging, and so fond of him!   "Mr. and Mrs. Badger were here yesterday, Richard," said I, "andthey seemed disposed to think that you had no great liking for theprofession.""Did they though?" said Richard. "Oh! Well, that rather alters thecase, because I had no idea that they thought so, and I should nothave liked to disappoint or inconvenience them. The fact is, Idon't care much about it. But, oh, it don't matter! It'll do aswell as anything else!""You hear him, Ada!" said I.   "The fact is," Richard proceeded, half thoughtfully and halfjocosely, "it is not quite in my way. I don't take to it. And Iget too much of Mrs. Bayham Badger's first and second.""I am sure THAT'S very natural!" cried Ada, quite delighted. "Thevery thing we both said yesterday, Esther!""Then," pursued Richard, "it's monotonous, and to-day is too likeyesterday, and to-morrow is too like to-day.""But I am afraid," said I, "this is an objection to all kinds ofapplication--to life itself, except under some very uncommoncircumstances.""Do you think so?" returned Richard, still considering. "Perhaps!   Ha! Why, then, you know," he added, suddenly becoming gay again,"we travel outside a circle to what I said just now. It'll do aswell as anything else. Oh, it's all right enough! Let us talkabout something else."But even Ada, with her loving face--and if it had seemed innocentand trusting when I first saw it in that memorable November fog,how much more did it seem now when I knew her innocent and trustingheart--even Ada shook her head at this and looked serious. So Ithought it a good opportunity to hint to Richard that if he weresometimes a little careless of himself, I was very sure he nevermeant to be careless of Ada, and that it was a part of hisaffectionate consideration for her not to slight the importance ofa step that might influence both their lives. This made him almostgrave.   "My dear Mother Hubbard," he said, "that's the very thing! I havethought of that several times and have been quite angry with myselffor meaning to be so much in earnest and--somehow--not exactlybeing so. I don't know how it is; I seem to want something orother to stand by. Even you have no idea how fond I am of Ada (mydarling cousin, I love you, so much!), but I don't settle down toconstancy in other things. It's such uphill work, and it takessuch a time!" said Richard with an air of vexation.   "That may be," I suggested, "because you don't like what you havechosen.""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 triedagain, but how could I do it, or how could it have any effect if Icould, while Ada rested her clasped hands upon his shoulder andwhile he looked at her tender blue eyes, and while they looked athim!   "You see, my precious girl," said Richard, passing her golden curlsthrough and through his hand, "I was a little hasty perhaps; or Imisunderstood my own inclinations perhaps. They don't seem to liein that direction. I couldn't tell till I tried. Now the questionis whether it's worth-while to undo all that has been done. Itseems like making a great disturbance about nothing particular.""My dear Richard," said I, "how CAN you say about nothingparticular?""I don't mean absolutely that," he returned. "I mean that it MAYbe nothing particular because I may never want it."Both Ada and I urged, in reply, not only that it was decidedlyworth-while to undo what had been done, but that it must be undone.   I then asked Richard whether he had thought of any more congenialpursuit.   "There, my dear Mrs. Shipton," said Richard, "you 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 Richard, "and if I wereplaced under articles to Kenge, I should have my eye on the--hum!--the forbidden ground--and should be able to study it, and masterit, and to satisfy myself that it was not neglected and was beingproperly conducted. I should be able to look after Ada's interestsand my own interests (the same thing!); and I should peg away atBlackstone and all those fellows with the most tremendous ardour."I was not by any means so sure of that, and I saw how his hankeringafter the vague things yet to come of those long-deferred hopescast a shade on Ada's face. But I thought it best to encourage himin any project of continuous exertion, and only advised him to bequite sure that his mind was made up now.   "My dear Minerva," said Richard, "I am as steady as you are. Imade a mistake; we are all liable to mistakes; I won't do so anymore, and I'll become such a lawyer as is not often seen. That is,you know," said Richard, relapsing into doubt, "if it really isworth-while, after all, to make such a disturbance about nothingparticular!"This led to our saying again, with a great deal of gravity, allthat we had said already and to our coming to much the sameconclusion afterwards. But we so strongly advised Richard to befrank and open with Mr. Jarndyce, without a moment's delay, and hisdisposition was naturally so opposed to concealment that he soughthim out at once (taking us with him) and made a full avowal.   "Rick," said my guardian, after hearing him attentively, "we canretreat with honour, and we will. But we must he careful--for ourcousin s sake, Rick, for our cousin's sake--that we make no moresuch mistakes. Therefore, in the matter of the law, we will have agood trial before we decide. We will look before we leap, and takeplenty of time about it."Richard's energy was of such an impatient and fitful kind that hewould have liked nothing better than to have gone to Mr. Kenge'soffice in that hour and to have entered into articles with him onthe spot. Submitting, however, with a good grace to the cautionthat we had shown to be so necessary, he contented himself withsitting down among us in his lightest spirits and talking as if hisone unvarying purpose in life from childhood had been that onewhich now held possession of him. My guardian was very kind andcordial with him, but rather grave, enough so to cause Ada, when hehad departed and we were going upstairs to bed, to say, "CousinJohn, 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 insuch 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 Ada, smiling cheerfully,with her hand upon his shoulder, where she had put it in biddinghim good night. "But I should be a little so if you thought at allthe worse of Richard.""My dear," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I should think the worse of him onlyif you were ever in the least unhappy through his means. I shouldbe more disposed to quarrel with myself even then, than with poorRick, 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 ofhim? Not I, my loving cousin! And not you, I swear!""No, indeed, cousin John," said Ada, "I am sure I could not--I amsure 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 othertime!"So quietly and honestly she said it, with her hands upon hisshoulders--both hands now--and looking up into his face, like thepicture of truth!   "I think," said my guardian, thoughtfully regarding her, "I thinkit must be somewhere written that the virtues of the mothers shalloccasionally be visited on the children, as well as the sins of thefather. 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 eyeswith something of a shadow on their benevolent expression. I wellremembered the look with which he had contemplated her and Richardwhen she was singing in the firelight; it was but a very littlewhile since he had watched them passing down the room in which thesun was shining, and away into the shade; but his glance waschanged, and even the silent look of confidence in me which nowfollowed it once more was not quite so hopeful and untroubled as ithad originally been.   Ada praised Richard more to me that night than ever she had praisedhim yet. She went to sleep with a little bracelet he had given herclasped upon her arm. I fancied she was dreaming of him when Ikissed her cheek after she had slept an hour and saw how tranquiland happy she looked.   For I was so little inclined to sleep myself that night that I satup working. It would not be worth mentioning for its own sake, butI was wakeful and rather low-spirited. I don't know why. At leastI don't think I know why. At least, perhaps I do, but I don'tthink it matters.   At any rate, I made up my mind to be so dreadfully industrious thatI would leave myself not a moment's leisure to be low-spirited.   For I naturally said, "Esther! You to be low-spirited. YOU!" Andit really was time to say so, for I--yes, I really did see myselfin the glass, almost crying. "As if you had anything to make youunhappy, instead of everything to make you happy, you ungratefulheart!" said I.   If I could have made myself go to sleep, I would have done itdirectly, but not being able to do that, I took out of my basketsome ornamental work for our house (I mean Bleak House) that I wasbusy with at that time and sat down to it with great determination.   It was necessary to count all the stitches in that work, and Iresolved to go on with it until I couldn't keep my eyes open, andthen to go to bed.   I soon found myself very busy. But I had left some silk downstairsin a work-table drawer in the temporary growlery, and coming to astop for want of it, I took my candle and went softly down to getit. To my great surprise, on going in I found my guardian stillthere, and sitting looking at the ashes. He was lost in thought,his book lay unheeded by his side, his silvered iron-grey hair wasscattered confusedly upon his forehead as though his hand had beenwandering among it while his thoughts were elsewhere, and his facelooked worn. Almost frightened by coming upon him so unexpectedly,I stood still for a moment and should have retired without speakinghad he not, in again passing his hand abstractedly through hishair, seen 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 I, "because I couldn't sleep andwished to tire myself. But, dear guardian, you are late too, andlook 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 meaning, "That I could readilyunderstand!""Remain a moment, Esther," said he, "You were in my thoughts.""I hope I was not the trouble, guardian?"He slightly waved his hand and fell into his usual manner. Thechange was so remarkable, and he appeared to make it by dint of somuch self-command, that I found myself again inwardly repeating,"None that I could understand!""Little woman," said my guardian, "I was thinking--that is, I havebeen thinking since I have been sitting here--that you ought toknow of your own history all I know. It is very little. Next tonothing.""Dear guardian," I replied, "when you spoke to me before on thatsubject--""But since then," he gravely interposed, anticipating what I meantto say, "I have reflected that your having anything to ask me, andmy 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 gently, and kindly, and verydistinctly. "My dear, I think so now. If any real disadvantagecan attach to your position in the mind of any man or woman worth athought, it is right that you at least of all the world should notmagnify 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 oughtto be, "One of my earliest remembrances, guardian, is of thesewords: 'Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers.   The time will come, and soon enough, when you will understand thisbetter, and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can.'" I hadcovered my face with my hands in repeating the words, but I tookthem away now with a better kind of shame, I hope, and told himthat to him I owed the blessing that I had from my childhood tothat hour never, never, never felt it. He put up his hand as if tostop me. I well knew that he was never to be thanked, and said nomore.   "Nine years, my dear," he said after thinking for a little while,"have passed since I received a letter from a lady living inseclusion, written with a stern passion and power that rendered itunlike all other letters I have ever read. It was written to me(as it told me in so many words), perhaps because it was thewriter's idiosyncrasy to put that trust in me, perhaps because itwas mine to justify it. It told me of a child, an orphan girl thentwelve years old, in some such cruel words as those which live inyour remembrance. It told me that the writer had bred her insecrecy 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. Itasked me to consider if I would, in that case, finish what thewriter had begun."I listened in silence and looked attentively at him.   "Your early recollection, my dear, will supply the gloomy mediumthrough which all this was seen and expressed by the writer, andthe distorted religion which clouded her mind with impressions ofthe need there was for the child to expiate an offence of which shewas quite innocent. I felt concerned for the little creature, inher 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 seethe writer, who had long been estranged from all intercourse withthe world, but who would see a confidential agent if I wouldappoint one. I accredited Mr. Kenge. The lady said, of her ownaccord 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, thechild's aunt. That more than this she would never (and he was wellpersuaded of the steadfastness of her resolution) for any humanconsideration 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 added, cheerily makinglight of it, "and I always knew she was beloved, useful, and happy.   She repays me twenty-thousandfold, and twenty more to that, everyhour in every day!""And oftener still," said I, '"she blesses the guardian who is afather to her!"At the word father, I saw his former trouble come into his face.   He subdued it as before, and it was gone in an instant; but it hadbeen there and it had come so swiftly upon my words that I felt asif they had given him a shock. I again inwardly repeated,wondering, "That I could readily understand. None that I couldreadily understand!" No, it was true. I did not understand it.   Not for many and many a day.   "Take a fatherly good night, my dear," said he, kissing me on theforehead, "and so to rest. These are late hours for working andthinking. You do that for all of us, all day long, littlehousekeeper!"I neither worked nor thought any more that night. I opened mygrateful heart to heaven in thankfulness for its providence to meand its care of me, and fell asleep.   We had a visitor next day. Mr. Allan Woodcourt came. He came totake leave of us; he had settled to do so beforehand. He was goingto China and to India as a surgeon on board ship. He was to beaway a long, long time.   I believe--at least I know--that he was not rich. All his widowedmother could spare had been spent in qualifying him for hisprofession. It was not lucrative to a young practitioner, withvery little influence in London; and although he was, night andday, at the service of numbers of poor people and did wonders ofgentleness and skill for them, he gained very little by it inmoney. He was seven years older than I. Not that I need mentionit, for it hardly seems to belong to anything.   I think--I mean, he told us--that he had been in practice three orfour years and that if he could have hoped to contend through threeor four more, he would not have made the voyage on which he wasbound. But he had no fortune or private means, and so he was goingaway. He had been to see us several times altogether. We thoughtit a pity he should go away. Because he was distinguished in hisart among those who knew it best, and some of the greatest menbelonging to it had a high opinion of him.   When he came to bid us good-bye, he brought his mother with him forthe first time. She was a pretty old lady, with bright black eyes,but she seemed proud. She came from Wales and had had, a long timeago, an eminent person for an ancestor, of the name of Morgan ap-Kerrig--of some place that sounded like Gimlet--who was the mostillustrious person that ever was known and all of whose relationswere a sort of royal family. He appeared to have passed his lifein always getting up into mountains and fighting somebody; and abard whose name sounded like Crumlinwallinwer had sung his praisesin a piece which was called, as nearly as I could catch it,Mewlinnwillinwodd.   Mrs. Woodcourt, after expatiating to us on the fame of her greatkinsman, said that no doubt wherever her son Allan went he wouldremember his pedigree and would on no account form an alliancebelow it. She told him that there were many handsome Englishladies in India who went out on speculation, and that there weresome to be picked up with property, but that neither charms norwealth would suffice for the descendant from such a line withoutbirth, which must ever be the first consideration. She talked somuch about birth that for a moment I half fancied, and with pain--But what an idle fancy to suppose that she could think or care whatMINE was!   Mr. Woodcourt seemed a little distressed by her prolixity, but hewas too considerate to let her see it and contrived delicately tobring the conversation round to making his acknowledgments to myguardian for his hospitality and for the very happy hours--hecalled them the very happy hours--he had passed with us. Therecollection of them, he said, would go with him wherever he wentand would be always treasured. And so we gave him our hands, oneafter another--at least, they did--and I did; and so he put hislips 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 theservants, and wrote notes for my guardian, and dusted his books andpapers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a good deal, one way andanother. I was still busy between the lights, singing and workingby the window, when who should come in but Caddy, whom I had noexpectation of seeing!   "Why, Caddy, my dear," said I, "what beautiful flowers!"She had such an exquisite little nosegay in her hand.   "Indeed, I think so, Esther," replied Caddy. "They are theloveliest I ever saw.""Prince, my dear?" said I in a whisper.   "No," answered Caddy, shaking her head and holding them to me tosmell. "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 repeated, pinching hercheek.   Caddy only laughed in return, and telling me that she had come forhalf an hour, at the expiration of which time Prince would bewaiting for her at the corner, sat chatting with me and Ada in thewindow, every now and then handing me the flowers again or tryinghow they looked against my hair. At last, when she was going, shetook me into my room and put them in my dress.   "For me?" said I, surprised.   "For you," said Caddy with a kiss. "They were left behind bysomebody.""Left behind?""At poor Miss Flite's," said Caddy. "Somebody who has been verygood to her was hurrying away an hour ago to join a ship and leftthese flowers behind. No, no! Don't take them out. Let thepretty little things lie here," said Caddy, adjusting them with acareful hand, "because I was present myself, and I shouldn't wonderif somebody left them on purpose!""Do they look like that sort of thing?" said Ada, coming laughinglybehind me and clasping me merrily round the waist. "Oh, yes,indeed they do, Dame Durden! They look very, very like that sortof thing. Oh, very like it indeed, my dear!" Chapter 18 Lady Dedlock It was not so easy as it had appeared at first to arrange forRichard's making a trial of Mr. Kenge's office. Richard himselfwas the chief impediment. As soon as he had it in his power toleave Mr. Badger at any moment, he began to doubt whether he wantedto leave him at all. He didn't know, he said, really. It wasn't abad profession; he couldn't assert that he disliked it; perhaps heliked it as well as he liked any other--suppose he gave it one morechance! Upon that, he shut himself up for a few weeks with somebooks and some bones and seemed to acquire a considerable fund ofinformation with great rapidity. His fervour, after lasting abouta month, began to cool, and when it was quite cooled, began to growwarm again. His vacillations between law and medicine lasted solong that midsummer arrived before he finally separated from Mr.   Badger and entered on an experimental course of Messrs. Kenge andCarboy. For all his waywardness, he took great credit to himselfas being determined to be in earnest "this time." And he was sogood-natured throughout, and in such high spirits, and so fond ofAda, that it was very difficult indeed to be otherwise than pleasedwith him.   "As to Mr. Jarndyce," who, I may mention, found the wind muchgiven, during this period, to stick in the east; "As to Mr.   Jarndyce," Richard would say to me, "he is the finest fellow in theworld, Esther! I must be particularly careful, if it were only forhis satisfaction, to take myself well to task and have a regularwind-up of this business now."The idea of his taking himself well to task, with that laughingface and heedless manner and with a fancy that everything couldcatch and nothing could hold, was ludicrously anomalous. However,he told us between-whiles that he was doing it to such an extentthat he wondered his hair didn't turn grey. His regular wind-up ofthe business was (as I have said) that he went to Mr. Kenge's aboutmidsummer to try how he liked it.   All this time he was, in money affairs, what I have described himin a former illustration--generous, profuse, wildly careless, butfully persuaded that he was rather calculating and prudent. Ihappened to say to Ada, in his presence, half jestingly, halfseriously, about the time of his going to Mr. Kenge's, that heneeded to have Fortunatus' purse, he made so light of money, whichhe answered in this way, "My jewel of a dear cousin, you hear thisold woman! Why does she say that? Because I gave eight pounds odd(or whatever it was) for a certain neat waistcoat and buttons a fewdays ago. Now, if I had stayed at Badger's I should have beenobliged to spend twelve pounds at a blow for some heart-breakinglecture-fees. So I make four pounds--in a lump--by thetransaction!"It was a question much discussed between him and my guardian whatarrangements should be made for his living in London while heexperimented on the law, for we had long since gone back to BleakHouse, and it was too far off to admit of his coming there oftenerthan once a week. My guardian told me that if Richard were tosettle down at Mr. Kenge's he would take some apartments orchambers where we too could occasionally stay for a few days at atime; "but, little woman," he added, rubbing his head verysignificantly, "he hasn't settled down there yet!" The discussionsended in our hiring for him, by the month, a neat little furnishedlodging in a quiet old house near Queen Square. He immediatelybegan to spend all the money he had in buying the oddest littleornaments and luxuries for this lodging; and so often as Ada and Idissuaded him from making any purchase that he had in contemplationwhich was particularly unnecessary and expensive, he took creditfor what it would have cost and made out that to spend anythingless on something else was to save the difference.   While these affairs were in abeyance, our visit to Mr. Boythorn'swas postponed. At length, Richard having taken possession of hislodging, there was nothing to prevent our departure. He could havegone with us at that time of the year very well, but he was in thefull novelty of his new position and was making most energeticattempts to unravel the mysteries of the fatal suit. Consequentlywe went without him, and my darling was delighted to praise him forbeing so busy.   We made a pleasant journey down into Lincolnshire by the coach andhad an entertaining companion in Mr. Skimpole. His furniture hadbeen all cleared off, it appeared, by the person who tookpossession of it on his blue-eyed daughter's birthday, but heseemed quite relieved to think that it was gone. Chairs and table,he said, were wearisome objects; they were monotonous ideas, theyhad no variety of expression, they looked you out of countenance,and you looked them out of countenance. How pleasant, then, to bebound to no particular chairs and tables, but to sport like abutterfly among all the furniture on hire, and to flit fromrosewood to mahogany, and from mahogany to walnut, and from thisshape to that, as the humour took one!   "The oddity of the thing is," said Mr. Skimpole with a quickenedsense of the ludicrous, "that my chairs and tables were not paidfor, and yet my landlord walks off with them as composedly aspossible. Now, that seems droll! There is something grotesque init. The chair and table merchant never engaged to pay my landlordmy rent. Why should my landlord quarrel with HIM? If I have apimple on my nose which is disagreeable to my landlord's peculiarideas of beauty, my landlord has no business to scratch my chairand table merchant's nose, which has no pimple on it. Hisreasoning seems defective!""Well," said my guardian good-humouredly, "it's pretty clear thatwhoever became security for those chairs and tables will have topay for them.""Exactly!" returned Mr. Skimpole. "That's the crowning point ofunreason in the business! I said to my landlord, 'My good man, youare not aware that my excellent friend Jarndyce will have to payfor those things that you are sweeping off in that indelicatemanner. Have you no consideration for HIS property?' He hadn't theleast.""And refused all proposals," said my guardian.   "Refused all proposals," returned Mr. Skimpole. "I made himbusiness proposals. I had him into my room. I said, 'You are aman of business, I believe?' He replied, 'I am,' 'Very well,'   said I, 'now let us be business-like. Here is an inkstand, hereare pens and paper, here are wafers. What do you want? I haveoccupied your house for a considerable period, I believe to ourmutual satisfaction until this unpleasant misunderstanding arose;let us be at once friendly and business-like. What do you want?'   In reply to this, he made use of the figurative expression--whichhas something Eastern about it--that he had never seen the colourof my money. 'My amiable friend,' said I, 'I never have any money.   I never know anything about money.' 'Well, sir,' said he, 'what doyou offer if I give you time?' 'My good fellow,' said I, 'I haveno idea of time; but you say you are a man of business, andwhatever you can suggest to be done in a business-like way withpen, and ink, and paper--and wafers--I am ready to do. Don't payyourself at another man's expense (which is foolish), but bebusiness-like!' However, he wouldn't be, and there was an end ofit."If these were some of the inconveniences of Mr. Skimpole'schildhood, it assuredly possessed its advantages too. On thejourney he had a very good appetite for such refreshment as came inour way (including a basket of choice hothouse peaches), but neverthought of paying for anything. So when the coachman came roundfor his fee, he pleasantly asked him what he considered a very goodfee indeed, now--a liberal one--and on his replying half a crownfor a single passenger, said it was little enough too, all thingsconsidered, and left Mr. Jarndyce to give it him.   It was delightful weather. The green corn waved so beautifully,the larks sang so joyfully, the hedges were so full of wildflowers, the trees were so thickly out in leaf, the bean-fields,with a light wind blowing over them, filled the air with such adelicious fragrance! Late in the afternoon we came to the market-town where we were to alight from the coach--a dull little townwith a church-spire, and a marketplace, and a market-cross, and oneintensely sunny street, and a pond with an old horse cooling hislegs in it, and a very few men sleepily lying and standing about innarrow little bits of shade. After the rustling of the leaves andthe waving of the corn all along the road, it looked as still, ashot, as motionless a little town as England could produce.   At the inn we found Mr. Boythorn on horseback, waiting with an opencarriage to take us to his house, which was a few miles off. Hewas over-joyed to see us and dismounted with great alacrity.   "By heaven!" said he after giving us a courteous greeting. This amost infamous coach. It is the most flagrant example of anabominable public vehicle that ever encumbered the face of theearth. 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. Skimpole, to whom he happened toaddress himself. "You know my infirmity.""Twenty-five minutes! Twenty-six minutes!" replied Mr. Boythorn,referring to his watch. "With two ladies in the coach, thisscoundrel has deliberately delayed his arrival six and twentyminutes. Deliberately! It is impossible that it can beaccidental! But his father--and his uncle--were the mostprofligate coachmen that ever sat upon a box."While he said this in tones of the greatest indignation, he handedus into the little phaeton with the utmost gentleness and was allsmiles and pleasure.   "I am sorry, ladies," he said, standing bare-headed at thecarriage-door when all was ready, "that I am obliged to conduct younearly two miles out of the way. But our direct road lies throughSir Leicester Dedlock's park, and in that fellow's property I havesworn never to set foot of mine, or horse's foot of mine, pendingthe present relations between us, while I breathe the breath oflife!" And here, catching my guardian's eye, he broke into one ofhis tremendous laughs, which seemed to shake even the motionlesslittle market-town.   "Are the Dedlocks down here, Lawrence?" said my guardian as wedrove along and Mr. Boythorn trotted on the green turf by theroadside.   "Sir Arrogant Numskull is here," replied Mr. Boythorn. "Ha ha ha!   Sir Arrogant is here, and I am glad to say, has been laid by theheels here. My Lady," in naming whom he always made a courtlygesture as if particularly to exclude her from any part in thequarrel, "is expected, I believe, daily. I am not in the leastsurprised that she postpones her appearance as long as possible.   Whatever can have induced that transcendent woman to marry thateffigy and figure-head of a baronet is one of the most impenetrablemysteries that ever baffled human inquiry. Ha ha ha ha!""I suppose, said my guardian, laughing, "WE may set foot in thepark while we are here? The prohibition does not extend to us,does it?""I can lay no prohibition on my guests," he said, bending his headto Ada and me with the smiling politeness which sat so gracefullyupon him, "except in the matter of their departure. I am onlysorry that I cannot have the happiness of being their escort aboutChesney Wold, which is a very fine place! But by the light of thissummer day, Jarndyce, if you call upon the owner while you staywith me, you are likely to have but a cool reception. He carrieshimself like an eight-day clock at all times, like one of a race ofeight-day clocks in gorgeous cases that never go and never went--Haha 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 asindifferent to the honour of knowing me, I dare say, as I am to thehonour of knowing him. The air of the grounds and perhaps such aview of the house as any other sightseer might get are quite enoughfor me.""Well!" said Mr. Boythorn. "I am glad of it on the whole. It's inbetter keeping. I am looked upon about here as a second Ajaxdefying the lightning. Ha ha ha ha! When I go into our littlechurch on a Sunday, a considerable part of the inconsiderablecongregation expect to see me drop, scorched and withered, on thepavement under the Dedlock displeasure. Ha ha ha ha! I have nodoubt he is surprised that I don't. For he is, by heaven, the mostself-satisfied, and the shallowest, and the most coxcombical andutterly brainless ass!"Our coming to the ridge of a hill we had been ascending enabled ourfriend to point out Chesney Wold itself to us and diverted hisattention from its master.   It was a picturesque old house in a fine park richly wooded. Amongthe trees and not far from the residence he pointed out the spireof the little church of which he had spoken. Oh, the solemn woodsover which the light and shadow travelled swiftly, as if heavenlywings were sweeping on benignant errands through the summer air;the smooth green slopes, the glittering water, the garden where theflowers were so symmetrically arranged in clusters of the richestcolours, how beautiful they looked! The house, with gable andchimney, and tower, and turret, and dark doorway, and broadterrace-walk, twining among the balustrades of which, and lyingheaped upon the vases, there was one great flush of roses, seemedscarcely real in its light solidity and in the serene and peacefulhush that rested on all around it. To Ada and to me, that aboveall appeared the pervading influence. On everything, house,garden, terrace, green slopes, water, old oaks, fern, moss, woodsagain, and far away across the openings in the prospect to thedistance lying wide before us with a purple bloom upon it, thereseemed to be such undisturbed repose.   When we came into the little village and passed a small inn withthe sign of the Dedlock Arms swinging over the road in front, Mr.   Boythorn interchanged greetings with a young gentleman sitting on abench outside the inn-door who had some fishing-tackle lying besidehim.   "That's the housekeeper's grandson, Mr. Rouncewell by name," said,he, "and he is in love with a pretty girl up at the house. LadyDedlock has taken a fancy to the pretty girl and is going to keepher about her own fair person--an honour which my young friendhimself does not at all appreciate. However, he can't marry justyet, even if his Rosebud were willing; so he is fain to make thebest of it. In the meanwhile, he comes here pretty often for a dayor 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 returned, "I think they may perhapsunderstand each other; but you will see them soon, I dare say, andI must learn from you on such a point--not you from me."Ada blushed, and Mr. Boythorn, trotting forward on his comely greyhorse, dismounted at his own door and stood ready with extended armand uncovered head to welcome us when we arrived.   He lived in a pretty house, formerly the parsonage house, with alawn in front, a bright flower-garden at the side, and a well-stocked orchard and kitchen-garden in the rear, enclosed with avenerable wall that had of itself a ripened ruddy look. But,indeed, everything about the place wore an aspect of maturity andabundance. The old lime-tree walk was like green cloisters, thevery shadows of the cherry-trees and apple-trees were heavy withfruit, the gooseberry-bushes were so laden that their branchesarched and rested on the earth, the strawberries and raspberriesgrew in like profusion, and the peaches basked by the hundred onthe wall. Tumbled about among the spread nets and the glass framessparkling and winking in the sun there were such heaps of droopingpods, and marrows, and cucumbers, that every foot of groundappeared a vegetable treasury, while the smell of sweet herbs andall kinds of wholesome growth (to say nothing of the neighbouringmeadows where the hay was carrying) made the whole air a greatnosegay. Such stillness and composure reigned within the orderlyprecincts of the old red wall that even the feathers hung ingarlands to scare the birds hardly stirred; and the wall had such aripening influence that where, here and there high up, a disusednail and scrap of list still clung to it, it was easy to fancy thatthey had mellowed with the changing seasons and that they hadrusted and decayed according to the common fate.   The house, though a little disorderly in comparison with thegarden, was a real old house with settles in the chimney of thebrick-floored kitchen and great beams across the ceilings. On oneside of it was the terrible piece of ground in dispute, where Mr.   Boythorn maintained a sentry in a smock-frock day and night, whoseduty was supposed to be, in cases of aggression, immediately toring a large bell hung up there for the purpose, to unchain a greatbull-dog established in a kennel as his ally, and generally to dealdestruction on the enemy. Not content with these precautions, Mr.   Boythorn had himself composed and posted there, on painted boardsto which his name was attached in large letters, the followingsolemn 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 alltimes of the day and night. Lawrence Boythorn." "Take notice.   That any person or persons audaciously presuming to trespass onthis property will be punished with the utmost severity of privatechastisement and prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law.   Lawrence Boythorn." These he showed us from the drawing-roomwindow, while his bird was hopping about his head, and he laughed,"Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!" to that extent as he pointed them outthat I really thought he would have hurt himself.   "But this is taking a good deal of trouble," said Mr. Skimpole inhis light way, "when 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 havebought a lion instead of that dog and would have turned him looseupon the first intolerable robber who should dare to make anencroachment on my rights. Let Sir Leicester Dedlock consent tocome out and decide this question by single combat, and I will meethim with any weapon known to mankind in any age or country. I amthat much in earnest. Not more!"We arrived at his house on a Saturday. On the Sunday morning weall set forth to walk to the little church in the park. Enteringthe park, almost immediately by the disputed ground, we pursued apleasant footpath winding among the verdant turf and the beautifultrees until it brought us to the church-porch.   The congregation was extremely small and quite a rustic one withthe exception of a large muster of servants from the house, some ofwhom were already in their seats, while others were yet droppingin. There were some stately footmen, and there was a perfectpicture of an old coachman, who looked as if he were the officialrepresentative of all the pomps and vanities that had ever been putinto his coach. There was a very pretty show of young women, andabove them, the handsome old face and fine responsible portlyfigure of the housekeeper towered pre-eminent. The pretty girl ofwhom Mr. Boythorn had told us was close by her. She was so verypretty that I might have known her by her beauty even if I had notseen how blushingly conscious she was of the eyes of the youngfisherman, whom I discovered not far off. One face, and not anagreeable one, though it was handsome, seemed maliciously watchfulof this pretty girl, and 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 church, which smelt as earthy as agrave, and to think what a shady, ancient, solemn little church itwas. The windows, heavily shaded by trees, admitted a subduedlight that made the faces around me pale, and darkened the oldbrasses in the pavement and the time and damp-worn monuments, andrendered the sunshine in the little porch, where a monotonousringer was working at the bell, inestimably bright. But a stir inthat direction, a gathering of reverential awe in the rustic faces,and a blandly ferocious assumption on the part of Mr. Boythorn ofbeing resolutely unconscious of somebody's existence forewarned methat the great people were come and that the service was going tobegin.   "'Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord, for in thysight--'"Shall I ever forget the rapid beating at my heart, occasioned bythe look I met as I stood up! Shall I ever forget the manner inwhich those handsome proud eyes seemed to spring out of theirlanguor and to hold mine! It was only a moment before I cast minedown--released again, if I may say so--on my book; but I knew thebeautiful face quite well in that short space of time.   And, very strangely, there was something quickened within me,associated with the lonely days at my godmother's; yes, away evento the days when I had stood on tiptoe to dress myself at my littleglass after dressing my doll. And this, although I had never seenthis lady's face before in all my life--I was quite sure of it--absolutely certain.   It was easy to know that the ceremonious, gouty, grey-hairedgentleman, the only other occupant of the great pew, was SirLeicester Dedlock, and that the lady was Lady Dedlock. But why herface should be, in a confused way, like a broken glass to me, inwhich I saw scraps of old remembrances, and why I should be sofluttered and troubled (for I was still) by having casually met hereyes, I could not think.   I felt it to be an unmeaning weakness in me and tried to overcomeit by attending to the words I heard. Then, very strangely, Iseemed to hear them, not in the reader's voice, but in the well-remembered voice of my godmother. This made me think, did LadyDedlock's face accidentally resemble my godmother's? It might bethat it did, a little; but the expression was so different, and thestern decision which had worn into my godmother's face, likeweather into rocks, was so completely wanting in the face before methat it could not be that resemblance which had struck me. Neitherdid I know the loftiness and haughtiness of Lady Dedlock's face, atall, in any one. And yet I--I, little Esther Summerson, the childwho lived a life apart and on whose birthday there was norejoicing--seemed to arise before my own eyes, evoked out of thepast by some power in this fashionable lady, whom I not onlyentertained no fancy that I had ever seen, but whom I perfectlywell knew I had never seen until that hour.   It made me tremble so to be thrown into this unaccountableagitation that I was conscious of being distressed even by theobservation of the French maid, though I knew she had been lookingwatchfully here, and there, and everywhere, from the moment of hercoming into the church. By degrees, though very slowly, I at lastovercame my strange emotion. After a long time, I looked towardsLady Dedlock again. It was while they were preparing to sing,before the sermon. She took no heed of me, and the beating at myheart was gone. Neither did it revive for more than a few momentswhen she once or twice afterwards glanced at Ada or at me throughher glass.   The service being concluded, Sir Leicester gave his arm with muchtaste and gallantry to Lady Dedlock--though he was obliged to walkby the help of a thick stick--and escorted her out of church to thepony carriage in which they had come. The servants then dispersed,and so did the congregation, whom Sir Leicester had contemplatedall along (Mr. Skimpole said to Mr. Boythorn's infinite delight) asif he were a considerable landed proprietor in heaven.   "He believes he is!" said Mr. Boythorn. "He firmly believes it.   So did his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather!""Do you know," pursued Mr. Skimpole very unexpectedly to Mr.   Boythorn, "it'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. "Verywell! 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 taketrouble? Here am I, content to receive things childishly as theyfall out, and I never take trouble! I come down here, forinstance, and I find a mighty potentate exacting homage. Verywell! I say 'Mighty potentate, here IS my homage! It's easier togive it than to withhold it. Here it is. If you have anything ofan agreeable nature to show me, I shall be happy to see it; if youhave anything of an agreeable nature to give me, I shall be happyto accept it.' Mighty potentate replies in effect, 'This is asensible fellow. I find him accord with my digestion and mybilious system. He doesn't impose upon me the necessity of rollingmyself up like a hedgehog with my points outward. I expand, Iopen, I turn my silver lining outward like Milton's cloud, and it'smore 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.   Boythorn, "where there was the opposite of that fellow--or of thisfellow. How then?""How then?" said Mr. Skimpole with an appearance of the utmostsimplicity and candour. "Just the same then! I should say, 'Myesteemed Boythorn'--to make you the personification of ourimaginary friend--'my esteemed Boythorn, you object to the mightypotentate? Very good. So do I. I take it that my business in thesocial system is to be agreeable; I take it that everybody'sbusiness in the social system is to be agreeable. It's a system ofharmony, in short. Therefore if you object, I object. Now,excellent Boythorn, let us go to dinner!'""But excellent Boythorn might say," returned our host, swelling andgrowing very red, "I'll be--""I understand," said Mr. Skimpole. "Very likely he would.""--if I WILL go to dinner!" cried Mr. Boythorn in a violent burstand stopping to strike his stick upon the ground. "And he wouldprobably add, 'Is there such a thing as principle, Mr. HaroldSkimpole?'""To which Harold Skimpole would reply, you know," he returned inhis gayest manner and with his most ingenuous smile, "'Upon my lifeI have not the least idea! I don't know what it is you call bythat name, or where it is, or who possesses it. If you possess itand find it comfortable, I am quite delighted and congratulate youheartily. But I know nothing about it, I assure you; for I am amere 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 alwaysexpected to end, and which I dare say would have ended under othercircumstances, in some violent explosion on the part of our host.   But he had so high a sense of his hospitable and responsibleposition as our entertainer, and my guardian laughed so sincerelyat and with Mr. Skimpole, as a child who blew bubbles and brokethem all day long, that matters never went beyond this point. Mr.   Skimpole, who always seemed quite unconscious of having been ondelicate ground, then betook himself to beginning some sketch inthe park which be never finished, or to playing fragments of airson the piano, or to singing scraps of songs, or to lying down onhis back under a tree and looking at the sky--which he couldn'thelp thinking, he said, was what he was meant for; it suited him soexactly.   "Enterprise and effort," he would say to us (on his back), aredelightful to me. I believe I am truly cosmopolitan. I have thedeepest sympathy with them. I lie in a shady place like this andthink of adventurous spirits going to the North Pole or penetratingto the heart of the Torrid Zone with admiration. Mercenarycreatures ask, 'What is the use of a man's going to the North Pole?   What good does it do?' I can't say; but, for anything I CAN say,he may go for the purpose--though he don't know it--of employing mythoughts as I lie here. Take an extreme case. Take the case ofthe slaves on American plantations. I dare say they are workedhard, I dare say they don't altogether like it. I dare say theirsis an unpleasant experience on the whole; but they people thelandscape for me, they give it a poetry for me, and perhaps that isone of the pleasanter objects of their existence. I am verysensible of it, if it be, and I shouldn't wonder if it were!"I always wondered on these occasions whether he ever thought ofMrs. Skimpole and the children, and in what point of view theypresented themselves to his cosmopolitan mind. So far as I couldunderstand, they rarely presented themselves at all.   The week had gone round to the Saturday following that beating ofmy heart in the church; and every day had been so bright and bluethat to ramble in the woods, and to see the light striking downamong the transparent leaves and sparkling in the beautifulinterlacings of the shadows of the trees, while the birds pouredout their songs and the air was drowsy with the hum of insects, hadbeen most delightful. We had one favourite spot, deep in moss andlast year's leaves, where there were some felled trees from whichthe bark was all stripped off. Seated among these, we lookedthrough a green vista supported by thousands of natural columns,the whitened stems of trees, upon a distant prospect made soradiant by its contrast with the shade in which we sat and made soprecious by the arched perspective through which we saw it that itwas like a glimpse of the better land. Upon the Saturday we sathere, Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and I, until we heard thunder muttering inthe distance and felt the large raindrops rattle through theleaves.   The weather had been all the week extremely sultry, but the stormbroke so suddenly--upon us, at least, in that sheltered spot--thatbefore we reached the outskirts of the wood the thunder andlightning were frequent and the rain came plunging through theleaves as if every drop were a great leaden bead. As it was not atime for standing among trees, we ran out of the wood, and up anddown the moss-grown steps which crossed the plantation-fence liketwo broad-staved ladders placed back to back, and made for akeeper's lodge which was close at hand. We had often noticed thedark beauty of this lodge standing in a deep twilight of trees, andhow the ivy clustered over it, and how there was a steep hollownear, where we had once seen the keeper's dog dive down into thefern as if it were water.   The lodge was so dark within, now the sky was overcast, that weonly clearly saw the man who came to the door when we took shelterthere and put two chairs for Ada and me. The lattice-windows wereall thrown open, and we sat just within the doorway watching thestorm. It was grand to see how the wind awoke, and bent the trees,and drove the rain before it like a cloud of smoke; and to hear thesolemn thunder and to see the lightning; and while thinking withawe of the tremendous powers by which our little lives areencompassed, to consider how beneficent they are and how upon thesmallest flower and leaf there was already a freshness poured fromall 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 me, but I had not spoken.   The beating of my heart came back again. I had never heard thevoice, as I had never seen the face, but it affected me in the samestrange way. Again, in a moment, there arose before my mindinnumerable pictures of myself.   Lady Dedlock had taken shelter in the lodge before our arrivalthere and had come out of the gloom within. She stood behind mychair with her hand upon it. I saw her with her hand close to myshoulder 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 guardian, "I have the pleasureof 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 localdisputes of Sir Leicester's--they are not of his seeking, however,I believe--should render it a matter of some absurd difficulty toshow you any attention here.""I am aware of the circumstances," returned my guardian with asmile, "and am sufficiently obliged."She had given him her hand in an indifferent way that seemedhabitual to her and spoke in a correspondingly indifferent manner,though in a very pleasant voice. She was as graceful as she wasbeautiful, perfectly self-possessed, and had the air, I thought, ofbeing able to attract and interest any one if she had thought itworth her while. The keeper had brought her a chair on which shesat in the middle of the porch between us.   "Is the young gentleman disposed of whom you wrote to Sir Leicesterabout and whose wishes Sir Leicester was sorry not to have it inhis power to advance in any way?" she said over her shoulder to myguardian.   "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 manner, and itbecame more familiar--I was going to say more easy, but that couldhardly be--as she spoke to him over her shoulder.   "I presume this is your other ward, Miss Clare?"He presented Ada, in form.   "You will lose the disinterested part of your Don Quixotecharacter," said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndyce over her shoulderagain, "if you only redress the wrongs of beauty like this. Butpresent me," and she turned full upon me, "to this young lady too!""Miss Summerson really is my ward," said Mr. Jarndyce. "I amresponsible 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 me, and I looked at her and said I wasindeed. All at once she turned from me with a hasty air, almostexpressive of displeasure or dislike, and spoke to him over hershoulder 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 sawyou last Sunday," he returned.   "What! Even you are a courtier, or think it necessary to becomeone to me!" she said with some disdain. "I have achieved thatreputation, I suppose.""You have achieved so much, Lady Dedlock," said my guardian, "thatyou pay some little penalty, I dare say. But none to me.""So much!" she repeated, slightly laughing. "Yes!"With her air of superiority, and power, and fascination, and I knownot what, she seemed to regard Ada and me as little more thanchildren. So, as she slightly laughed and afterwards sat lookingat the rain, she was as self-possessed and as free to occupyherself with her own thoughts as if she had been alone.   "I think you knew my sister when we were abroad together betterthan you know me?" she said, looking at him again.   "Yes, we happened to meet oftener," he returned.   "We went our several ways," said Lady Dedlock, "and had little incommon even before we agreed to differ. It is to be regretted, Isuppose, but it could not be helped."Lady Dedlock again sat looking at the rain. The storm soon beganto pass upon its way. The shower greatly abated, the lightningceased, the thunder rolled among the distant hills, and the sunbegan to glisten on the wet leaves and the falling rain. As we satthere, silently, we saw a little pony phaeton coming towards us ata merry pace.   "The messenger is coming back, my Lady," said the keeper, "with thecarriage."As it drove up, we saw that there were two people inside. Therealighted from it, with some cloaks and wrappers, first theFrenchwoman whom I had seen in church, and secondly the prettygirl, the Frenchwoman with a defiant confidence, the pretty girlconfused 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 thatshawl on me."She slightly stooped her shoulders to receive it, and the prettygirl lightly dropped it in its place. The Frenchwoman stoodunnoticed, looking on with her lips very tightly set.   "I am sorry," said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndyce, "that we are notlikely to renew our former acquaintance. You will allow me to sendthe carriage back for your two wards. It shall be here directly."But as he would on no account accept this offer, she took agraceful leave of Ada--none of me--and put her hand upon hisproffered arm, and got into the carriage, which was a little, low,park carriage with a hood.   "Come in, child," she said to the pretty girl; "I shall want you.   Go on!"The carriage rolled away, and the Frenchwoman, with the wrappersshe had brought hanging over her arm, remained standing where shehad alighted.   I suppose there is nothing pride can so little bear with as prideitself, and that she was punished for her imperious manner. Herretaliation was the most singular I could have imagined. Sheremained perfectly still until the carriage had turned into thedrive, and then, without the least discomposure of countenance,slipped off her shoes, left them on the ground, and walkeddeliberately in the same direction through the wettest of the wetgrass.   "Is that young woman mad?" said my guardian.   "Oh, no, sir!" said the keeper, who, with his wife, was lookingafter her. "Hortense is not one of that sort. She has as good ahead-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 her, she don't take kindly to it.""But why should she walk shoeless through all that water?" said myguardian.   "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 soonwalk through that as anything else, I think, when her own's up!"We passed not far from the house a few minutes afterwards.   Peaceful as it had looked when we first saw it, it looked even moreso now, with a diamond spray glittering all about it, a light windblowing, the birds no longer hushed but singing strongly,everything refreshed by the late rain, and the little carriageshining at the doorway like a fairy carriage made of silver.   Still, very steadfastly and quietly walking towards it, a peacefulfigure too in the landscape, went Mademoiselle Hortense, shoeless,through the wet grass. Chapter 19 Moving On It is the long vacation in the regions of Chancery Lane. The goodships Law and Equity, those teak-built, copper-bottomed, iron-fastened, brazen-faced, and not by any means fast-sailing clippersare laid up in ordinary. The Flying Dutchman, with a crew ofghostly clients imploring all whom they may encounter to perusetheir papers, has drifted, for the time being, heaven knows where.   The courts are all shut up; the public offices lie in a hot sleep.   Westminster Hall itself is a shady solitude where nightingalesmight sing, and a tenderer class of suitors than is usually foundthere, walk.   The Temple, Chancery Lane, Serjeants' Inn, and Lincoln's Inn evenunto the Fields are like tidal harbours at low water, wherestranded proceedings, offices at anchor, idle clerks lounging onlop-sided stools that will not recover their perpendicular untilthe current of Term sets in, lie high and dry upon the ooze of thelong vacation. Outer doors of chambers are shut up by the score,messages and parcels are to be left at the Porter's Lodge by thebushel. A crop of grass would grow in the chinks of the stonepavement outside Lincoln's Inn Hall, but that the ticket-porters,who have nothing to do beyond sitting in the shade there, withtheir white aprons over their heads to keep the flies off, grub itup and eat it thoughtfully.   There is only one judge in town. Even he only comes twice a weekto sit in chambers. If the country folks of those assize towns onhis circuit could see him now! No full-bottomed wig, no redpetticoats, no fur, no javelin-men, no white wands. Merely aclose-shaved gentleman in white trousers and a white hat, with sea-bronze on the judicial countenance, and a strip of bark peeled bythe solar rays from the judicial nose, who calls in at the shell-fish shop as he comes along and drinks iced ginger-beer!   The bar of England is scattered over the face of the earth. HowEngland can get on through four long summer months without its bar--which is its acknowledged refuge in adversity and its onlylegitimate triumph in prosperity--is beside the question; assuredlythat shield and buckler of Britannia are not in present wear. Thelearned gentleman who is always so tremendously indignant at theunprecedented outrage committed on the feelings of his client bythe opposite party that he never seems likely to recover it isdoing infinitely better than might be expected in Switzerland. Thelearned gentleman who does the withering business and who blightsall opponents with his gloomy sarcasm is as merry as a grig at aFrench watering-place. The learned gentleman who weeps by the pinton the smallest provocation has not shed a tear these six weeks.   The very learned gentleman who has cooled the natural heat of hisgingery complexion in pools and fountains of law until he hasbecome great in knotty arguments for term-time, when he poses thedrowsy bench with legal "chaff," inexplicable to the uninitiatedand to most of the initiated too, is roaming, with a characteristicdelight in aridity and dust, about Constantinople. Other dispersedfragments of the same great palladium are to be found on the canalsof Venice, at the second cataract of the Nile, in the baths ofGermany, and sprinkled on the sea-sand all over the English coast.   Scarcely one is to be encountered in the deserted region ofChancery Lane. If such a lonely member of the bar do flit acrossthe waste and come upon a prowling suitor who is unable to leaveoff haunting the scenes of his anxiety, they frighten one anotherand retreat into opposite shades.   It is the hottest long vacation known for many years. All theyoung clerks are madly in love, and according to their variousdegrees, pine for bliss with the beloved object, at Margate,Ramsgate, or Gravesend. All the middle-aged clerks think theirfamilies too large. All the unowned dogs who stray into the Innsof Court and pant about staircases and other dry places seekingwater give short howls of aggravation. All the blind men's dogs inthe streets draw their masters against pumps or trip them overbuckets. A shop with a sun-blind, and a watered pavement, and abowl of gold and silver fish in the window, is a sanctuary. TempleBar gets so hot that it is, to the adjacent Strand and FleetStreet, what a heater is in an urn, and keeps them simmering allnight.   There are offices about the Inns of Court in which a man might becool, if any coolness were worth purchasing at such a price indullness; but the little thoroughfares immediately outside thoseretirements seem to blaze. In Mr. Krook's court, it is so hot thatthe people turn their houses inside out and sit in chairs upon thepavement--Mr. Krook included, who there pursues his studies, withhis cat (who never is too hot) by his side. The Sol's Arms hasdiscontinued the Harmonic Meetings for the season, and LittleSwills is engaged at the Pastoral Gardens down the river, where hecomes out in quite an innocent manner and sings comic ditties of ajuvenile complexion calculated (as the bill says) not to wound thefeelings of the most fastidious mind.   Over all the legal neighbourhood there hangs, like some great veilof rust or gigantic cobweb, the idleness and pensiveness of thelong vacation. Mr. Snagsby, law-stationer of Cook's Court,Cursitor Street, is sensible of the influence not only in his mindas a sympathetic and contemplative man, but also in his business asa law-stationer aforesaid. He has more leisure for musing inStaple Inn and in the Rolls Yard during the long vacation than atother seasons, and he says to the two 'prentices, what a thing itis in such hot weather to think that you live in an island with thesea a-rolling and a-bowling right round you.   Guster is busy in the little drawing-room on this present afternoonin the long vacation, when Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby have it incontemplation to receive company. The expected guests are ratherselect than numerous, being Mr. and Mrs. Chadband and no more.   From Mr. Chadband's being much given to describe himself, bothverbally and in writing, as a vessel, he is occasionally mistakenby strangers for a gentleman connected with navigation, but he is,as he expresses it, "in the ministry." Mr. Chadband is attached tono particular denomination and is considered by his persecutors tohave nothing so very remarkable to say on the greatest of subjectsas to render his volunteering, on his own account, at all incumbenton his conscience; but he has his followers, and Mrs. Snagsby is ofthe number. Mrs. Snagsby has but recently taken a passage upwardby the vessel, Chadband; and her attention was attracted to thatBark 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 Guster, much impressed by regarding herself for the time as thehandmaid of Chadband, whom she knows to be endowed with the gift ofholding forth for four hours at a stretch, prepares the littledrawing-room for tea. All the furniture is shaken and dusted, theportraits of Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are touched up with a wet cloth,the best tea-service is set forth, and there is excellent provisionmade of dainty new bread, crusty twists, cool fresh butter, thinslices of ham, tongue, and German sausage, and delicate little rowsof anchovies nestling in parsley, not to mention new-laid eggs, tobe brought up warm in a napkin, and hot buttered toast. ForChadband is rather a consuming vessel--the persecutors say agorging vessel--and can wield such weapons of the flesh as a knifeand fork remarkably well.   Mr. Snagsby in his best coat, looking at all the preparations whenthey are completed and coughing his cough of deference behind hishand, says to Mrs. Snagsby, "At what time did you expect Mr. andMrs. Chadband, my love?""At six," says Mrs. Snagsby.   Mr. Snagsby observes in a mild and casual way that "it's gonethat.""Perhaps you'd like to begin without them," is Mrs. Snagsby'sreproachful remark.   Mr. Snagsby does look as if he would like it very much, but hesays, with his cough of mildness, "No, my dear, no. I merely namedthe time.""What's time," says Mrs. Snagsby, "to eternity?""Very true, my dear," says Mr. Snagsby. "Only when a person laysin victuals for tea, a person does it with a view--perhaps--more totime. And when a time is named for having tea, it's better to comeup 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.   Here, Guster, who had been looking out of the bedroom window, comesrustling and scratching down the little staircase like a popularghost, and falling flushed into the drawing-room, announces thatMr. and Mrs. Chadband have appeared in the court. The bell at theinner door in the passage immediately thereafter tinkling, she isadmonished by Mrs. Snagsby, on pain of instant reconsignment to herpatron saint, not to omit the ceremony of announcement. Muchdiscomposed in her nerves (which were previously in the best order)by this threat, she so fearfully mutilates that point of state asto announce "Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseming, least which, Imeantersay,whatsername!" and retires conscience-stricken from the presence.   Mr. Chadband is a large yellow man with a fat smile and a generalappearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system. Mrs.   Chadband is a stern, severe-looking, silent woman. Mr. Chadbandmoves softly and cumbrously, not unlike a bear who has been taughtto walk upright. He is very much embarrassed about the arms, as ifthey were inconvenient to him and he wanted to grovel, is very muchin a perspiration about the head, and never speaks without firstputting up his great hand, as delivering a token to his hearersthat he is going to edify them.   "My friends," says Mr. Chadband, "peace be on this house! On themaster thereof, on the mistress thereof, on the young maidens, andon the young men! My friends, why do I wish for peace? What ispeace? Is it war? No. Is it strife? No. Is it lovely, andgentle, and beautiful, and pleasant, and serene, and joyful? Oh,yes! Therefore, my friends, I wish for peace, upon you and uponyours."In consequence of Mrs. Snagsby looking deeply edified, Mr. Snagsbythinks it expedient on the whole to say amen, which is wellreceived.   "Now, my friends," proceeds Mr. Chadband, "since I am upon thistheme--"Guster presents herself. Mrs. Snagsby, in a spectral bass voiceand without removing her eyes from Chadband, says with dreadfuldistinctness, "Go away!""Now, my friends," says Chadband, "since I am upon this theme, andin my lowly path improving it--"Guster is heard unaccountably to murmur "one thousing seven hundredand eighty-two." The spectral voice repeats more solemnly, "Goaway!""Now, my friends," says Mr. Chadband, "we will inquire in a spiritof love--"Still Guster reiterates "one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two."Mr. Chadband, pausing with the resignation of a man accustomed tobe persecuted and languidly folding up his chin into his fat smile,says, "Let 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 onsummonsizzing the party." Mrs. Snagsby and Mrs. Chadband areproceeding to grow shrill in indignation when Mr. Chadband quietsthe tumult by lifting up his hand.   "My friends," says he, "I remember a duty unfulfilled yesterday.   It is right that I should be chastened in some penalty. I oughtnot to murmur. Rachael, pay the eightpence!"While Mrs. Snagsby, drawing her breath, looks hard at Mr. Snagsby,as who should say, "You hear this apostle!" and while Mr. Chadbandglows with humility and train oil, Mrs. Chadband pays the money.   It is Mr. Chadband's habit--it is the head and front of hispretensions indeed--to keep this sort of debtor and creditoraccount in the smallest items and to post it publicly on the mosttrivial occasions.   "My friends," says Chadband, "eightpence is not much; it mightjustly have been one and fourpence; it might justly have been halfa crown. O let us be joyful, joyful! O let us be joyful!"With which remark, which appears from its sound to be an extract inverse, Mr. Chadband stalks to the table, and before taking a chair,lifts up his admonitory hand.   "My friends," says he, "what is this which we now behold as beingspread before us? Refreshment. Do we need refreshment then, myfriends? We do. And why do we need refreshment, my friends?   Because we are but mortal, because we are but sinful, because weare 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. Snagsby, presuming on the success of his last point, venturesto observe in a cheerful and rather knowing tone, "No wings." Butis immediately frowned down by Mrs. Snagsby.   "I say, my friends," pursues Mr. Chadband, utterly rejecting andobliterating Mr. Snagsby's suggestion, "why can we not fly? Is itbecause we are calculated to walk? It is. Could we walk, myfriends, without strength? We could not. What should we dowithout strength, my friends? Our legs would refuse to bear us,our knees would double up, our ankles would turn over, and weshould come to the ground. Then from whence, my friends, in ahuman point of view, do we derive the strength that is necessary toour limbs? Is it," says Chadband, glancing over the table, "frombread in various forms, from butter which is churned from the milkwhich is yielded unto us by the cow, from the eggs which are laidby the fowl, from ham, from tongue, from sausage, and from suchlike? It is. Then let us partake of the good things which are setbefore us!"The persecutors denied that there was any particular gift in Mr.   Chadband's piling verbose flights of stairs, one upon another,after this fashion. But this can only be received as a proof oftheir determination to persecute, since it must be withineverybody's experience that the Chadband style of oratory is widelyreceived and much admired.   Mr. Chadband, however, having concluded for the present, sits downat Mr. Snagsby's table and lays about him prodigiously. Theconversion of nutriment of any sort into oil of the quality alreadymentioned appears to be a process so inseparable from theconstitution of this exemplary vessel that in beginning to eat anddrink, he may be described as always becoming a kind ofconsiderable oil mills or other large factory for the production ofthat article on a wholesale scale. On the present evening of thelong vacation, in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, he does such apowerful stroke of business that the warehouse appears to be quitefull when the works cease.   At this period of the entertainment, Guster, who has neverrecovered her first failure, but has neglected no possible orimpossible means of bringing the establishment and herself intocontempt--among which may be briefly enumerated her unexpectedlyperforming clashing military music on Mr. Chadband's head withplates, and afterwards crowning that gentleman with muffins--atwhich period of the entertainment, Guster whispers Mr. Snagsby thathe is wanted.   "And being wanted in the--not to put too fine a point upon it--inthe shop," says Mr. Snagsby, rising, "perhaps this good companywill excuse me for half a minute."Mr. Snagsby descends and finds the two 'prentices intentlycontemplating a police constable, who holds a ragged boy by thearm.   "Why, bless my heart," says Mr. Snagsby, "what's the matter!""This boy," says the constable, "although he's repeatedly told to,won't move on--""I'm always a-moving on, sar, cries the boy, wiping away his grimytears with his arm. "I've always been a-moving and a-moving on,ever since I was born. Where can I possibly move to, sir, more norI do move!""He won't move on," says the constable calmly, with a slightprofessional hitch of his neck involving its better settlement inhis stiff stock, "although he has been repeatedly cautioned, andtherefore I am obliged to take him into custody. He's as obstinatea young gonoph as I know. He WON'T move on.""Oh, my eye! Where can I move to!" cries the boy, clutching quitedesperately at his hair and beating his bare feet upon the floor ofMr. Snagsby's passage.   "Don't you come none of that or I shall make blessed short work ofyou!" says the constable, giving him a passionless shake. "Myinstructions are that you are to move on. I have told you so fivehundred 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 anddoubt, "really, that does seem a question. Where, you know?""My instructions don't go to that," replies the constable. "Myinstructions are that this boy is to move on."Do you hear, Jo? It is nothing to you or to any one else that thegreat lights of the parliamentary sky have failed for some fewyears in this business to set you the example of moving on. Theone grand recipe remains for you--the profound philosophicalprescription--the be-all and the end-all of your strange existenceupon earth. Move on! You are by no means to move off, Jo, for thegreat lights can't at all agree about that. Move on!   Mr. Snagsby says nothing to this effect, says nothing at allindeed, but coughs his forlornest cough, expressive of nothoroughfare in any direction. By this time Mr. and Mrs. Chadbandand Mrs. Snagsby, hearing the altercation, have appeared upon thestairs. Guster having never left the end of the passage, the wholehousehold are assembled.   "The simple question is, sir," says the constable, "whether youknow this boy. He says you do."Mrs. Snagsby, from her elevation, instantly cries out, "No hedon't!""My lit-tle woman!" says Mr. Snagsby, looking up the staircase.   "My love, permit me! Pray have a moment's patience, my dear. I doknow something of this lad, and in what I know of him, I can't saythat there's any harm; perhaps on the contrary, constable." Towhom the law-stationer relates his Joful and woful experience,suppressing the half-crown fact.   "Well!" says the constable, "so far, it seems, he had grounds forwhat he said. When I took him into custody up in Holborn, he saidyou knew him. Upon that, a young man who was in the crowd said hewas acquainted with you, and you were a respectable housekeeper,and if I'd call and make the inquiry, he'd appear. The young mandon't seem inclined to keep his word, but-- Oh! Here IS the youngman!"Enter Mr. Guppy, who nods to Mr. Snagsby and touches his hat withthe chivalry of clerkship to the ladies on the stairs.   "I was strolling away from the office just now when I found thisrow going on," says Mr. Guppy to the law-stationer, "and as yourname was mentioned, I thought it was right the thing should belooked into.""It was very good-natured of you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, "and I amobliged to you." And Mr. Snagsby again relates his experience,again suppressing the half-crown fact.   "Now, I know where you live," says the constable, then, to Jo.   "You live down in Tom-all-Alone's. That's a nice innocent place tolive in, ain't it?""I can't go and live in no nicer place, sir," replies Jo. "Theywouldn't have nothink to say to me if I wos to go to a niceinnocent place fur to live. Who ud go and let a nice innocentlodging 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. "Ileave you to judge now! I shook these two half-crowns out of him,"says the constable, producing them to the company, "in only puttingmy hand upon him!""They're wot's left, Mr. Snagsby," says Jo, "out of a sov-ring aswos give me by a lady in a wale as sed she wos a servant and ascome to my crossin one night and asked to be showd this 'ere ouseand the ouse wot him as you giv the writin to died at, and theberrin-ground wot he's berrid in. She ses to me she ses 'are youthe boy at the inkwhich?' she ses. I ses 'yes' I ses. She ses tome she ses 'can you show me all them places?' I ses 'yes I can' Ises. And she ses to me 'do it' and I dun it and she giv me asov'ring and hooked it. And I an't had much of the sov'ringneither," says Jo, with dirty tears, "fur I had to pay five bob,down in Tom-all-Alone's, afore they'd square it fur to give mechange, and then a young man he thieved another five while I wasasleep and another boy he thieved ninepence and the landlord hestood drains round with a lot more on it.""You don't expect anybody to believe this, about the lady and thesovereign, do you?" says the constable, eyeing him aside withineffable disdain.   "I don't know as I do, sir," replies Jo. "I don't expect nothinkat all, sir, much, but 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 youengage for his moving on?""No!" cries Mrs. Snagsby from the stairs.   "My little woman!" pleads her husband. "Constable, I have no doubthe'll move on. You know you really must do it," says Mr. Snagsby.   "I'm everyways agreeable, sir," says the hapless Jo.   "Do it, then," observes the constable. "You know what you have gotto do. Do it! And recollect you won't get off so easy next time.   Catch hold of your money. Now, the sooner you're five mile off,the better for all parties."With this farewell hint and pointing generally to the setting sunas a likely place to move on to, the constable bids his auditorsgood afternoon and makes the echoes of Cook's Court perform slowmusic for him as he walks away on the shady side, carrying hisiron-bound hat in his hand for a little ventilation.   Now, Jo's improbable story concerning the lady and the sovereignhas awakened more or less the curiosity of all the company. Mr.   Guppy, who has an inquiring mind in matters of evidence and who hasbeen 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 witness, which is found so interesting by theladies that Mrs. Snagsby politely invites him to step upstairs anddrink a cup of tea, if he will excuse the disarranged state of thetea-table, consequent on their previous exertions. Mr. Guppyyielding his assent to this proposal, Jo is requested to followinto the drawing-room doorway, where Mr. Guppy takes him in hand asa witness, patting him into this shape, that shape, and the othershape like a butterman dealing with so much butter, and worryinghim according to the best models. Nor is the examination unlikemany such model displays, both in respect of its eliciting nothingand of its being lengthy, for Mr. Guppy is sensible of his talent,and Mrs. Snagsby feels not only that it gratifies her inquisitivedisposition, but that it lifts her husband's establishment higherup in the law. During the progress of this keen encounter, thevessel Chadband, being merely engaged in the oil trade, getsaground and waits to be floated off.   "Well!" says Mr. Guppy. "Either this boy sticks to it likecobbler's-wax or there is something out of the common here thatbeats anything that ever came into my way at Kenge and Carboy's."Mrs. Chadband whispers Mrs. Snagsby, who exclaims, "You don't sayso!""For years!" replied Mrs. Chadband.   "Has known Kenge and Carboy's office for years," Mrs. Snagsbytriumphantly explains to Mr. Guppy. "Mrs. Chadband--thisgentleman'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. Guppy, transferringhis 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 insomething, ma'am?" says Mr. Guppy, who likes nothing better than tomodel his conversation on forensic principles.   "Not exactly that, either," replies Mrs. Chadband, humouring thejoke with a hard-favoured smile.   "Not exactly that, either!" repeats Mr. Guppy. "Very good. Pray,ma'am, was it a lady of your acquaintance who had some transactions(we will not at present say what transactions) with Kenge andCarboy's office, or was it a gentleman of your acquaintance? Taketime, ma'am. We shall come to it presently. Man or woman, ma'am?""Neither," says Mrs. Chadband as before.   "Oh! A child!" says Mr. Guppy, throwing on the admiring Mrs.   Snagsby the regular acute professional eye which is thrown onBritish jurymen. "Now, ma'am, perhaps you'll have the kindness totell us WHAT child.""You have got it at last, sir," says Mrs. Chadband with anotherhard-favoured smile. "Well, sir, it was before your time, mostlikely, judging from your appearance. I was left in charge of achild named Esther Summerson, who was put out in life by Messrs.   Kenge and Carboy.""Miss Summerson, ma'am!" cries Mr. Guppy, excited.   "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. Guppy, moving across the smallapartment, "the humble individual who now addresses you receivedthat young lady in London when she first came here from theestablishment to which you have alluded. Allow me to have thepleasure of taking you by the hand."Mr. Chadband, at last seeing his opportunity, makes his accustomedsignal and rises with a smoking head, which he dabs with hispocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Snagsby whispers "Hush!""My friends," says Chadband, "we have partaken in moderation"(which was certainly not the case so far as he was concerned) "ofthe comforts which have been provided for us. May this house liveupon the fatness of the land; may corn and wine be plentifultherein; may it grow, may it thrive, may it prosper, may itadvance, may it proceed, may it press forward! But, my friends,have we partaken of any-hing else? We have. My friends, of whatelse have we partaken? Of spiritual profit? Yes. From whencehave we derived that spiritual profit? My young friend, standforth!"Jo, thus apostrophized, gives a slouch backward, and another slouchforward, and another slouch to each side, and confronts theeloquent Chadband with evident doubts of his intentions.   "My young friend," says Chadband, "you are to us a pearl, you areto us a diamond, you are to us a gem, you are to us a jewel. Andwhy, my young friend?""I don't know," replies Jo. "I don't know nothink.""My young friend," says Chadband, "it is because you know nothingthat you are to us a gem and jewel. For what are you, my youngfriend? 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, myyoung friend. A human boy. O glorious to be a human boy! And whyglorious, my young friend? Because you are capable of receivingthe lessons of wisdom, because you are capable of profiting by thisdiscourse which I now deliver for your good, because you are not astick, or a staff, or a stock, or a stone, or a post, or a pillar.   O running stream of sparkling joyTo 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 arein a state of darkness, because you are in a state of obscurity,because you are in a state of sinfulness, because you are in astate of bondage. My young friend, what is bondage? Let us, in aspirit of love, inquire."At this threatening stage of the discourse, Jo, who seems to havebeen gradually going out of his mind, smears his right arm over hisface and gives a terrible yawn. Mrs. Snagsby indignantly expressesher belief that he is a limb of the arch-fiend.   "My friends," says Mr. Chadband with his persecuted chin foldingitself into its fat smile again as he looks round, "it is rightthat I should be humbled, it is right that I should be tried, it isright that I should be mortified, it is right that I should becorrected. I stumbled, on Sabbath last, when I thought with prideof my three hours' improving. The account is now favourablybalanced: my creditor has accepted a composition. O let us bejoyful, joyful! O let us be joyful!"Great sensation on the part of Mrs. Snagsby.   "My friends," says Chadband, looking round him in conclusion, "Iwill not proceed with my young friend now. Will you come to-morrow, my young friend, and inquire of this good lady where I amto be found to deliver a discourse unto you, and will you come likethe thirsty swallow upon the next day, and upon the day after that,and upon the day after that, and upon many pleasant days, to heardiscourses?" (This with a cow-like lightness.)Jo, whose immediate object seems to be to get away on any terms,gives a shuffling nod. Mr. Guppy then throws him a penny, and Mrs.   Snagsby calls to Guster to see him safely out of the house. Butbefore he goes downstairs, Mr. Snagsby loads him with some brokenmeats from the table, which he carries away, hugging in his arms.   So, Mr. Chadband--of whom the persecutors say that it is no wonderhe should go on for any length of time uttering such abominablenonsense, but that the wonder rather is that he should ever leaveoff, having once the audacity to begin--retires into private lifeuntil he invests a little capital of supper in the oil-trade. Jomoves on, through the long vacation, down to Blackfriars Bridge,where he finds a baking stony corner wherein to settle to hisrepast.   And there he sits, munching and gnawing, and looking up at thegreat cross on the summit of St. Paul's Cathedral, glittering abovea red-and-violet-tinted cloud of smoke. From the boy's face onemight suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his eyes, the crowningconfusion of the great, confused city--so golden, so high up, sofar out of his reach. There he sits, the sun going down, the riverrunning fast, the crowd flowing by him in two streams--everythingmoving on to some purpose and to one end--until he is stirred upand told to "move on" too. Chapter 20 A New Lodger The long vacation saunters on towards term-time like an idle riververy leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. Mr. Guppysaunters along with it congenially. He has blunted the blade ofhis penknife and broken the point off by sticking that instrumentinto his desk in every direction. Not that he bears the desk anyill will, but he must do something, and it must be something of anunexciting nature, which will lay neither his physical nor hisintellectual energies under too heavy contribution. He finds thatnothing agrees with him so well as to make little gyrations on oneleg of his stool, and stab his desk, and gape.   Kenge and Carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk has takenout a shooting license and gone down to his father's, and Mr.   Guppy's two fellow-stipendiaries are away on leave. Mr. Guppy andMr. Richard Carstone divide the dignity of the office. But Mr.   Carstone is for the time being established in Kenge's room, whereatMr. Guppy chafes. So exceedingly that he with biting sarcasminforms his mother, in the confidential moments when he sups withher off a lobster and lettuce in the Old Street Road, that he isafraid the office is hardly good enough for swells, and that if hehad known there was a swell coming, he would have got it painted.   Mr. Guppy suspects everybody who enters on the occupation of astool in Kenge and Carboy's office of entertaining, as a matter ofcourse, sinister designs upon him. He is clear that every suchperson wants to depose him. If he be ever asked how, why, when, orwherefore, he shuts up one eye and shakes his head. On thestrength of these profound views, he in the most ingenious mannertakes infinite pains to counterplot when there is no plot, andplays the deepest games of chess without any adversary.   It is a source of much gratification to Mr. Guppy, therefore, tofind the new-comer constantly poring over the papers in Jarndyceand Jarndyce, for he well knows that nothing but confusion andfailure can come of that. His satisfaction communicates itself toa third saunterer through the long vacation in Kenge and Carboy'soffice, to wit, Young Smallweed.   Whether Young Smallweed (metaphorically called Small and eke ChickWeed, as it were jocularly to express a fledgling) was ever a boyis much doubted in Lincoln's Inn. He is now something underfifteen and an old limb of the law. He is facetiously understoodto entertain a passion for a lady at a cigar-shop in theneighbourhood of Chancery Lane and for her sake to have broken offa contract with another lady, to whom he had been engaged someyears. He is a town-made article, of small stature and weazenfeatures, but may be perceived from a considerable distance bymeans of his very tall hat. To become a Guppy is the object of hisambition. He dresses at that gentleman (by whom he is patronized),talks at him, walks at him, founds himself entirely on him. He ishonoured with Mr. Guppy's particular confidence and occasionallyadvises him, from the deep wells of his experience, on difficultpoints in private life.   Mr. Guppy has been lolling out of window all the morning aftertrying all the stools in succession and finding none of them easy,and after several times putting his head into the iron safe with anotion of cooling it. Mr. Smallweed has been twice dispatched foreffervescent drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two officialtumblers and stirred them up with the ruler. Mr. Guppy propoundsfor Mr. Smallweed's consideration the paradox that the more youdrink the thirstier you are and reclines his head upon the window-sill in a state of hopeless languor.   While thus looking out into the shade of Old Square, Lincoln's Inn,surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, Mr. Guppy becomesconscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walkbelow and turning itself up in the direction of his face. At thesame time, a low whistle is wafted through the Inn and a suppressedvoice cries, "Hip! Gup-py!""Why, you don't mean it!" says Mr. Guppy, aroused. "Small! Here'sJobling!" Small's head looks out of window too and nods toJobling.   "Where have you sprung up from?" inquires Mr. Guppy.   "From the market-gardens down by Deptford. I can't stand it anylonger. 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 toseed 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. Guppy, throwing out thecoin, which 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 MrJobling.   Smallweed suggests the law list. But Mr. Jobling declares withmuch earnestness that he "can't stand it.""You shall have the paper," says Mr. Guppy. "He shall bring itdown. But you had better not be seen about here. Sit on ourstaircase and read. It's a quiet place."Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. The sagaciousSmallweed supplies him with the newspaper and occasionally dropshis eye upon him from the landing as a precaution against hisbecoming disgusted with waiting and making an untimely departure.   At last the enemy retreats, and then Smallweed fetches Mr. Joblingup.   "Well, and how are you?" says Mr. Guppy, shaking hands with him.   "So, so. How are you?"Mr. Guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, Mr. Joblingventures on the question, "How is SHE?" This Mr. Guppy resents asa liberty, retorting, "Jobling, there ARE chords in the humanmind--" Jobling begs pardon.   "Any subject but that!" says Mr. Guppy with a gloomy enjoyment ofhis injury. "For there ARE chords, Jobling--"Mr. Jobling begs pardon again.   During this short colloquy, the active Smallweed, who is of thedinner party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper,"Return immediately." This notification to all whom it mayconcern, he inserts in the letter-box, and then putting on the tallhat 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-bang, where the waitress, a bouncing young female of forty, issupposed to have made some impression on the susceptible Smallweed,of whom it may be remarked that he is a weird changeling to whomyears are nothing. He stands precociously possessed of centuriesof owlish wisdom. If he ever lay in a cradle, it seems as if hemust have lain there in a tail-coat. He has an old, old eye, hasSmallweed; and he drinks and smokes in a monkeyish way; and hisneck is stiff in his collar; and he is never to be taken in; and heknows all about it, whatever it is. In short, in his bringing uphe has been so nursed by Law and Equity that he has become a kindof fossil imp, to account for whose terrestrial existence it isreported at the public offices that his father was John Doe and hismother the only female member of the Roe family, also that hisfirst long-clothes were made from a blue bag.   Into the dining-house, unaffected by the seductive show in thewindow of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdantbaskets of peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready forthe spit, Mr. Smallweed leads the way. They know him there anddefer to him. He has his favourite box, he bespeaks all thepapers, he is down upon bald patriarchs, who keep them more thanten minutes afterwards. It is of no use trying him with anythingless than a full-sized "bread" or proposing to him any joint in cutunless it is in the very best cut. In the matter of gravy he isadamant.   Conscious of his elfin power and submitting to his dreadexperience, Mr. Guppy consults him in the choice of that day'sbanquet, turning an appealing look towards him as the waitressrepeats the catalogue of viands and saying "What do YOU take,Chick?" Chick, out of the profundity of his artfulness, preferring"veal and ham and French beans--and don't you forget the stuffing,Polly" (with an unearthly cock of his venerable eye), Mr. Guppy andMr. Jobling give the like order. Three pint pots of half-and-halfare superadded. Quickly the waitress returns bearing what isapparently a model of the Tower of Babel but what is really a pileof plates and flat tin dish-covers. Mr. Smallweed, approving ofwhat is set before him, conveys intelligent benignity into hisancient eye and winks upon her. Then, amid a constant coming in,and going out, and running about, and a clatter of crockery, and arumbling up and down of the machine which brings the nice cuts fromthe kitchen, and a shrill crying for more nice cuts down thespeaking-pipe, and a shrill reckoning of the cost of nice cuts thathave been disposed of, and a general flush and steam of hot joints,cut and uncut, and a considerably heated atmosphere in which thesoiled knives and tablecloths seem to break out spontaneously intoeruptions of grease and blotches of beer, the legal triumvirateappease their appetites.   Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment mightrequire. His hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of aglistening nature, as if it had been a favourite snail-promenade.   The same phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat, andparticularly at the seams. He has the faded appearance of agentleman in embarrassed circumstances; even his light whiskersdroop with something of a shabby air.   His appetite is so vigorous that it suggests spare living for somelittle time back. He makes such a speedy end of his plate of vealand ham, bringing it to a close while his companions are yet midwayin theirs, that Mr. Guppy proposes another. "Thank you, Guppy,"says Mr. Jobling, "I really don't know but what I WILL takeanother."Another being brought, he falls to with great goodwill.   Mr. Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals until he is halfway through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying pull athis pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed) and stretches out hislegs and rubs his hands. Beholding him in which glow ofcontentment, Mr. Guppy says, "You are a man again, Tony!""Well, not quite yet," says Mr. Jobling. "Say, just born.""Will you take any other vegetables? Grass? Peas? Summercabbage?""Thank you, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling. "I really don't know butwhat 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. Jobling, plying his knife andfork 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 task, which he achievesas Messrs. Guppy and Smallweed finish theirs, thus getting over theground in excellent style and beating those two gentlemen easily bya veal and ham and a cabbage.   "Now, Small," says Mr. Guppy, "what would you recommend aboutpastry?""Marrow puddings," says Mr. Smallweed instantly.   "Aye, aye!" cries Mr. Jobling with an arch look. "You're there,are you? Thank you, Mr. Guppy, I don't know but what I WILL take amarrow pudding."Three marrow puddings being produced, Mr. Jobling adds in apleasant humour that he is coming of age fast. To these succeed,by command of Mr. Smallweed, "three Cheshires," and to those "threesmall rums." This apex of the entertainment happily reached, Mr.   Jobling puts up his legs on the carpeted seat (having his own sideof the box to himself), leans against the wall, and says, "I amgrown up now, Guppy. I have arrived at maturity.""What do you think, now," says Mr. Guppy, "about--you don't mindSmallweed?""Not the least in the worid. I have the pleasure of drinking hisgood health.""Sir, to you!" says Mr. Smallweed.   "I was saying, what do you think NOW," pursues Mr. Guppy, "ofenlisting?""Why, what I may think after dinner," returns Mr. Jobling, "is onething, my dear Guppy, and what I may think before dinner is anotherthing. Still, even after dinner, I ask myself the question, Whatam I to do? How am I to live? Ill fo manger, you know," says Mr.   Jobling, pronouncing that word as if he meant a necessary fixturein an English stable. "Ill fo manger. That's the French saying,and mangering is as necessary to me as it is to a Frenchman. Ormore so."Mr. Smallweed is decidedly of opinion "much more so.""If any man had told me," pursues Jobling, "even so lately as whenyou and I had the frisk down in Lincolnshire, Guppy, and drove overto see that house at Castle Wold--"Mr. Smallweed corrects him--Chesney Wold.   "Chesney Wold. (I thank my honourable friend for that cheer.) Ifany man had told me then that I should be as hard up at the presenttime as I literally find myself, I should have--well, I should havepitched into him," says Mr. Jobling, taking a little rum-and-waterwith an air of desperate resignation; "I should have let fly at hishead.""Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then,"remonstrates Mr. Guppy. "You were talking about nothing else inthe gig.""Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, "I will not deny it. I was on the wrongside of the post. But I trusted to things coming round."That very popular trust in flat things coming round! Not in theirbeing beaten round, or worked round, but 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 beall square," says Mr. Jobling with some vagueness of expression andperhaps of meaning too. "But I was disappointed. They never did.   And when it came to creditors making rows at the office and topeople that the office dealt with making complaints about dirtytrifles of borrowed money, why there was an end of that connexion.   And of any new professional connexion too, for if I was to give areference to-morrow, it would be mentioned and would sew me up.   Then what's a fellow to do? I have been keeping out of the way andliving cheap down about the market-gardens, but what's the use ofliving cheap when you have got no money? You might as well livedear.""Better," Mr. Smallweed thinks.   "Certainly. It's the fashionable way; and fashion and whiskershave been my weaknesses, and I don't care who knows it," says Mr.   Jobling. "They are great weaknesses--Damme, sir, they are great.   Well," proceeds Mr. Jobling after a defiant visit to his rum-and-water, "what can a fellow do, I ask you, BUT enlist?"Mr. Guppy comes more fully into the conversation to state what, inhis opinion, a fellow can do. His manner is the gravely impressivemanner of a man who has not committed himself in life otherwisethan as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow of the heart.   "Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, "myself and our mutual friend Smallweed--"Mr. Smallweed modestly observes, "Gentlemen both!" and drinks.   "--Have had a little conversation on this matter more than oncesince you--""Say, got the sack!" cries Mr. Jobling bitterly. "Say it, Guppy.   You mean it.""No-o-o! Left the Inn," Mr. Smallweed delicately suggests.   "Since you left the Inn, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy; "and I havementioned to our mutual friend Smallweed a plan I have latelythought of proposing. You know Snagsby the stationer?""I know there is such a stationer," returns Mr. Jobling. "He wasnot ours, and I am not acquainted with him.""He IS ours, Jobling, and I AM acquainted with him," Mr. Guppyretorts. "Well, sir! I have lately become better acquainted withhim through some accidental circumstances that have made me avisitor of his in private life. Those circumstances it is notnecessary to offer in argument. They may--or they may not--havesome reference to a subject which may--or may not--have cast itsshadow on my existence."As it is Mr. Guppy's perplexing way with boastful misery to tempthis particular friends into this subject, and the moment they touchit, to turn on them with that trenchant severity about the chordsin the human mind, both Mr. Jobling and Mr. Smallweed decline thepitfall by remaining silent.   "Such things may be," repeats Mr. Guppy, "or they may not be. Theyare no part of the case. It is enough to mention that both Mr. andMrs. Snagsby are very willing to oblige me and that Snagsby has, inbusy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. He has allTulkinghorn's, and an excellent business besides. I believe if ourmutual friend Smallweed were put into the box, he could provethis?"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 wanttime. There must be time for these late affairs to blow over. Youmight live through it on much worse terms than by writing forSnagsby."Mr. Jobling is about to interrupt when the sagacious Smallweedchecks him with a dry cough and the words, "Hem! Shakspeare!""There are two branches to this subject, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy.   "That is the first. I come to the second. You know Krook, theChancellor, across the lane. Come, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy in hisencouraging cross-examination-tone, "I think you know Krook, theChancellor, 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 dutiesof late to pay Flite a certain weekly allowance, deducting from itthe amount of her weekly rent, which I have paid (in consequence ofinstructions I have received) to Krook himself, regularly in herpresence. This has brought me into communication with Krook andinto a knowledge of his house and his habits. I know he has a roomto let. You may live there at a very low charge under any name youlike, as quietly as if you were a hundred miles off. He'll ask noquestions and would accept you as a tenant at a word from me--before the clock strikes, if you chose. And I tell you anotherthing, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, who has suddenly lowered his voiceand become familiar again, "he's an extraordinary old chap--alwaysrummaging among a litter of papers and grubbing away at teachinghimself to read and write, without getting on a bit, as it seems tome. He is a most extraordinary old chap, sir. I don't know butwhat 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. Guppy, shrugging his shoulders with becomingmodesty, "that I can't make him out. I appeal to our mutual friendSmallweed whether he has or has not heard me remark that I can'tmake him out."Mr. Smallweed bears the concise testimony, "A few!""I have seen something of the profession and something of life,Tony," says Mr. Guppy, "and it's seldom I can't make a man out,more or less. But such an old card as this, so deep, so sly, andsecret (though I don't believe he is ever sober), I never cameacross. Now, he must be precious old, you know, and he has not asoul about him, and he is reported to be immensely rich; andwhether he is a smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensedpawnbroker, or a money-lender--all of which I have thought likelyat different times--it might pay you to knock up a sort ofknowledge of him. I don't see why you shouldn't go in for it, wheneverything else suits."Mr. Jobling, Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Smallweed all lean their elbows onthe table and their chins upon their hands, and look at theceiling. After a time, they all drink, slowly lean back, put theirhands in their pockets, and look at one another.   "If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony!" says Mr. Guppy with asigh. "But there are chords in the human mind--"Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum-and-water, Mr. Guppy concludes by resigning the adventure to TonyJobling and informing him that during the vacation and while thingsare slack, his purse, "as far as three or four or even five poundgoes," will be at his disposal. "For never shall it be said," Mr.   Guppy adds with emphasis, "that William Guppy turned his back uponhis friend!"The latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose thatMr. Jobling says with emotion, "Guppy, my trump, your fist!" Mr.   Guppy presents it, saying, "Jobling, my boy, there it is!" Mr.   Jobling returns, "Guppy, we have been pals now for some years!"Mr. Guppy replies, "Jobling, we have."They then shake hands, and Mr. Jobling adds in a feeling manner,"Thank you, Guppy, I don't know but what I WILL take another glassfor old acquaintance sake.""Krook's last lodger died there," observes Mr. Guppy in anincidental way.   "Did he though!" says Mr. Jobling.   "There was a verdict. Accidental death. You don't mind that?""No," says Mr. Jobling, "I don't mind it; but he might as well havedied somewhere else. It's devilish odd that he need go and die atMY place!" Mr. Jobling quite resents this liberty, several timesreturning to it with such remarks as, "There are places enough todie in, I should think!" or, "He wouldn't have liked my dying atHIS place, I dare say!"However, the compact being virtually made, Mr. Guppy proposes todispatch the trusty Smallweed to ascertain if Mr. Krook is at home,as in that case they may complete the negotiation without delay.   Mr. Jobling approving, Smallweed puts himself under the tall hatand conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the Guppy manner. Hesoon returns with the intelligence that Mr. Krook is at home andthat he has seen him through the shop-door, sitting in the backpremises, sleeping "like one o'clock.""Then I'll pay," says Mr. Guppy, "and we'll go and see him. Small,what will it be?"Mr. Smallweed, compelling the attendance of the waitress with onehitch of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows: "Four veals andhams is three, and four potatoes is three and four, and one summercabbage is three and six, and three marrows is four and six, andsix breads is five, and three Cheshires is five and three, and fourhalf-pints of half-and-half is six and three, and four small rumsis eight and three, and three Pollys is eight and six. Eight andsix in half a sovereign, Polly, and eighteenpence out!"Not at all excited by these stupendous calculations, Smallweeddismisses his friends with a cool nod and remains behind to take alittle admiring notice of Polly, as opportunity may serve, and toread the daily papers, which are so very large in proportion tohimself, shorn of his hat, that when he holds up the Times to runhis eye over the columns, he seems to have retired for the nightand to have disappeared under the bedclothes.   Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling repair to the rag and bottle shop, wherethey find Krook still sleeping like one o'clock, that is to say,breathing stertorously with his chin upon his breast and quiteinsensible to any external sounds or even to gentle shaking. Onthe table beside him, among the usual lumber, stand an empty gin-bottle and a glass. The unwholesome air is so stained with thisliquor that even the green eyes of the cat upon her shelf, as theyopen and shut and glimmer on the visitors, look drunk.   "Hold up here!" says Mr. Guppy, giving the relaxed figure of theold man another shake. "Mr. Krook! Halloa, sir!"But it would seem as easy to wake a bundle of old clothes with aspirituous heat smouldering in it. "Did you ever see such a stuporas he falls into, between drink and sleep?" says Mr. Guppy.   "If this is his regular sleep," returns Jobling, rather 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. Guppy, shakinghim again. "Halloa, your lordship! Why, he might be robbed fiftytimes over! Open your eyes!"After much ado, he opens them, but without appearing to see hisvisitors or any other objects. Though he crosses one leg onanother, and folds his hands, and several times closes and openshis parched lips, he seems to all intents and purposes asinsensible as before.   "He is alive, at any rate," says Mr. Guppy. "How are you, my LordChancellor. I have brought a friend of mine, sir, on a littlematter of business."The old man still sits, often smacking his dry lips without theleast consciousness. After some minutes he makes an attempt torise. They help him up, and he staggers against the wall andstares 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 hopeyou are pretty well?"The old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at Mr. Guppy, or atnothing, feebly swings himself round and comes with his faceagainst the wall. So he remains for a minute or two, heaped upagainst it, and then staggers down the shop to the front door. Theair, the movement in the court, the lapse of time, or thecombination of these things recovers him. He comes back prettysteadily, adjusting his fur cap on his head and looking keenly atthem.   "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 thesuspicious Krook.   "Only a little," Mr. Guppy explains.   The old man's eye resting on the empty bottle, he takes it up,examines it, and slowly tilts it upside down.   "I say!" he cries like the hobgoblin in the story. "Somebody'sbeen making free here!""I assure you we found it so," says Mr. Guppy. "Would you allow meto get it filled for you?""Yes, certainly I would!" cries Krook in high glee. "Certainly Iwould! Don't mention it! Get it filled next door--Sol's Arms--theLord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. Bless you, they know ME!"He so presses the empty bottle upon Mr. Guppy that that gentleman,with a nod to his friend, accepts the trust and hurries out andhurries in again with the bottle filled. The old man receives itin his arms like a beloved grandchild and pats it tenderly.   "But, I say," he whispers, with his eyes screwed up, after tastingit, "this ain't the Lord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. This iseighteenpenny!""I thought you might like that better," says Mr. Guppy.   "You're a nobleman, sir," returns Krook with another taste, and hishot breath seems to come towards them like a flame. "You're abaron of the land."Taking advantage of this auspicious moment, Mr. Guppy presents hisfriend under the impromptu name of Mr. Weevle and states the objectof their visit. Krook, with his bottle under his arm (he nevergets beyond a certain point of either drunkenness or sobriety),takes time to survey his proposed lodger and seems to approve ofhim. "You'd like to see the room, young man?" he says. "Ah! It'sa good room! Been whitewashed. Been cleaned down with soft soapand soda. Hi! It's worth twice the rent, letting alone my companywhen you want it and such a cat to keep the mice away."Commending the room after this manner, the old man takes themupstairs, where indeed they do find it cleaner than it used to beand also containing some old articles of furniture which he has dugup from his inexhaustible stores. The terms are easily concluded--for the Lord Chancellor cannot be hard on Mr. Guppy, associated ashe is with Kenge and Carboy, Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and otherfamous claims on his professional consideration--and it is agreedthat Mr. Weevle shall take possession on the morrow. Mr. Weevleand Mr. Guppy then repair to Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, wherethe personal introduction of the former to Mr. Snagsby is effectedand (more important) the vote and interest of Mrs. Snagsby aresecured. They then report progress to the eminent Smallweed,waiting at the office in his tall hat for that purpose, andseparate, Mr. Guppy explaining that he would terminate his littleentertainment by standing treat at the play but that there arechords in the human mind which would render it a hollow mockery.   On the morrow, in the dusk of evening, Mr. Weevle modestly appearsat Krook's, by no means incommoded with luggage, and establisheshimself in his new lodging, where the two eyes in the shuttersstare at him in his sleep, as if they were full of wonder. On thefollowing day Mr. Weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing kind ofyoung fellow, borrows a needle and thread of Miss Flite and ahammer of his landlord and goes to work devising apologies forwindow-curtains, and knocking up apologies for shelves, and hangingup his two teacups, milkpot, and crockery sundries on a pennyworthof little hooks, like a shipwrecked sailor making the best of it.   But what Mr. Weevle prizes most of all his few possessions (nextafter his light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that onlywhiskers can awaken in the breast of man) is a choice collection ofcopper-plate impressions from that truly national work TheDivinities of Albion, or Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty,representing ladies of title and fashion in every variety of smirkthat art, combined with capital, is capable of producing. Withthese magnificent portraits, unworthily confined in a band-boxduring his seclusion among the market-gardens, he decorates hisapartment; and as the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty wears everyvariety of fancy dress, plays every variety of musical instrument,fondles every variety of dog, ogles every variety of prospect, andis backed up by every variety of flower-pot and balustrade, theresult is very imposing.   But fashion is Mr. Weevle's, as it was Tony Jobling's, weakness.   To borrow yesterday's paper from the Sol's Arms of an evening andread about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that areshooting across the fashionable sky in every direction isunspeakable consolation to him. To know what member of whatbrilliant and distinguished circle accomplished the brilliant anddistinguished feat of joining it yesterday or contemplates the noless brilliant and distinguished feat of leaving it to-morrow giveshim a thrill of joy. To be informed what the Galaxy Gallery ofBritish Beauty is about, and means to be about, and what Galaxymarriages are on the tapis, and what Galaxy rumours are incirculation, is to become acquainted with the most gloriousdestinies of mankind. Mr. Weevle reverts from this intelligence tothe Galaxy portraits implicated, and seems to know the originals,and to be known of them.   For the rest he is a quiet lodger, full of handy shifts and devicesas before mentioned, able to cook and clean for himself as well asto carpenter, and developing social inclinations after the shadesof evening have fallen on the court. At those times, when he isnot visited by Mr. Guppy or by a small light in his likenessquenched in a dark hat, he comes out of his dull room--where he hasinherited the deal wilderness of desk bespattered with a rain ofink--and talks to Krook or is "very free," as they call it in thecourt, commendingly, with any one disposed for conversation.   Wherefore, Mrs. Piper, who leads the court, is impelled to offertwo remarks to Mrs. Perkins: firstly, that if her Johnny was tohave whiskers, she could wish 'em to be identically like that youngman's; and secondly, "Mark my words, Mrs. Perkins, ma'am, and don'tyou be surprised, Lord bless you, if that young man comes in atlast for old Krook's money!" Chapter 21 The Smallweed Family In a rather ill-favoured and ill-savoured neighbourhood, though oneof its rising grounds bears the name of Mount Pleasant, the ElfinSmallweed, christened Bartholomew and known on the domestic hearthas Bart, passes that limited portion of his time on which theoffice and its contingencies have no claim. He dwells in a littlenarrow street, always solitary, shady, and sad, closely bricked inon all sides like a tomb, but where there yet lingers the stump ofan old forest tree whose flavour is about as fresh and natural asthe Smallweed smack of youth.   There has been only one child in the Smallweed family for severalgenerations. Little old men and women there have been, but nochild, until Mr. Smallweed's grandmother, now living, became weakin her intellect and fell (for the first time) into a childishstate. With such infantine graces as a total want of observation,memory, understanding, and interest, and an eternal disposition tofall asleep over the fire and into it, Mr. Smallweed's grandmotherhas undoubtedly brightened the family.   Mr. Smallweed's grandfather is likewise of the party. He is in ahelpless condition as to his lower, and nearly so as to his upper,limbs, but his mind is unimpaired. It holds, as well as it everheld, the first four rules of arithmetic and a certain smallcollection of the hardest facts. In respect of ideality,reverence, wonder, and other such phrenological attributes, it isno worse off than it used to be. Everything that Mr. Smallweed'sgrandfather ever put away in his mind was a grub at first, and is agrub at last. In all his life he has never bred a singlebutterfly.   The father of this pleasant grandfather, of the neighbourhood ofMount Pleasant, was a horny-skinned, two-legged, money-gettingspecies of spider who spun webs to catch unwary flies and retiredinto holes until they were entrapped. The name of this old pagan'sgod was Compound Interest. He lived for it, married it, died ofit. Meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise inwhich all the loss was intended to have been on the other side, hebroke something--something necessary to his existence, therefore itcouldn't have been his heart--and made an end of his career. Ashis character was not good, and he had been bred at a charityschool in a complete course, according to question and answer, ofthose ancient people the Amorites and Hittites, he was frequentlyquoted as an example of the failure of education.   His spirit shone through his son, to whom he had always preached of"going out" early in life and whom he made a clerk in a sharpscrivener's office at twelve years old. There the young gentlemanimproved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious character, anddeveloping the family gifts, gradually elevated himself into thediscounting profession. Going out early in life and marrying late,as his father had done before him, he too begat a lean and anxious-minded son, who in his turn, going out early in life and marryinglate, became the father of Bartholomew and Judith Smallweed, twins.   During the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this familytree, the house of Smallweed, always early to go out and late tomarry, has strengthened itself in its practical character, hasdiscarded all amusements, discountenanced all story-books, fairy-tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities whatsoever.   Hence the gratifying fact that it has had no child born to it andthat the complete little men and women whom it has produced havebeen observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with somethingdepressing on their minds.   At the present time, in the dark little parlour certain feet belowthe level of the street--a grim, hard, uncouth parlour, onlyornamented with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and the hardestof sheet-iron tea-trays, and offering in its decorative characterno bad allegorical representation of Grandfather Smallweed's mind--seated in two black horsehair porter's chairs, one on each side ofthe fire-place, the superannuated Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed while awaythe rosy hours. On the stove are a couple of trivets for the potsand kettles which it is Grandfather Smallweed's usual occupation towatch, and projecting from the chimney-piece between them is a sortof brass gallows for roasting, which he also superintends when itis in action. Under the venerable Mr. Smallweed's seat and guardedby his spindle legs is a drawer in his chair, reported to containproperty to a fabulous amount. Beside him is a spare cushion withwhich he is always provided in order that he may have something tothrow at the venerable partner of his respected age whenever shemakes an allusion to money--a subject on which he is particularlysensitive.   "And where's Bart?" Grandfather Smallweed inquires of Judy, Bart'stwin 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 Smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking her headat the trivets, hearing figures mentioned, connects them with moneyand screeches like a horrible old parrot without any plumage, "Tenten-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 onlydoubles up Mrs. Smallweed's head against the side of her porter'schair and causes her to present, when extricated by hergranddaughter, a highly unbecoming state of cap, but the necessaryexertion recoils on Mr. Smallweed himself, whom it throws back intoHIS porter's chair like a broken puppet. The excellent oldgentleman being at these times a mere clothes-bag with a blackskull-cap on the top of it, does not present a very animatedappearance until he has undergone the two operations at the handsof his granddaughter of being shaken up like a great bottle andpoked and punched like a great bolster. Some indication of a neckbeing developed in him by these means, he and the sharer of hislife's evening again fronting one another in their two porter'schairs, like a couple of sentinels long forgotten on their post bythe Black Serjeant, Death.   Judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. She is soindubitably sister to Mr. Smallweed the younger that the twokneaded into one would hardly make a young person of averageproportions, while she so happily exemplifies the before-mentionedfamily likeness to the monkey tribe that attired in a spangled robeand cap she might walk about the table-land on the top of a barrel-organ without exciting much remark as an unusual specimen. Underexisting circumstances, however, she is dressed in a plain, sparegown of brown stuff.   Judy never owned a doll, never heard of Cinderella, never played atany game. She once or twice fell into children's company when shewas about ten years old, but the children couldn't get on withJudy, and Judy couldn't get on with them. She seemed like ananimal of another species, and there was instinctive repugnance onboth sides. It is very doubtful whether Judy knows how to laugh.   She has so rarely seen the thing done that the probabilities arestrong the other way. Of anything like a youthful laugh, shecertainly can have no conception. If she were to try one, shewould find her teeth in her way, modelling that action of her face,as she has unconsciously modelled all its other expressions, on herpattern of sordid age. Such is Judy.   And her twin brother couldn't wind up a top for his life. He knowsno more of Jack the Giant Killer or of Sinbad the Sailor than heknows of the people in the stars. He could as soon play at leap-frog or at cricket as change into a cricket or a frog himself. Buthe is so much the better off than his sister that on his narrowworld of fact an opening has dawned into such broader regions aslie within the ken of Mr. Guppy. Hence his admiration and hisemulation of that shining enchanter.   Judy, with a gong-like clash and clatter, sets one of the sheet-iron tea-trays on the table and arranges cups and saucers. Thebread she puts on in an iron basket, and the butter (and not muchof it) in a small pewter plate. Grandfather Smallweed looks hardafter 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 Smallweed, who, chuckling asusual at the trivets, cries, "Over the water! Charley over thewater, Charley over the water, over the water to Charley, Charleyover the water, over the water to Charley!" and becomes quiteenergetic about it. Grandfather looks at the cushion but has notsufficiently recovered his late exertion.   "Ha!" he says when there is silence. "If that's her name. Sheeats a deal. It would be better to allow her for her keep."Judy, with her brother's wink, shakes her head and purses up hermouth 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 calls, as shescrapes the butter on the loaf with every precaution against wasteand cuts it into slices, "You, Charley, where are you?" Timidlyobedient to the summons, a little girl in a rough apron and a largebonnet, with her hands covered with soap and water and a scrubbingbrush in one of them, appears, and curtsys.   "What work are you about now?" says Judy, making an ancient snap ather 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 dofor me. Make haste! Go along!" cries Judy with a stamp upon theground. "You girls are more trouble than you're worth, by half."On this severe matron, as she returns to her task of scraping thebutter and cutting the bread, falls the shadow of her brother,looking in at the window. For whom, knife and loaf in hand, sheopens the street-door.   "Aye, aye, Bart!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Here you are, hey?""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 takewarning 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 grandson, without receiving this good counsel as dutifully ashe might, honours it with all such acceptance as may lie in aslight wink and a nod and takes a chair at the tea-table. The fourold faces then hover over teacups like a company of ghastlycherubim, Mrs. Smallweed perpetually twitching her head andchattering at the trivets and Mr. Smallweed requiring to berepeatedly shaken up like a large black draught.   "Yes, yes," says the good old gentleman, reverting to his lesson ofwisdom. "That's such advice as your father would have given you,Bart. You never saw your father. More's the pity. He was my trueson." Whether it is intended to be conveyed that he wasparticularly pleasant to look at, on that account, does not appear.   "He was my true son," repeats the old gentleman, folding his breadand butter on his knee, "a good accountant, and died fifteen yearsago."Mrs. Smallweed, following her usual instinct, breaks out with"Fifteen hundred pound. Fifteen hundred pound in a black box,fifteen hundred pound locked up, fifteen hundred pound put away andhid!" Her worthy husband, setting aside his bread and butter,immediately discharges the cushion at her, crushes her against theside of her chair, and falls back in his own, overpowered. Hisappearance, after visiting Mrs. Smallweed with one of theseadmonitions, is particularly impressive and not whollyprepossessing, firstly because the exertion generally twists hisblack skull-cap over one eye and gives him an air of goblinrakishness, secondly because he mutters violent imprecationsagainst Mrs. Smallweed, and thirdly because the contrast betweenthose powerful expressions and his powerless figure is suggestiveof a baleful old malignant who would be very wicked if he could.   All this, however, is so common in the Smallweed family circle thatit produces no impression. The old gentleman is merely shaken andhas his internal feathers beaten up, the cushion is restored to itsusual place beside him, and the old lady, perhaps with her capadjusted and perhaps not, is planted in her chair again, ready tobe bowled down like a ninepin.   Some time elapses in the present instance before the old gentlemanis sufficiently cool to resume his discourse, and even then hemixes it up with several edifying expletives addressed to theunconscious partner of his bosom, who holds communication withnothing on earth but the trivets. As thus: "If your father, Bart,had lived longer, he might have been worth a deal of money--youbrimstone chatterer!--but just as he was beginning to build up thehouse that he had been making the foundations for, through many ayear--you jade of a magpie, jackdaw, and poll-parrot, what do youmean!--he took ill and died of a low fever, always being a sparingand a spare man, fule been a good son, and I think I meant tohave been one. But I wasn't. I was a thundering bad son, that'sthe long and the short of it, and never was a credit to anybody.""Surprising!" cries the old man.   "However," Mr. George resumes, "the less said about it, the betternow. Come! You know the agreement. Always a pipe out of the twomonths' interest! (Bosh! It's all correct. You needn't be afraidto 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 ittogether in my business.)"Mr. George sits, with his arms folded, consuming the family and theparlour while Grandfather Smallweed is assisted by Judy to twoblack leathern cases out of a locked bureau, in one of which hesecures the document he has just received, and from the other takesanother similar document which hl of business care--I should like to throw acat at you instead of a cushion, and I will too if you make such aconfounded fool of yourself!--and your mother, who was a prudentwoman as dry as a chip, just dwindled away like touchwood after youand Judy were born--you are an old pig. You are a brimstone pig.   You're a head of swine!"Judy, not interested in what she has often heard, begins to collectin a basin various tributary streams of tea, from the bottoms ofcups and saucers and from the bottom of the teapot for the littlecharwoman's evening meal. In like manner she gets together, in theiron bread-basket, as many outside fragments and worn-down heels ofloaves as the rigid economy of the house has left in existence.   "But your father and me were partners, Bart," says the oldgentleman, "and when I am gone, you and Judy will have all thereis. It's rare for you both that you went out early in life--Judyto the flower business, and you to the law. You won't want tospend 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'llstill stick to the law."One might infer from Judy's appearance that her business rather laywith the thorns than the flowers, but she has in her time beenapprenticed to the art and mystery of artificial flower-making. Aclose observer might perhaps detect both in her eye and herbrother's, when their venerable grandsire anticipates his beinggone, some little impatience to know when he may be going, and someresentful opinion that it is time he went.   "Now, if everybody has done," says Judy, completing herpreparations, "I'll have that girl in to her tea. She would neverleave off if she took it by herself in the kitchen."Charley is accordingly introduced, and 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 person, Judy Smallweedappears to attain a perfectly geological age and to date from theremotest periods. Her systematic manner of flying at her andpouncing on her, with or without pretence, whether or no, iswonderful, evincing an accomplishment in the art of girl-drivingseldom reached by the oldest practitioners.   "Now, don't stare about you all the afternoon," cries Judy, shakingher head and stamping her foot as she happens to catch the glancewhich has been previously sounding the basin of tea, "but take yourvictuals and get back to your work.""Yes, miss," says Charley.   "Don't say yes," returns Miss Smallweed, "for I know what you girlsare. Do it without saying it, and then I may begin to believeyou."Charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission and sodisperses the Druidical ruins that Miss Smallweed charges her notto gormandize, which "in you girls," she observes, is disgusting.   Charley might find some more difficulty in meeting her views on thegeneral subject of girls but for a knock at the door.   "See who it is, and don't chew when you open it!" cries Judy.   The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose, MissSmallweed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of thebread and butter together and launching two or three dirty tea-cupsinto the ebb-tide of the basin of tea as a hint that she considersthe eating and drinking terminated.   "Now! Who is it, and what's wanted?" says the snappish Judy.   It is one Mr. George, it appears. Without other announcement orceremony, Mr. George walks in.   "Whew!" says Mr. George. "You are hot here. Always a fire, eh?   Well! Perhaps you do right to get used to one." Mr. George makesthe 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. George, taking a chair. "Yourgranddaughter I have had the honour of seeing before; my service toyou, miss.""This is my grandson," says Grandfather Smallweed. "You ha'n'tseen 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 likehis sister. He is devilish like his sister," says Mr. George,laying a great and not altogether complimentary stress on his lastadjective.   "And how does the world use you, Mr. George?" Grandfather Smallweedinquires, slowly rubbing his legs.   "Pretty much as usual. Like a football."He is a swarthy brown man of fifty, well made, and good looking,with crisp dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest. His sinewyand powerful hands, as sunburnt as his face, have evidently beenused to a pretty rough life. What is curious about him is that hesits forward on his chair as if he were, from long habit, allowingspace for some dress or accoutrements that he has altogether laidaside. His step too is measured and heavy and would go well with aweighty clash and jingle of spurs. He is close-shaved now, but hismouth is set as if his upper lip had been for years familiar with agreat moustache; and his manner of occasionally laying the openpalm of his broad brown hand upon it is to the same effect.   Altogether one might guess Mr. George to have been a trooper onceupon 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 andtheir stunted forms, his large manner filling any amount of roomand their little narrow pinched ways, his sounding voice and theirsharp spare tones, are in the strongest and the strangestopposition. As he sits in the middle of the grim parlour, leaninga little forward, with his hands upon his thighs and his elbowssquared, he looks as though, if he remained there long, he wouldabsorb into himself the whole family and the whole four-roomedhouse, extra little back-kitchen and all.   "Do you rub your legs to rub life into 'em?" he asks of GrandfatherSmallweed after looking round the room.   "Why, it's partly a habit, Mr. George, and--yes--it partly helpsthe circulation," he replies.   "The cir-cu-la-tion!" repeats Mr. George, folding his arms upon hischest and seeming to become two sizes larger. "Not much of that, Ishould think.""Truly I'm old, Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed. "But Ican carry my years. I'm older than HER," nodding at his wife, "andsee what she is? You're a brimstone chatterer!" with a suddenrevival of his late hostility.   "Unlucky old soul!" says Mr. George, turning his head in thatdirection. "Don't scold the old lady. Look at her here, with herpoor cap half off her head and her poor hair all in a muddle. Holdup, ma'am. That's better. There we are! Think of your mother,Mr. Smallweed," says Mr. George, coming back to his seat fromassisting her, "if your wife an't enough.""I suppose you were an excellent son, Mr. George?" the old manhints with a leer.   The colour of Mr. George's face rather deepens as he replies, "Whyno. I wasn't.""I am astonished at it.""So am I. I ought to have hands to Mr. George, who twistsit up for a pipelight. As the old man inspects, through hisglasses, every up-stroke and down-stroke of both documents beforehe releases them from their leathern prison, and as he counts themoney three times over and requires Judy to say every word sheutters at least twice, and is as tremulously slow of speech andaction as it is possible to be, this business is a long time inprogress. When it is quite concluded, and not before, hedisengages his ravenous eyes and fingers from it and answers Mr.   George's last remark by saying, "Afraid to order the pipe? We arenot so mercenary as that, sir. Judy, see directly to the pipe andthe glass of cold brandy-and-water for Mr. George."The sportive twins, who have been looking straight before them allthis time except when they have been engrossed by the blackleathern cases, retire together, generally disdainful of thevisitor, but leaving him to the old man as two young cubs mightleave 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. "No, no. Wehave never been readers in our family. It don't pay. Stuff.   Idleness. Folly. No, no!""There's not much to choose between your two states," says thevisitor in a key too low for the old man's dull hearing as he looksfrom him to the old woman and back again. "I say!" in a loudervoice.   "I hear you.""You'll sell me up at last, I suppose, when I am a day in arrear.""My dear friend!" cries Grandfather Smallweed, stretching out bothhands to embrace him. "Never! Never, my dear friend! But myfriend in the city that I got to lend you the money--HE might!""Oh! You can't answer for him?" says Mr. George, finishing theinquiry in his lower key with the words "You lying old rascal!""My dear friend, he is not to be depended on. I wouldn't trusthim. He will have his bond, my dear friend.""Devil doubt him," says Mr. George. Charley appearing with a tray,on which are the pipe, a small paper of tobacco, and the brandy-and-water, he asks her, "How do you come here! You haven't got thefamily 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 hand, and pats her on the head.   "You give the house almost a wholesome look. It wants a bit ofyouth as much as it wants fresh air." Then he dismisses her,lights his pipe, and drinks to Mr. Smallweed's friend in the city--the one solitary flight of that esteemed old gentleman'simagination.   "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 incautiously, "twenty times."Incautiously, because his stricken better-half, who has been dozingover the fire for some time, is instantly aroused and jabbers"Twenty thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a money-box,twenty guineas, twenty million twenty per cent, twenty--" and isthen cut short by the flying cushion, which the visitor, to whomthis singular experiment appears to be a novelty, snatches from herface as it crushes her in the usual manner.   "You're a brimstone idiot. You're a scorpion--a brimstonescorpion! You're a sweltering toad. You're a chatteringclattering broomstick witch that ought to be burnt!" gasps the oldman, prostrate in his chair. "My dear friend, will you shake me upa little?"Mr. George, who has been looking first at one of them and then atthe other, as if he were demented, takes his venerable acquaintanceby the throat on receiving this request, and dragging him uprightin his chalr as easily as if he were a doll, appears in two mindswhether or no to shake all future power of cushioning out of himand shake him into his grave. Resisting the temptation, butagitating him violently enough to make his head roll like aharlequin's, he puts him smartly down in his chair again andadjusts his skull-cap with such a rub that the old man winks withboth eyes for a minute afterwards.   "O Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed. "That'll do. Thank you, my dearfriend, that'll do. Oh, dear me, I'm out of breath. O Lord!" AndMr. Smallweed says it not without evident apprehensions of his dearfriend, who still stands over him looming larger than ever.   The alarming presence, however, gradually subsides into its chairand falls to smoking in long puffs, consoling itself with thephilosophical reflection, "The name of your friend in the citybegins with a D, comrade, and you're about right respecting thebond.""Did you speak, Mr. George?" inquires the old man.   The trooper shakes his head, and leaning forward with his rightelbow on his right knee and his pipe supported in that hand, whilehis other hand, resting on his left leg, squares his left elbow ina martial manner, continues to smoke. Meanwhile he looks at Mr.   Smallweed with grave attention and now and then fans the cloud ofsmoke away in order that he may see him the more clearly.   "I take it," he says, making just as much and as little change inhis position as will enable him to reach the glass to his lips witha round, full action, "that I am the only man alive (or deadeither) that gets the value of a pipe out of YOU?""Well," returns the old man, "it's true that I don't see company,Mr. George, and that I don't treat. I can't afford to it. But asyou, in your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition--""Why, it's not for the value of it; that's no great thing. It wasa 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 prudencethat I ever found the way here." Puff. "Also, that I am what Iam." 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 atwinkle in his eyes, "who would pay off this little principal orwho would lend you a good name or two that I could persuade myfriend in the city to make you a further advance upon? Two goodnames would be sufficient for my friend in the city. Ha'n't you nosuch relations, Mr. George?"Mr. George, still composedly smoking, replies, "If I had, Ishouldn't trouble them. I have been trouble enough to mybelongings in my day. It MAY be a very good sort of penitence in avagabond, who has wasted the best time of his life, to go back thento 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 goneaway is to keep away, in my opinion.""But natural affection, Mr. George," hints Grandfather Smallweed.   "For two good names, hey?" says Mr. George, shaking his head andstill composedly smoking. "No. That's not my sort either."Grandfather Smallweed has been gradually sliding down in his chairsince his last adjustment and is now a bundle of clothes with avoice in it calling for Judy. That houri, appearing, shakes him upin the usual manner and is charged by the old gentleman to remainnear him. For he seems chary of putting his visitor to the troubleof repeating his late attentions.   "Ha!" he observes when he is in trim again. "If you could havetraced out the captain, Mr. George, it would have been the makingof you. If when you first came here, in consequence of ouradvertisement in the newspapers--when I say 'our,' I'm alluding tothe advertisements of my friend in the city, and one or two otherswho embark their capital in the same way, and are so friendlytowards me as sometimes to give me a lift with my little pittance--if at that time you could have helped us, Mr. George, it would havebeen the making of you.""I was willing enough to be 'made,' as you call it," says Mr.   George, smoking not quite so placidly as before, for since theentrance of Judy he has been in some measure disturbed by afascination, not of the admiring kind, which obliges him to look ather as she stands by her grandfather's chair, "but on the whole, Iam glad I wasn't now.""Why, Mr. George? In the name of--of brimstone, why?" saysGrandfather 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. George, composedlydrinking.   "Aye, if you like. What two reasons?""In the first place," returns Mr. George, but still looking at Judyas if she being so old and so like her grandfather it isindifferent which of the two he addresses, "you gentlemen took mein. You advertised that Mr. Hawdon (Captain Hawdon, if you hold tothe saying 'Once a captain, always a captain') was to hear ofsomething to his advantage.""Well?" returns the old man shrilly and sharply.   "Well!" says Mr. George, smoking on. "It wouldn't have been muchto his advantage to have been clapped into prison by the whole billand judgment trade of London.""How do you know that? Some of his rich relations might have paidhis debts or compounded for 'em. Besides, he had taken US in. Heowed us immense sums all round. I would sooner have strangled himthan had no return. If I sit here thinking of him," snarls the oldman, holding up his impotent ten fingers, "I want to strangle himnow." And in a sudden access of fury, he throws the cushion at theunoffending Mrs. Smallweed, but it passes harmlessly on one side ofher chair.   "I don't need to be told," returns the trooper, taking his pipefrom his lips for a moment and carrying his eyes back fromfollowing the progress of the cushion to the pipe-bowl which isburning low, "that he carried on heavily and went to ruin. I havebeen at his right hand many a day when he was charging upon ruinfull-gallop. I was with him when he was sick and well, rich andpoor. I laid this hand upon him after he had run througheverything and broken down everything beneath him--when he held apistol to his head.""I wish he had let it off," says the benevolent old man, "and blownhis 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 goneby, and I am glad I never found him, when he was neither, to leadto 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, Imust 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 longbefore. I am convinced of it. He went over a ship's side.   Whether intentionally or accidentally, I don't know. Perhaps yourfriend in the city does. Do you know what that tune is, Mr.   Smallweed?" he adds after breaking off to whistle one, accompaniedon 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'sthe natural end of the subject. Now, if your pretty granddaughter--excuse me, miss--will condescend to take care of this pipe for twomonths, 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 Ifall in a payment?" says the trooper, looking down upon him like agiant.   "My dear friend, I am afraid he will," returns the old man, lookingup at him like a pygmy.   Mr. George laughs, and with a glance at Mr. Smallweed and a partingsalutation to the scornful Judy, strides out of the parlour,clashing imaginary sabres and other metallic appurtenances as hegoes.   "You're a damned rogue," says the old gentleman, making a hideousgrimace at the door as he shuts it. "But I'll lime you, you dog,I'll lime you!"After this amiable remark, his spirit soars into those enchantingregions of reflection which its education and pursuits have openedto it, and again he and Mrs. Smallweed while away the rosy hours,two unrelieved sentinels forgotten as aforesaid by the BlackSerjeant.   While the twain are faithful to their post, Mr. George stridesthrough the streets with a massive kind of swagger and a grave-enough face. It is eight o'clock now, and the day is fast drawingin. He stops hard by Waterloo Bridge and reads a playbill, decidesto go to Astley's Theatre. Being there, is much delighted with thehorses and the feats of strength; looks at the weapons with acritical eye; disapproves of the combats as giving evidences ofunskilful swordsmanship; but is touched home by the sentiments. Inthe last scene, when the Emperor of Tartary gets up into a cart andcondescends to bless the united lovers by hovering over them withthe Union Jack, his eyelashes are moistened with emotion.   The theatre over, Mr. George comes across the water again and makeshis way to that curious region lying about the Haymarket andLeicester Square which is a centre of attraction to indifferentforeign hotels and indifferent foreigners, racket-courts, fighting-men, swordsmen, footguards, old china, gaming-houses, exhibitions,and a large medley of shabbiness and shrinking out of sight.   Penetrating to the heart of this region, he arrives by a court anda long whitewashed passage at a great brick building composed ofbare walls, floors, roof-rafters, and skylights, on the front ofwhich, if it can be said to have any front, is painted GEORGE'SSHOOTING GALLERY, &c.   Into George's Shooting Gallery, &c., he goes; and in it there aregaslights (partly turned off now), and two whitened targets forrifle-shooting, and archery accommodation, and fencing appliances,and all necessaries for the British art of boxing. None of thesesports or exercises being pursued in George's Shooting Gallery to-night, which is so devoid of company that a little grotesque manwith a large head has it all to himself and lies asleep upon thefloor.   The little man is dressed something like a gunsmith, in a green-baize apron and cap; and his face and hands are dirty withgunpowder and begrimed with the loading of guns. As he lies in thelight before a glaring white target, the black upon him shinesagain. Not far off is the strong, rough, primitive table with avice upon it at which he has been working. He is a little man witha face all crushed together, who appears, from a certain blue andspeckled appearance that one of his cheeks presents, to have beenblown up, in the way of business, at some odd time or times.   "Phil!" says the trooper in a quiet voice.   "All right!" cries Phil, scrambling to his feet.   "Anything been doing?""Flat as ever so much swipes," says Phil. "Five dozen rifle and adozen pistol. As to aim!" Phil gives a howl at the recollection.   "Shut up shop, Phil!"As Phil moves about to execute this order, it appears that he islame, though able to move very quickly. On the speckled side ofhis face he has no eyebrow, and on the other side he has a bushyblack one, which want of uniformity gives him a very singular andrather sinister appearance. Everything seems to have happened tohis hands that could possibly take place consistently with theretention of all the fingers, for they are notched, and seamed, andcrumpled all over. He appears to be very strong and lifts heavybenches about as if he had no idea what weight was. He has acurious way of limping round the gallery with his shoulder againstthe wall and tacking off at objects he wants to lay hold of insteadof going straight to them, which has left a smear all round thefour walls, conventionally called "Phil's mark."This custodian of George's Gallery in George's absence concludeshis proceedings, when he has locked the great doors and turned outall the lights but one, which he leaves to glimmer, by dragging outfrom a wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses and bedding. Thesebeing drawn to opposite ends of the gallery, the trooper makes hisown bed and Phil makes his.   "Phil!" says the master, walking towards him without his coat andwaistcoat, and 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 bed, but finds it necessary toshoulder round two sides of the gallery and then tack off at hismattress. The trooper, after taking a turn or two in the rifle-distance and looking up at the moon now shining through theskylights, strides to his own mattress by a shorter route and goesto bed too. Chapter 22 Mr. Bucket Allegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln's Inn Fields, though theevening is hot, for both Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows are wide open,and the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. These may not bedesirable characteristics when November comes with fog and sleet orJanuary with ice and snow, but they have their merits in the sultrylong vacation weather. They enable Allegory, though it has cheekslike peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosyswellings for calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, to looktolerably cool to-night.   Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows, and plentymore has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thickeverywhere. When a breeze from the country that has lost its waytakes fright and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flingsas much dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law-or Mr. Tulkinghorn,one of its trustiest representatives--may scatter, on occasion, inthe eyes of the laity.   In his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into whichhis papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things ofearth, animate and inanimate, are resolving, Mr. Tulkinghorn sitsat one of the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. Though ahard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old winewith the best. He has a priceless bin of port in some artfulcellar under the Fields, which is one of his many secrets. When hedines alone in chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit offish and his steak or chicken brought in from the coffee-house, hedescends with a candle to the echoing regions below the desertedmansion, and heralded by a remote reverberation of thunderingdoors, comes gravely back encircled by an earthy atmosphere andcarrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, two scoreand ten years old, that blushes in the glass to find itself sofamous and fills the whole room with the fragrance of southerngrapes.   Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoyshis wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silenceand seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable thanever, he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy,pondering at that twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows,associated with darkening woods in the country, and vast blankshut-up houses in town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two forhimself, and his family history, and his money, and his will--all amystery to every one--and that one bachelor friend of his, a man ofthe same mould and a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of lifeuntil he was seventy-five years old, and then suddenly conceiving(as it is supposed) an impression that it was too monotonous, gavehis gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening and walkedleisurely home to the Temple and hanged himself.   But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usuallength. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestlyand uncomfortably drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild,shining man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyerbids him fill his glass.   "Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd storyagain.""If you please, sir.""You told me when you were so good as to step round here lastnight--""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 thatperson, and I thought it possible that you might--just--wish--to--"Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion or toadmit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr.   Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "I must askyou to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure.""Not at all," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "You told me, Snagsby, thatyou put on your hat and came round without mentioning yourintention to your wife. That was prudent I think, because it's nota matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned.""Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see, my little woman is--notto 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 tohave her mind employed. In consequence of which she employs it--Ishould say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whetherit concerns her or not--especially not. My little woman has a veryactive mind, sir."Mr. Snagsby drinks and murmurs with an admiring cough behind hishand, "Dear 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 sheconsiders such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is thename they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. Hehas a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I amnot quite favourable to his style myself. That's neither here northere. My little woman being engaged in that way made it easierfor me to step round in a quiet manner."Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. "Fill your glass, Snagsby.""Thank you, sir, I am sure," returns the stationer with his coughof deference. "This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!""It is a rare wine now," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It is fifty yearsold.""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 tributeto the port, Mr. Snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behindhis hand for drinking anything so precious.   "Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" asks Mr.   Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rustysmallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair.   "With pleasure, sir."Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationerrepeats Jo's statement made to the assembled guests at his house.   On coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start andbreaks off with, "Dear me, sir, I wasn't aware there was any othergentleman present!"Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive facebetween 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 hehimself came in and has not since entered by the door or by eitherof the windows. There is a press in the room, but its hinges havenot creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet thisthird person stands there with his attentive face, and his hat andstick in his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quietlistener. He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed man inblack, of about the middle-age. Except that he looks at Mr.   Snagsby as if he were going to take his portrait, there is nothingremarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manner ofappearing.   "Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his quiet way.   "This is only Mr. Bucket.""Oh, indeed, sir?" returns the stationer, expressing by a coughthat he is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be.   "I wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because I havehalf a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is veryintelligent 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'tobject to go down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point him out, wecan have him here in less than a couple of hours' time. I can doit without Mr. Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way.""Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby," says the lawyer inexplanation.   "Is he indeed, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby with a strong tendency in hisclump of hair to stand on end.   "And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to theplace in question," pursues the lawyer, "I shall feel obliged toyou if you will do so."In a moment's hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket dipsdown to the bottom of his mind.   "Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says. "You won't dothat. It's all right as far as the boy's concerned. We shall onlybring 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 agood job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see theboy sent away all right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him; youan't going to do that.""Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!" cries Mr. Snagsby cheerfully. Andreassured, "Since that's the case--""Yes! And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking himaside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, andspeaking in a confidential tone. "You're a man of the world, youknow, and a man of business, and a man of sense. That's what YOUare.""I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returnsthe stationer with his cough of modesty, "but--""That's what YOU are, you know," says Bucket. "Now, it an'tnecessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, whichis a business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake andhave his senses about him and his head screwed on tight (I had anuncle in your business once)--it an't necessary to say to a manlike you that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matterslike this quiet. Don't you see? Quiet!""Certainly, certainly," returns the other.   "I don't mind telling YOU," says Bucket with an engaging appearanceof frankness, "that as far as I can understand it, there seems tobe a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a littleproperty, and whether this female hasn't been up to some gamesrespecting that property, don't you see?""Oh!" says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly.   "Now, what YOU want," pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby onthe breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, "is that everyperson should have their rights according to justice. That's whatYOU want.""To be sure," returns Mr. Snagsby with a nod.   "On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a--do you callit, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncleused to call it.""Why, I generally say customer myself," replies Mr. Snagsby.   "You're right!" returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him quiteaffectionately. "--On account of which, and at the same time tooblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, inconfidence, to Tom-all-Alone's and to keep the whole thing quietever afterwards and never mention it to any one. That's about yourintentions, if I understand you?""You are right, sir. You are right," says Mr. Snagsby.   "Then here's your hat," returns his new friend, quite as intimatewith it as if he had made it; "and if you're ready, I am."They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of hisunfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go down into thestreets.   "You don't happen to know a very good sort of person of the name ofGridley, do you?" says Bucket in friendly converse as they descendthe stairs.   "No," says Mr. Snagsby, considering, "I don't know anybody of thatname. Why?""Nothing particular," says Bucket; "only having allowed his temperto get a little the better of him and having been threatening somerespectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant Ihave got against him--which it's a pity that a man of sense shoulddo."As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes, as a novelty, thathowever quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in someundefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he isgoing to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixedpurpose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off,sharply, at the very last moment. Now and then, when they pass apolice-constable on his beat, Mr. Snagsby notices that both theconstable and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they cometowards each other, and appear entirely to overlook each other, andto gaze into space. In a few instances, Mr. Bucket, coming behindsome under-sized young man with a shining hat on, and his sleekhair twisted into one flat curl on each side of his head, almostwithout glancing at him touches him with his stick, upon which theyoung man, looking round, instantly evaporates. For the most partMr. Bucket notices things in general, with a face as unchanging asthe great mourning ring on his little finger or the brooch,composed of not much diamond and a good deal of setting, which hewears in his shirt.   When they come at last to Tom-all-Alone's, Mr. Bucket stops for amoment at the corner and takes a lighted bull's-eye from theconstable on duty there, who then accompanies him with his ownparticular bull's-eye at his waist. Between his two conductors,Mr. Snagsby passes along the middle of a villainous street,undrained, unventilated, deep in black mud and corrupt water--though the roads are dry elsewhere--and reeking with such smellsand sights that he, who has lived in London all his life, canscarce believe his senses. Branching from this street and itsheaps of ruins are other streets and courts so infamous that Mr.   Snagsby sickens in body and mind and feels as if he were goingevery moment deeper down into the infernal gulf.   "Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby," says Bucket as a kind of shabbypalanquin is borne towards them, surrounded by a noisy crowd.   "Here's the fever coming up the street!"As the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that object ofattraction, hovers round the three visitors like a dream ofhorrible faces and fades away up alleys and into ruins and behindwalls, and 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 heturns his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins.   Darby replies that "all them are," and further that in all, formonths and months, the people "have been down by dozens" and havebeen carried out dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." Bucketobserving to Mr. Snagsby as they go on again that he looks a littlepoorly, Mr. Snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn't breathethe dreadful air.   There is inquiry made at various houses for a boy named Jo. As fewpeople are known in Tom-all-Alone's by any Christian sign, there ismuch reference to Mr. Snagsby whether he means Carrots, or theColonel, or Gallows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, orthe Brick. Mr. Snagsby describes over and over again. There areconflicting opinions respecting the original of his picture. Somethink it must be Carrots, some say the Brick. The Colonel isproduced, but is not at all near the thing. Whenever Mr. Snagsbyand his conductors are stationary, the crowd flows round, and fromits squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to Mr. Bucket.   Whenever they move, and the angry bull's-eyes glare, it fades awayand flits about them up the alleys, and in the ruins, and behindthe walls, as before.   At last there is a lair found out where Toughy, or the ToughSubject, lays him down at night; and it is thought that the ToughSubject may be Jo. Comparison of notes between Mr. Snagsby and theproprietress of the house--a drunken face tied up in a blackbundle, and flaring out of a heap of rags on the floor of a dog-hutch which is her private apartment--leads to the establishment ofthis conclusion. Toughy has gone to the doctor's to get a bottleof stuff for a sick woman but will be here anon.   "And who have we got here to-night?" says Mr. Bucket, openinganother door and glaring in with his bull's-eye. "Two drunken men,eh? And two women? The men are sound enough," turning back eachsleeper's arm from his face to look at him. "Are these your goodmen, my 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, Iexpect.""That's not the way to do much good," says Mr. Bucket, turning hishead in the direction of the unconscious figures on the ground.   "It an't indeed," replies the woman with a sigh. "Jenny and meknows it full well."The room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so lowthat the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch theblackened ceiling if he stood upright. It is offensive to everysense; even the gross candle burns pale and sickly in the pollutedair. There are a couple of benches and a higher bench by way oftable. The men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the womensit by the candle. Lying in the arms of the woman who has spokenis a very young child.   "Why, what age do you call that little creature?" says Bucket. "Itlooks as if it was born yesterday." He is not at all rough aboutit; and as he turns his light gently on the infant, Mr. Snagsby isstrangely reminded of another infant, encircled with light, that hehas seen in pictures.   "He is not three weeks old yet, sir," says the woman.   "Is he your child?""Mine."The other woman, who was bending over it when they came in, stoopsdown again and kisses it as it lies asleep.   "You seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself," saysMr. Bucket.   "I was the mother of one like it, master, and it died.""Ah, Jenny, Jenny!" says the other woman to her. "Better so. Muchbetter to think of dead than alive, Jenny! Much better!""Why, you an't such an unnatural woman, I hope," returns Bucketsternly, "as to wish your own child dead?""God knows you are right, master," she returns. "I am not. I'dstand between it and death with my own life if I could, as true asany pretty lady.""Then don't talk in that wrong manner," says Mr. Bucket, mollifiedagain. "Why do you do it?""It's brought into my head, master," returns the woman, her eyesfilling with tears, "when I look down at the child lying so. If itwas 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'tI, Jenny?--and I know how she grieved. But look around you at thisplace. 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 goodturn. Think of the children that your business lays with often andoften, and that YOU see grow up!""Well, well," says Mr. Bucket, "you train him respectable, andhe'll be a comfort to you, and look after you in your old age, youknow.""I mean to try hard," she answers, wiping her eyes. "But I havebeen a-thinking, being over-tired to-night and not well with theague, of all the many things that'll come in his way. My masterwill be against it, and he'll be beat, and see me beat, and made tofear his home, and perhaps to stray wild. If I work for him everso much, and ever so hard, there's no one to help me; and if heshould be turned bad 'spite of all I could do, and the time shouldcome when I should sit by him in his sleep, made hard and changed,an't it likely I should think of him as he lies in my lap now andwish he had died as Jenny's child died!""There, there!" says Jenny. "Liz, you're tired and ill. Let metake him."In doing so, she displaces the mother's dress, but quicklyreadjusts it over the wounded and bruised bosom where the baby hasbeen lying.   "It's my dead child," says Jenny, walking up and down as shenurses, "that makes me love this child so dear, and it's my deadchild that makes her love it so dear too, as even to think of itsbeing taken away from her now. While she thinks that, I think whatfortune would I give to have my darling back. But we mean the samething, if we knew how to say it, us two mothers does in our poorhearts!"As Mr. Snagsby blows his nose and coughs his cough of sympathy, astep is heard without. Mr. Bucket throws his light into thedoorway and says to Mr. Snagsby, "Now, what do you say to Toughy?   Will HE do?""That's Jo," says Mr. Snagsby.   Jo stands amazed in the disk of light, like a ragged figure in amagic-lantern, trembling to think that he has offended against thelaw in not having moved on far enough. Mr. Snagsby, however,giving him the consolatory assurance, "It's only a job you will bepaid for, Jo," he recovers; and on being taken outside by Mr.   Bucket for a little private confabulation, tells his talesatisfactorily, though out of breath.   "I have squared it with the lad," says Mr. Bucket, returning, "andit's all right. Now, Mr. Snagsby, we're ready for you."First, Jo has to complete his errand of good nature by handing overthe physic he has been to get, which he delivers with the laconicverbal direction that "it's to be all took d'rectly." Secondly,Mr. Snagsby has to lay upon the table half a crown, his usualpanacea for an immense variety of afflictions. Thirdly, Mr. Buckethas to take Jo by the arm a little above the elbow and walk him onbefore him, without which observance neither the Tough Subject norany other Subject could be professionally conducted to Lincoln'sInn Fields. These arrangements completed, they give the women goodnight 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 it, the crowd flitting, and whistling,and skulking about them until they come to the verge, whererestoration of the bull's-eyes is made to Darby. Here the crowd,like a concourse of imprisoned demons, turns back, yelling, and isseen no more. Through the clearer and fresher streets, never soclear and fresh to Mr. Snagsby's mind as now, they walk and rideuntil they come to Mr. Tulkinghorn's gate.   As they ascend the dim stairs (Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers being onthe first floor), Mr. Bucket mentions that he has the key of theouter door in his pocket and that there is no need to ring. For aman so expert in most things of that kind, Bucket takes time toopen the door and makes some noise too. It may be that he sounds anote of preparation.   Howbeit, they come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burning,and so into Mr. Tulkinghorn's usual room--the room where he drankhis old wine to-night. He is not there, but his two old-fashionedcandlesticks are, and the room is tolerably light.   Mr. Bucket, still having his professional hold of Jo and appearingto Mr. Snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eyes, makes alittle way into this room, when Jo starts and stops.   "What's the matter?" says Bucket in a whisper.   "There she is!" cries Jo.   "Who!""The lady!"A female figure, closely veiled, stands in the middle of the room,where the light falls upon it. It is quite still and silent. Thefront of the figure is towards them, but it takes no notice oftheir entrance and remains like a statue.   "Now, tell me," says Bucket aloud, "how you know that to be thelady.""I know the wale," replies Jo, staring, "and the bonnet, and thegownd.""Be quite sure of what you say, Tough," returns Bucket, narrowlyobservant of him. "Look again.""I am a-looking as hard as ever I can look," says Jo with startingeyes, "and 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 Jo, rubbing the fingers of hisleft hand on the knuckles of his right without taking his eyes fromthe 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 likethat.""What are you talking of?" says Bucket, evidently 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. "Doyou recollect the lady's voice?""I think I does," says Jo.   The figure speaks. "Was it at all like this? I will speak as longas you like if you are not sure. Was it this voice, or at all likethis voice?"Jo looks aghast at Mr. Bucket. "Not a bit!""Then, what," retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, "did yousay it was the lady for?""Cos," says Jo with a perplexed stare but without being at allshaken in his certainty, "cos that there's the wale, the bonnet,and the gownd. It is her and it an't her. It an't her hand, noryet her rings, nor yet her woice. But that there's the wale, thebonnet, 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 andhooked it.""Well!" says Mr. Bucket slightly, "we haven't got much good out ofYOU. But, however, here's five shillings for you. Take care howyou spend it, and don't get yourself into trouble." Bucketstealthily tells the coins from one hand into the other likecounters--which is a way he has, his principal use of them being inthese games of skill--and then puts them, in a little pile, intothe boy's hand and takes him out to the door, leaving Mr. Snagsby,not by any means comfortable under these mysterious circumstances,alone with the veiled figure. But on Mr. Tulkinghorn's coming intothe room, the veil is raised and a sufficiently good-lookingFrenchwoman is revealed, though her expression is something of theintensest.   "Thank you, Mademoiselle Hortense," says Mr. Tulkinghorn with hisusual equanimity. "I will give you no further trouble about thislittle wager.""You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not atpresent placed?" says mademoiselle.   "Certainly, certainly!""And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguishedrecommendation?""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.   Bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural to be groom ofthe ceremonies as it is to be anything else, shows 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. Therean'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 Ican be of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, as my littlewoman will be getting anxious--""Thank you, Snagsby, no further use," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "I amquite 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. Bucket, accompanying him to thedoor and shaking hands with him over and over again, "what I likein you is that you're a man it's of no use pumping; that's what YOUare. 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 whatYOU 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 todo," says Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him inthe tenderest manner, "it's what you DO. That's what I estimate ina man in your way of business."Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response and goes homeward so confusedby the events of the evening that he is doubtful of his being awakeand out--doubtful of the reality of the streets through which hegoes--doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines above him.   He is presently reassured on these subjects by the unchallengeablereality of Mrs. Snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfectbeehive of curl-papers and night-cap, who has dispatched Guster tothe police-station with official intelligence of her husband'sbeing made away with, and who within the last two hours has passedthrough every stage of swooning with the greatest decorum. But asthe little woman feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it! Chapter 23 Esther's Narrative We came home from Mr. Boythorn's after six pleasant weeks. We wereoften in the park and in the woods and seldom passed the lodgewhere we had taken shelter without looking in to speak to thekeeper's wife; but we saw no more of Lady Dedlock, except at churchon Sundays. There was company at Chesney Wold; and althoughseveral beautiful faces surrounded her, her face retained the sameinfluence on me as at first. I do not quite know even now whetherit was painful or pleasurable, whether it drew me towards her ormade me shrink from her. I think I admired her with a kind offear, and I know that in her presence my thoughts always wanderedback, as they had done at first, to that old time of my life.   I had a fancy, on more than one of these Sundays, that what thislady so curiously was to me, I was to her--I mean that I disturbedher thoughts as she influenced mine, though in some different way.   But when I stole a glance at her and saw her so composed anddistant and unapproachable, I felt this to be a foolish weakness.   Indeed, I felt the whole state of my mind in reference to her to beweak and unreasonable, and I remonstrated with myself about it asmuch 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 someone wished to see me. Going into the breakfast-room where thisperson was waiting, I found it to be the French maid who had castoff her shoes and walked through the wet grass on the day when itthundered and lightened.   "Mademoiselle," she began, looking fixedly at me with her too-eagereyes, though otherwise presenting an agreeable appearance andspeaking neither with boldness nor servility, "I have taken a greatliberty in coming here, but you know how to excuse it, being soamiable, mademoiselle.""No excuse is necessary," I returned, "if you wish to speak to me.""That is my desire, mademoiselle. A thousand thanks for thepermission. I have your leave to speak. Is it not?" she said in aquick, natural way.   "Certainly," said I.   "Mademoiselle, you are so amiable! Listen then, if you please. Ihave left my Lady. We could not agree. My Lady is so high, sovery high. Pardon! Mademoiselle, you are right!" Her quicknessanticipated what I might have said presently but as yet had onlythought. "It is not for me to come here to complain of my Lady.   But I say she is so high, so very high. I will not say a wordmore. 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 ayoung lady who is good, accomplished, beautiful. You are good,accomplished, and beautiful as an angel. Ah, could I have thehonour of being your domestic!""I am sorry--" I began.   "Do not dismiss me so soon, mademoiselle!" she said with aninvoluntary contraction of her fine black eyebrows. "Let me hope amoment! Mademoiselle, I know this service would be more retiredthan that which I have quitted. Well! I wish that. I know thisservice would be less distinguished than that which I have quitted.   Well! I wish that, I know that I should win less, as to wages here.   Good. I am content.""I assure you," said I, quite embarrassed by the mere idea ofhaving such an attendant, "that I keep no maid--""Ah, mademoiselle, but why not? Why not, when you can have one sodevoted to you! Who would be enchanted to serve you; who would beso true, so zealous, and so faithful every day! Mademoiselle, Iwish with all my heart to serve you. Do not speak of money atpresent. Take me as I am. For nothing!"She was so singularly earnest that I drew back, almost afraid ofher. Without appearing to notice it, in her ardour she stillpressed herself upon me, speaking in a rapid subdued voice, thoughalways with a certain grace and propriety.   "Mademoiselle, I come from the South country where we are quick andwhere we like and dislike very strong. My Lady was too high forme; I was too high for her. It is done--past--finlshed! Receiveme as your domestic, and I will serve you well. I will do more foryou than you figure to yourself now. Chut! Mademoiselle, I will--no matter, I will do my utmost possible in all things. If youaccept my service, you will not repent it. Mademoiselle, you willnot repent it, and I will serve you well. You don't know howwell!"There was a lowering energy in her face as she stood looking at mewhile I explained the impossibility of my engagmg her (withoutthinking it necessary to say how very little I desired to do so),which seemed to bring visibly before me some woman from the streetsof Paris in the reign of terror.   She heard me out without interruption and then said with her prettyaccent and in her mildest voice, "Hey, mademoiselle, I havereceived my answer! I am sorry of it. But I must go elsewhere andseek what I have not found here. Will you graciously let me kissyour hand?"She looked at me more intently as she took it, and seemed to takenote, with her momentary touch, of every vein in it. "I fear Isurprised you, mademoiselle, on the day of the storm?" she saidwith a parting curtsy.   I confessed that she had surprised us all.   "I took an oath, mademoiselle," she said, smiling, "and I wanted tostamp it on my mind so that I might keep it faithfully. And Iwill! Adieu, mademoiselle!"So ended our conference, which I was very glad to bring to a close.   I supposed she went away from the village, for I saw her no more;and nothing else occurred to disturb our tranquil summer pleasuresuntil six weeks were out and we returned home as I began just nowby saying.   At that time, and for a good many weeks after that time, Richardwas constant in his visits. Besides coming every Saturday orSunday and remaining with us until Monday morning, he sometimesrode out on horseback unexpectedly and passed the evening with usand rode back again early next day. He was as vivacious as everand told us he was very industrious, but I was not easy in my mindabout him. It appeared to me that his industry was allmisdirected. I could not find that it led to anything but theformation of delusive hopes in connexion with the suit already thepernicious cause of so much sorrow and ruin. He had got at thecore of that mystery now, he told us, and nothing could be plainerthan that the will under which he and Ada were to take I don't knowhow many thousands of pounds must be finally established if therewere any sense or justice in the Court of Chancery--but oh, what agreat IF that sounded in my ears--and that this happy conclusioncould not be much longer delayed. He proved this to himself by allthe weary arguments on that side he had read, and every one of themsunk him deeper in the infatuation. He had even begun to haunt thecourt. He told us how he saw Miss Flite there daily, how theytalked together, and how he did her little kindnesses, and how,while he laughed at her, he pitied her from his heart. But henever thought--never, my poor, dear, sanguine Richard, capable ofso much happiness then, and with such better things before him--what a fatal link was riveting between his fresh youth and herfaded age, between his free hopes and her caged birds, and herhungry garret, and her wandering mind.   Ada loved him too well to mistrust him much in anything he said ordid, and my guardian, though he frequently complained of the eastwind and read more than usual in the growlery, preserved a strictsilence on the subject. So I thought one day when I went to Londonto meet Caddy Jellyby, at her solicitation, I would ask Richard tobe in waiting for me at the coach-office, that we might have alittle talk together. I found him there when I arrived, and wewalked away arm in arm.   "Well, Richard," said I as soon as I could begin to be grave withhim, "are 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 Richard, "I'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 Richard, stronglyemphasizing "down," as if that expressed the difficulty, "becauseone can't settle down while this business remains in such anunsettled state. When I say this business, of 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 speaking, and presently Richardaddressed me in his frankest and most feeling manner, thus: "Mydear Esther, I understand you, and I wish to heaven I were a moreconstant sort of fellow. I don't mean constant to Ada, for I loveher dearly--better and better every day--but constant to myself.   (Somehow, I mean something that I can't very well express, butyou'll make it out.) If I were a more constant sort of fellow, Ishould have held on either to Badger or to Kenge and Carboy likegrim death, and should have begun to be steady and systematic bythis time, and shouldn't be in debt, and--""ARE you in debt, Richard?""Yes," said Richard, "I am a little so, my dear. Also, I havetaken rather too much to billiards and that sort of thing. Now themurder'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. "Mydear Esther, I am a very unfortunate dog not to be more settled,but how CAN I be more settled? If you lived in an unfinishedhouse, you couldn't settle down in it; if you were condemned toleave everything you undertook unfinished, you would find it hardto apply yourself to anything; and yet that's my unhappy case. Iwas born into this unfinished contention with all its chances andchanges, and it began to unsettle me before I quite knew thedifference between a suit at law and a suit of clothes; and it hasgone on unsettling me ever since; and here I am now, conscioussometimes that I am but a worthless fellow to love my confidingcousin Ada."We were in a solitary place, and he put his hands before his eyesand sobbed as he said the words.   "Oh, Richard!" said I. "Do not be so moved. You have a noblenature, and Ada's love may make you worthier every day.""I know, my dear," he replied, pressing my arm, "I know all that.   You mustn't mind my being a little soft now, for I have had allthis upon my mind for a long time, and have often meant to speak toyou, and have sometimes wanted opportunity and sometimes courage.   I know what the thought of Ada ought to do for me, but it doesn'tdo it. I am too unsettled even for that. I love her mostdevotedly, and yet I do her wrong, in doing myself wrong, every dayand hour. But it can't last for ever. We shall come on for afinal hearing and get judgment in our favour, and then you and Adashall see what I can really be!"It had given me a pang to hear him sob and see the tears start outbetween his fingers, but that was infinitely less affecting to methan the hopeful animation with which he said these words.   "I have looked well into the papers, Esther. I have been deep inthem for months," he continued, recovering his cheerfulness in amoment, "and you may rely upon it that we shall come outtriumphant. As to years of delay, there has been no want of them,heaven knows! And there is the greater probability of our bringingthe matter to a speedy close; in fact, it's on the paper now. Itwill be all right at last, and then you shall see!"Recalling how he had just now placed Messrs. Kenge and Carboy inthe same category with Mr. Badger, I asked him when he intended tobe articled in Lincoln's Inn.   "There again! I think not at all, Esther," he returned with aneffort. "I fancy I have had enough of it. Having worked atJarndyce and Jarndyce like a galley slave, I have slaked my thirstfor the law and satisfied myself that I shouldn't like it.   Besides, I find it unsettles me more and more to be so constantlyupon the scene of action. So what," continued Richard, confidentagain by this time, "do I naturally turn my thoughts to?""I can't imagine," said I.   "Don't look so serious," returned Richard, "because it's the bestthing I can do, my dear Esther, I am certain. It's not as if Iwanted a profession for life. These proceedings will come to atermination, and then I am provided for. No. I look upon it as apursuit which is in its nature more or less unsettled, andtherefore suited to my temporary condition--I may say, preciselysuited. What is it that I naturally turn my thoughts to?"I looked at him and shook my head.   "What," said Richard, in a tone of perfect conviction, "but thearmy!""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 me, proved by elaborate calculations in hispocket-book, that supposing he had contracted, say, two hundredpounds of debt in six months out of the army; and that hecontracted no debt at all within a corresponding period in thearmy--as to which he had quite made up his mind; this step mustinvolve a saving of four hundred pounds in a year, or two thousandpounds in five years, which was a considerable sum. And then hespoke so ingenuously and sincerely of the sacrifice he made inwithdrawing himself for a time from Ada, and of the earnestnesswith which he aspired--as in thought he always did, I know fullwell--to repay her love, and to ensure her happiness, and toconquer what was amiss in himself, and to acquire the very soul ofdecision, that he made my heart ache keenly, sorely. For, Ithought, how would this end, how could this end, when so soon andso surely all his manly qualities were touched by the fatal blightthat ruined everything it rested on!   I spoke to Richard with all the earnestness I felt, and all thehope I could not quite feel then, and implored him for Ada's sakenot to put any trust in Chancery. To all I said, Richard readilyassented, riding over the court and everything else in his easy wayand drawing the brightest pictures of the character he was tosettle into--alas, when the grievous suit should loose its holdupon him! We had a long talk, but it always came back to that, insubstance.   At last we came to Soho Square, where Caddy Jellyby had appointedto wait for me, as a quiet place in the neighbourhood of NewmanStreet. Caddy was in the garden in the centre and hurried out assoon as I appeared. After a few cheerful words, Richard left ustogether.   "Prince has a pupil over the way, Esther," said Caddy, "and got thekey for us. So if you will walk round and round here with me, wecan lock ourselves in and I can tell you comfortably what I wantedto see your dear good face about.""Very well, my dear," said I. "Nothing could be better." SoCaddy, after affectionately squeezing the dear good face as shecalled it, locked the gate, and took my arm, and we began to walkround the garden very cosily.   "You see, Esther," said Caddy, who thoroughly enjoyed a littleconfidence, "after you spoke to me about its being wrong to marrywithout Ma's knowledge, or even to keep Ma long in the darkrespecting our engagement--though I don't believe Ma cares much forme, I must say--I thought it right to mention your opinions toPrince. In the first place because I want to profit by everythingyou tell me, and in the second place because I have no secrets fromPrince.""I hope he approved, Caddy?""Oh, my dear! I assure you he would approve of anything you couldsay. 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 joyful, foryou are the first friend I ever had, and the best friend I ever canhave, and nobody can respect and love you too much to please me.""Upon my word, Caddy," said I, "you are in the general conspiracyto keep me in a good humour. Well, my dear?""Well! I am going to tell you," replied Caddy, crossing her handsconfidentially upon my arm. "So we talked a good deal about it,and so I said to Prince, 'Prince, as Miss Summerson--""I hope you didn't say 'Miss Summerson'?""No. I didn't!" cried Caddy, greatly pleased and with thebrightest of faces. "I said, 'Esther.' I said to Prince, 'AsEsther is decidedly of that opinion, Prince, and has expressed itto me, and always hints it when she writes those kind notes, whichyou are so fond of hearing me read to you, I am prepared todisclose 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 truer, and more honourable position altogether if you did thesame to your papa.'""Yes, my dear," said I. "Esther certainly does think so.""So I was right, you see!" exclaimed Caddy. "Well! This troubledPrince a good deal, not 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. Turveydropmight break his heart, or faint away, or be very much overcome insome affecting manner or other if he made such an announcement. Hefeared old Mr. Turveydrop might consider it undutiful and mightreceive too great a shock. For old Mr. Turveydrop's deportment isvery beautiful, you know, Esther," said Caddy, "and his feelingsare extremely sensitive.""Are they, my dear?""Oh, extremely sensitive. Prince says so. Now, this has caused mydarling child--I didn't mean to use the expression to you, Esther,"Caddy apologized, her face suffused with blushes, "but I generallycall Prince my darling child."I laughed; and Caddy laughed and blushed, and went on'   "This has caused him, Esther--""Caused whom, my dear?""Oh, you tiresome thing!" said Caddy, laughing, with her prettyface on fire. "My darling child, if you insist upon it! This hascaused him weeks of uneasiness and has made him delay, from day today, in a very anxious manner. At last he said to me, 'Caddy, ifMiss Summerson, who is a great favourite with my father, could beprevailed upon to be present when I broke the subject, I think Icould do it.' So I promised I would ask you. And I made up mymind, besides," said Caddy, looking at me hopefully but timidly,"that if you consented, I would ask you afterwards to come with meto Ma. This is what I meant when I said in my note that I had agreat favour and a great assistance to beg of you. And if youthought you could grant it, Esther, we should both be verygrateful.""Let me see, Caddy," said I, pretending to consider. "Really, Ithink I could do a greater thing than that if the need werepressing. I am at your service and the darling child's, my dear,whenever you like."Caddy was quite transported by this reply of mine, being, Ibelieve, as susceptible to the least kindness or encouragement asany tender heart that ever beat in this world; and after anotherturn or two round the garden, during which she put on an entirelynew pair of gloves and made herself as resplendent as possible thatshe might do no avoidable discredit to the Master of Deportment, wewent to Newman Street direct.   Prince was teaching, of course. We found him engaged with a notvery hopeful pupil--a stubborn little girl with a sulky forehead, adeep voice, and an inanimate, dissatisfied mama--whose case wascertainly not rendered more hopeful by the confusion into which wethrew her preceptor. The lesson at last came to an end, afterproceeding as discordantly as possible; and when the little girlhad changed her shoes and had had her white muslin extinguished inshawls, she was taken away. After a few words of preparation, wethen went in search of Mr. Turveydrop, whom we found, grouped withhis hat and gloves, as a model of deportment, on the sofa in hisprivate apartment--the only comfortable room in the house. Heappeared to have dressed at his leisure in the intervals of a lightcollation, and his dressing-case, brushes, and so forth, all ofquite an elegant kind, lay about.   "Father, Miss Summerson; Miss Jellyby.""Charmed! Enchanted!" said Mr. Turveydrop, rising with his high-shouldered bow. "Permit me!" Handing chairs. "Be seated!"Kissing the tips of his left fingers. "Overjoyed!" Shutting hiseyes and rolling. "My little retreat is made a paradise."Recomposing himself on the sofa like the second gentleman inEurope.   "Again you find us, Miss Summerson," said he, "using our littlearts to polish, polish! Again the sex stimulates us and rewards usby the condescension of its lovely presence. It is much in thesetimes (and we have made an awfully degenerating business of itsince the days of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent--my patron,if I may presume to say so) to experience that deportment is notwholly trodden under foot by mechanics. That it can yet bask inthe smile of beauty, my dear madam."I said nothing, which I thought a suitable reply; and he took apinch of snuff.   "My dear son," said Mr. Turveydrop, "you have four schools thisafternoon. I would recommend a hasty sandwich.""Thank you, father," returned Prince, "I will be sure to bepunctual. My dear father, may I beg you to prepare your mind forwhat I am going to say?""Good heaven!" exclaimed the model, pale and aghast as Prince andCaddy, hand in hand, bent down before him. "What is this? Is thislunacy! Or what is this?""Father," returned Prince with great submission, "I love this younglady, and we are engaged.""Engaged!" cried Mr. Turveydrop, reclining on the sofa and shuttingout the sight with his hand. "An arrow launched at my brain by myown child!""We have been engaged for some time, father," faltered Prince, "andMiss Summerson, hearing of it, advised that we should declare thefact to you and was so very kind as to attend on the presentoccasion. 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. "MissJellyby is a young lady who deeply respects you, and our firstdesire is to consider your comfort."Mr. Turveydrop sobbed.   "No, pray don't, father!" cried his son.   "Boy," said Mr. Turveydrop, "it is well that your sainted mother isspared this pang. Strike deep, and spare not. Strike home, sir,strike home!""Pray don't say so, father," implored Prince, in tears. "It goesto my heart. I do assure you, father, that our first wish andintention is to consider your comfort. Caroline and I do notforget our duty--what is my duty is Caroline's, as we have oftensaid together--and with your approval and consent, father, we willdevote ourselves to making your life agreeable.""Strike home," murmured Mr. Turveydrop. "Strike home!" But heseemed to listen, I thought, too.   "My dear father," returned Prince, "we well know what littlecomforts you are accustomed to and have a right to, and it willalways be our study and our pride to provide those before anything.   If you will bless us with your approval and consent, father, weshall not think of being married until it is quite agreeable toyou; and when we ARE married, we shall always make you--of course--our first consideration. You must ever be the head and masterhere, father; and we feel how truly unnatural it would be in us ifwe failed to know it or if we failed to exert ourselves in everypossible way to please you."Mr. Turveydrop underwent a severe internal struggle and cameupright on the sofa again with his cheeks puffing over his stiffcravat, a perfect model of parental deportment.   "My son!" said Mr. Turveydrop. "My children! I cannot resist yourprayer. Be happy!"His benignity as he raised his future daughter-in-law and stretchedout his hand to his son (who kissed it with affectionate respectand gratitude) was the most confusing sight I ever saw.   "My children," said Mr. Turveydrop, paternally encircling Caddywith his left arm as she sat beside him, and putting his right handgracefully on his hip. "My son and daughter, your happiness shallbe my care. I will watch over you. You shall always live withme"--meaning, of course, I will always live with you--"this houseis henceforth as much yours as mine; consider it your home. Mayyou long live to share it with me!"The power of his deportment was such that they really were as muchovercome with thankfulness as if, instead of quartering himselfupon them for the rest of his life, he were making some munificentsacrifice in their favour.   "For myself, my children," said Mr. Turveydrop, "I am falling intothe sear and yellow leaf, and it is impossible to say how long thelast feeble traces of gentlemanly deportment may linger in thisweaving and spinning age. But, so long, I will do my duty tosociety and will show myself, as usual, about town. My wants arefew and simple. My little apartment here, my few essentials forthe toilet, my frugal morning meal, and my little dinner willsuffice. I charge your dutiful affection with the supply of theserequirements, and I charge myself with all the rest."They were overpowered afresh by his uncommon generosity.   "My son," said Mr. Turveydrop, "for those little points in whichyou 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 sincethe days of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, and I will notdesert it now. No, my son. If you have ever contemplated yourfather's poor position with a feeling of pride, you may restassured that he will do nothing to tarnish it. For yourself,Prince, whose character is different (we cannot be all alike, noris 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 arenot shining, my dear child, but they are steady and useful. And toboth of you, my children, I would merely observe, in the spirit ofa sainted wooman on whose path I had the happiness of casting, Ibelieve, SOME ray of light, take care of the establishment, takecare of my simple wants, and bless you both!"Old Mr. Turveydrop then became so very gallant, in honour of theoccasion, that I told Caddy we must really go to Thavies Inn atonce if we were to go at all that day. So we took our departureafter a very loving farewell between Caddy and her betrothed, andduring our walk she was so happy and so full of old Mr.   Turveydrop's praises that I would not have said a word in hisdisparagement for any consideration.   The house in Thavies Inn had bills in the windows annoucing that itwas to let, and it looked dirtier and gloomier and ghastlier thanever. The name of poor Mr. Jellyby had appeared in the list ofbankrupts but a day or two before, and he was shut up in thedining-room with two gentlemen and a heap of blue bags, account-books, and papers, making the most desperate endeavours tounderstand his affairs. They appeared to me to be quite beyond hiscomprehension, for when Caddy took me into the dining-room bymistake and we came upon Mr. Jellyby in his spectacles, forlornlyfenced into a corner by the great dining-table and the twogentlemen, he seemed to have given up the whole thing and to bespeechless and insensible.   Going upstairs to Mrs. Jellyby's room (the children were allscreaming in the kitchen, and there was no servant to be seen), wefound that lady in the midst of a voluminous correspondence,opening, reading, and sorting letters, with a great accumulation oftorn covers on the floor. She was so preoccupied that at first shedid not know me, though she sat looking at me with that curious,bright-eyed, far-off look of hers.   "Ah! Miss Summerson!" she said at last. "I was thinking ofsomething so different! I hope you are well. I am happy to seeyou. 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 ofspirits. Happily for me, I am so much engaged that I have no timeto think about it. We have, at the present moment, one hundred andseventy 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 norgoing to the left bank of the Niger, and wondered how she could beso placid.   "You have brought Caddy back, I see," observed Mrs. Jellyby with aglance at her daughter. "It has become quite a novelty to see herhere. She has almost deserted her old employment and in factobliges me to employ a boy.""I am sure, Ma--" began Caddy.   "Now you know, Caddy," her mother mildly interposed, "that I DOemploy a boy, who is now at his dinner. What is the use of yourcontradicting?""I was not going to contradict, Ma," returned Caddy. "I was onlygoing to say that surely you wouldn't have me be a mere drudge allmy life.""I believe, my dear," said Mrs. Jellyby, still opening her letters,casting her bright eyes smilingly over them, and sorting them asshe spoke, "that you have a business example before you in yourmother. Besides. A mere drudge? If you had any sympathy with thedestinies of the human race, it would raise you high above any suchidea. But you have none. I have often told you, Caddy, you haveno such sympathy.""Not if it's Africa, Ma, I have not.""Of course you have not. Now, if I were not happily so muchengaged, Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Jellyby, sweetly casting hereyes for a moment on me and considering where to put the particularletter she had just opened, "this would distress and disappoint me.   But I have so much to think of, in connexion with Borrioboola-Ghaand it is so necessary I should concentrate myself that there is myremedy, you see."As Caddy gave me a glance of entreaty, and as Mrs. Jellyby waslooking far away into Africa straight through my bonnet and head, Ithought it a good opportunity to come to the subject of my visitand to attract Mrs. Jellyby's attention.   "Perhaps," I began, "you will wonder what has brought me here tointerrupt you.""I am always delighted to see Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Jellyby,pursuing her employment with a placid smile. "Though I wish," andshe shook her head, "she was more interested in the Borrioboolanproject.""I have come with Caddy," said I, "because Caddy justly thinks sheought not to have a secret from her mother and fancies I shallencourage and aid her (though I am sure I don't know how) inimparting one.""Caddy," said Mrs. Jellyby, pausing for a moment in her occupationand then serenely pursuing it after shaking her head, "you aregoing to tell me some nonsense."Caddy untied the strings of her bonnet, took her bonnet off, andletting it dangle on the floor by the strings, and crying heartily,said, "Ma, I am engaged.""Oh, you ridiculous child!" observed Mrs. Jellyby with anabstracted air as she looked over the dispatch last opened; "what agoose you are!""I am engaged, Ma," sobbed Caddy, "to young Mr. Turveydrop, at theacademy; and old Mr. Turveydrop (who is a very gentlemanly manindeed) has given his consent, and I beg and pray you'll give usyours, Ma, because I never could be happy without it. I never,never could!" sobbed Caddy, quite forgetful of her generalcomplainings 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 havethis necessity for self-concentration that I have. Here is Caddyengaged to a dancing-master's son--mixed up with people who have nomore sympathy with the destinies of the human race than she hasherself! This, too, when Mr. Quale, one of the firstphilanthropists of our time, has mentioned to me that he was reallydisposed to be interested in her!""Ma, I always hated and detested Mr. Quale!" sobbed Caddy.   "Caddy, Caddy!" returned Mrs. Jellyby, opening another letter withthe greatest complacency. "I have no doubt you did. How could youdo otherwise, being totally destitute of the sympathies with whichhe overflows! Now, if my public duties were not a favourite childto me, if I were not occupied with large measures on a vast scale,these petty details might grieve me very much, Miss Summerson. Butcan I permit the film of a silly proceeding on the part of Caddy(from whom I expect nothing else) to interpose between me and thegreat African continent? No. No," repeated Mrs. Jellyby in a calmclear voice, and with an agreeable smile, as she opened moreletters and sorted them. "No, indeed."I was so unprepared for the perfect coolness of this reception,though I might have expected it, that I did not know what to say.   Caddy seemed equally at a loss. Mrs. Jellyby continued to open andsort letters and to repeat occasionally in quite a charming tone ofvoice and with a smile of perfect composure, "No, indeed.""I hope, Ma," sobbed poor Caddy at last, "you 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 preoccupationof my mind.""And I hope, Ma, you give us your consent and wish us well?" saidCaddy.   "You are a nonsensical child to have done anything of this kind,"said Mrs. Jellyby; "and a degenerate child, when you might havedevoted yourself to the great public measure. But the step istaken, and I have engaged a boy, and there is no more to be said.   Now, pray, Caddy," said Mrs. Jellyby, for Caddy was kissing her,"don't delay me in my work, but let me clear off this heavy batchof papers before the afternoon post comes in!"I thought I could not do better than take my leave; I was detainedfor a moment by Caddy's saying, "You won't object to my bringinghim to see you, Ma?""Oh, dear me, Caddy," cried Mrs. Jellyby, who had relapsed intothat distant contemplation, "have you begun again? Bring whom?""Him, Ma.""Caddy, Caddy!" said Mrs. Jellyby, quite weary of such littlematters. "Then you must bring him some evening which is not aParent Society night, or a Branch night, or a Ramification night.   You must accommodate the visit to the demands upon my time. Mydear Miss Summerson, it was very kind of you to come here to helpout this silly chit. Good-bye! When I tell you that I have fifty-eight new letters from manufacturing families anxious to understandthe details of the native and coffee-cultivation question thismorning, I need not apologize for having very little leisure."I was not surprised by Caddy's being in low spirits when we wentdownstairs, or by her sobbing afresh on my neck, or by her sayingshe would far rather have been scolded than treated with suchindifference, or by her confiding to me that she was so poor inclothes that how she was ever to be married creditably she didn'tknow. I gradually cheered her up by dwelling on the many thingsshe would do for her unfortunate father and for Peepy when she hada home of her own; and finally we went downstairs into the dampdark kitchen, where Peepy and his little brothers and sisters weregrovelling on the stone floor and where we had such a game of playwith them that to prevent myself from being quite torn to pieces Iwas obliged to fall back on my fairy-tales. From time to time Iheard loud voices in the parlour overhead, and occasionally aviolent tumbling about of the furniture. The last effect I amafraid was caused by poor Mr. Jellyby's breaking away from thedining-table and making rushes at the window with the intention ofthrowing himself into the area whenever he made any new attempt tounderstand his affairs.   As I rode quietly home at night after the day's bustle, I thought agood deal of Caddy's engagement and felt confirmed in my hopes (inspite of the elder Mr. Turveydrop) that she would be the happierand better for it. And if there seemed to be but a slender chanceof her and her husband ever finding out what the model ofdeportment really was, why that was all for the best too, and whowould wish them to be wiser? I did not wish them to be any wiserand indeed was half ashamed of not entirely believing in himmyself. And I looked up at the stars, and thought about travellersin distant countries and the stars THEY saw, and hoped I mightalways be so blest and happy as to be useful to some one in mysmall way.   They were so glad to see me when I got home, as they always were,that I could have sat down and cried for joy if that had not been amethod of making myself disagreeable. Everybody in the house, fromthe lowest to the highest, showed me such a bright face of welcome,and spoke so cheerily, and was so happy to do anything for me, thatI suppose there never was such a fortunate little creature in theworld.   We got into such a chatty state that night, through Ada and myguardian drawing me out to tell them all about Caddy, that I wenton prose, prose, prosing for a length of time. At last I got up tomy own room, quite red to think how I had been holding forth, andthen I heard a soft tap at my door. So I said, "Come in!" andthere came in a pretty little girl, neatly dressed in mourning, whodropped a curtsy.   "If you please, miss," said the little girl in a soft voice, "I amCharley.""Why, so you are," said I, stooping down in astonishment and givingher a kiss. "How glad am I to see you, Charley!""If you please, miss," pursued Charley in the same soft voice, "I'myour maid.""Charley?""If you please, miss, I'm a present to you, with Mr. Jarndyce'slove."I sat down with my hand on Charley's neck and looked at Charley.   "And oh, miss," says Charley, clapping her hands, with the tearsstarting down her dimpled cheeks, "Tom'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 atschool--and Emma, she would have been left with Mrs. Blinder--andme, I should have been here--all a deal sooner, miss; only Mr.   Jarndyce thought that Tom and Emma and me had better get a littleused 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,miss, Mr. Jarndyce's love, and he thinks you'll like to teach menow and then. And if you please, Tom and Emma and me is to seeeach other once a month. And I'm so happy and so thankful, miss,"cried Charley with a heaving heart, "and I'll try to be such a goodmaid!""Oh, Charley dear, never forget who did all this!""No, miss, I never will. Nor Tom won't. Nor yet Emma. It was allyou, 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 youmight be my mistress. If you please, miss, I am a little presentwith his love, and it was all done for the love of you. Me and Tomwas to be sure to remember it."Charley dried her eyes and entered on her functions, going in hermatronly little way about and about the room and folding upeverything she could lay her hands upon. Presently Charley camecreeping back to my side and said, "Oh, don't cry, if you please,miss."And I said again, "I can't help it, Charley."And Charley said again, "No, miss, nor I can't help it." And so,after all, I did cry for joy indeed, and so did she. Chapter 24 An Appeal Case As soon as Richard and I had held the conversation of which I havegiven an account, Richard communicated the state of his mind to Mr.   Jarndyce. I doubt if my guardian were altogether taken by surprisewhen he received the representation, though it caused him muchuneasiness and disappointment. He and Richard were often closetedtogether, late at night and early in the morning, and passed wholedays in London, and had innumerable appointments with Mr. Kenge,and laboured through a quantity of disagreeable business. Whilethey were thus employed, my guardian, though he underwentconsiderable inconvenience from the state of the wind and rubbedhis head so constantly that not a single hair upon it ever restedin its right place, was as genial with Ada and me as at any othertime, but maintained a steady reserve on these matters. And as ourutmost endeavours could only elicit from Richard himself sweepingassurances that everything was going on capitally and that itreally was all right at last, our anxiety was not much relieved byhim.   We learnt, however, as the time went on, that a new application wasmade to the Lord Chancellor on Richard's behalf as an infant and award, and I don't know what, and that there was a quantity oftalking, and that the Lord Chancellor described him in open courtas a vexatious and capricious infant, and that the matter wasadjourned and readjourned, and referred, and reported on, andpetitioned about until Richard began to doubt (as he told us)whether, if he entered the army at all, it would not be as aveteran of seventy or eighty years of age. At last an appointmentwas made for him to see the Lord Chancellor again in his privateroom, and there the Lord Chancellor very seriously reproved him fortrifling with time and not knowing his mind--"a pretty good joke, Ithink," said Richard, "from that quarter!"--and at last it wassettled that his application should be granted. His name wasentered at the Horse Guards as an applicant for an ensign'scommission; the purchase-money was deposited at an agent's; andRichard, in his usual characteristic way, plunged into a violentcourse of military study and got up at five o'clock every morningto practise the broadsword exercise.   Thus, vacation succeeded term, and term succeeded vacation. Wesometimes heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce as being in the paper orout of the paper, or as being to be mentioned, or as being to bespoken to; and it came on, and it went off. Richard, who was nowin a professor's house in London, was able to be with us lessfrequently than before; my guardian still maintained the samereserve; and so time passed until the commission was obtained andRichard received directions with it to join a regiment in Ireland.   He arrived post-haste with the intelligence one evening, and had along conference with my guardian. Upwards of an hour elapsedbefore my guardian put his head into the room where Ada and I weresitting and said, "Come in, my dears!" We went in and foundRichard, whom we had last seen in high spirits, leaning on thechimney-piece looking mortified and angry.   "Rick and I, Ada," said Mr. Jarndyce, "are not quite of one mind.   Come, come, Rick, put a brighter face upon it!""You are very hard with me, sir," said Richard. "The harderbecause you have been so considerate to me in all other respectsand have done me kindnesses that I can never acknowledge. I nevercould have been set right without you, sir.""Well, well!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "I want to set you more rightyet. I want to set you more right with yourself.""I hope you will excuse my saying, sir," returned Richard in afiery way, but yet respectfully, "that I think I am the best judgeabout myself.""I hope you will excuse my saying, my dear Rick," observed Mr.   Jarndyce with the sweetest cheerfulness and good humour, "that'sit's quite natural in you to think so, but I don't think so. Imust do my duty, Rick, or you could never care for me in coolblood; 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 said, "it's nothing. Rick and I haveonly had a friendly difference, which we must state to you, for youare the theme. Now you are afraid of what's coming.""I am not indeed, cousin John," replied Ada with a smile, "if it isto 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. Mydear girl," putting his hand on hers as it lay on the side of theeasy-chair, "you recollect the talk we had, we four when the littlewoman told me of a little love affair?""It is not likely that either Richard or I can ever forget yourkindness 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 forus to agree," returned my guardian, his face irradiated by thegentleness and honour of his heart. "Ada, my bird, you should knowthat Rick has now chosen his profession for the last time. Allthat he has of certainty will be expended when he is fullyequipped. He has exhausted his resources and is bound henceforwardto the tree he has planted.""Quite true that I have exhausted my present resources, and I amquite content to know it. But what I have of certainty, sir," saidRichard, "is not all I have.""Rick, Rick!" cried my guardian with a sudden terror in his manner,and in an altered voice, and putting up his hands as if he wouldhave stopped his ears. "For the love of God, don't found a hope orexpectation on the family curse! Whatever you do on this side thegrave, never give one lingering glance towards the horrible phantomthat has haunted us so many years. Better to borrow, better tobeg, better to die!"We were all startled by the fervour of this warning. Richard bithis lip and held his breath, and glanced at me as if he felt, andknew that I felt too, how much he needed it.   "Ada, my dear," said Mr. Jarndyce, recovering his cheerfulness,"these are strong words of advice, but I live in Bleak House andhave seen a sight here. Enough of that. All Richard had to starthim 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 theunderstanding that there is no sort of contract between you. Imust go further. 1 will be plain with you both. You were toconfide freely in me, and I will confide freely in you. I ask youwholly to relinquish, for the present, any tie but yourrelationship.""Better to say at once, sir," returned Richard, "that you renounceall 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 HAVE, Iknow.""How I hoped you would begin, and how go on, I told you when wespoke of these things last," said Mr. Jarndyce in a cordial andencouraging manner. "You have not made that beginning yet, butthere is a time for all things, and yours is not gone by; rather,it is just now fully come. Make a clear beginning altogether. Youtwo (very young, my dears) are cousins. As yet, you are nothingmore. What more may come must come of being worked out, Rick, andno sooner.""You are very hard with me, sir," said Richard. "Harder than Icould have supposed you would be.""My dear boy," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I am harder with myself when Ido anything that gives you pain. You have your remedy in your ownhands. Ada, it is better for him that he should be free and thatthere should be no youthful engagement between you. Rick, it isbetter for her, much better; you owe it to her. Come! Each of youwill do what is best for the other, if not what is best foryourselves.""Why is it best, sir?" returned Richard hastily. "It was not whenwe opened our hearts to you. You did not say so then.""I have had experience since. I don't blame you, Rick, but I havehad experience since.""You mean of me, sir.""Well! Yes, of both of you," said Mr. Jarndyce kindly. "The timeis not come for your standing pledged to one another. It is notright, and I must not recognize it. Come, come, my young cousins,begin afresh! Bygones shall be bygones, and a new page turned foryou 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. Jarndyce, "until now, in order that we might be open asthe day, and all on equal terms. I now affectionately advise, Inow most earnestly entreat, you two to part as you came here.   Leave all else to time, truth, and steadfastness. If you dootherwise, you will do wrong, and you will have made me do wrong inever bringing you together."A long silence succeeded.   "Cousin Richard," said Ada then, raising her blue eyes tenderly tohis face, "after what our cousin John has said, I think no choiceis left us. Your mind may he quite at ease about me, for you willleave me here under his care and will be sure that I can havenothing to wish for--quite sure if I guide myself by his advice.   I--I don't doubt, cousin Richard," said Ada, a little confused,"that you are very fond of me, and I--I don't think you will fallin love with anybody else. But I should like you to consider wellabout 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. Evencousins 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 thinkof you affectionately, and often talk of you with Esther, and--andperhaps you will sometimes think a little of me, cousin Richard.   So now," said Ada, going up to him and giving him her tremblinghand, "we 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 myguardian for entertaining the very same opinion of him which hehimself had expressed of himself in much stronger terms to me. Butit was certainly the case. I observed with great regret that fromthis hour he never was as free and open with Mr. Jarndyce as he hadbeen before. He had every reason given him to be so, but he wasnot; and solely on his side, an estrangement began to arise betweenthem.   In the business of preparation and equipment he soon lost himself,and even his grief at parting from Ada, who remained inHertfordshire while he, Mr. Jarndyce, and I went up to London for aweek. He remembered her by fits and starts, even with bursts oftears, and at such times would confide to me the heaviest self-reproaches. But in a few minutes he would recklessly conjure upsome undefinable means by which they were both to be made rich andhappy for ever, and would become as gay as possible.   It was a busy time, and I trotted about with him all day long,buying a variety of things of which he stood in need. Of thethings he would have bought if he had been left to his own ways Isay nothing. He was perfectly confidential with me, and oftentalked so sensibly and feelingly about his faults and his vigorousresolutions, and dwelt so much upon the encouragement he derivedfrom these conversations that I could never have been tired if Ihad tried.   There used, in that week, to come backward and forward to ourlodging to fence with Richard a person who had formerly been acavalry soldier; he was a fine bluff-looking man, of a frank freebearing, with whom Richard had practised for some months. I heardso much about him, not only from Richard, but from my guardian too,that I was purposely in the room with my work one morning afterbreakfast when he came.   "Good morning, Mr. George," said my guardian, who happened to bealone with me. "Mr. Carstone will be here directly. Meanwhile,Miss Summerson is very happy to see you, I know. Sit down."He sat down, a little disconcerted by my presence, I thought, andwithout looking at me, drew his heavy sunburnt hand across andacross his upper lip.   "You are as punctual as the sun," said Mr. Jarndyce.   "Military time, sir," he replied. "Force of habit. A mere habitin me, sir. 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 muchof a one.""And what kind of a shot and what kind of a swordsman do you makeof Mr. Carstone?" said my guardian.   "Pretty good, sir," he replied, folding his arms upon his broadchest and looking very large. "If Mr. Carstone was to give hisfull mind to it, he 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,laughing, "though 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 before, he looked at me now in three orfour quick successive glances. "I beg your pardon, sir," he saidto my guardian with a manly kind of diffidence, "but you did me thehonour to mention the young lady's name--""Miss Summerson.""Miss Summerson," he repeated, and looked at me again.   "Do you know the name?" I asked.   "No, miss. To my knowledge I never heard it. I thought I had seenyou somewhere.""I think not," I returned, raising my head from my work to look athim; and there was something so genuine in his speech and mannerthat I was glad of the opportunity. "I remember faces very well.""So do I, miss!" he returned, meeting my look with the fullness ofhis dark eyes and broad forehead. "Humph! What set me off, now,upon that!"His once more reddening through his brown and being disconcerted byhis efforts to remember the association brought my guardian to hisrelief.   "Have you many pupils, Mr. George?""They vary in their number, sir. Mostly they're but a small lot tolive by.""And what classes of chance people come to practise at yourgallery?""All sorts, sir. Natives and foreigners. From gentlemen to'prentices. I have had Frenchwomen come, before now, and showthemselves dabs at pistol-shooting. Mad people out of number, ofcourse, but THEY go everywhere where the doors stand open.""People don't come with grudges and schemes of finishing theirpractice with live targets, I hope?" said my guardian, smiling.   "Not much of that, sir, though that HAS happened. Mostly they comefor skill--or idleness. Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other.   I beg your pardon," said Mr. George, sitting stiffly upright andsquaring an elbow on each knee, "but I believe you're a Chancerysuitor, 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 beingknocked about from post to pillar, and from pillar to post," saidMr. George, "that he got out of sorts. I don't believe he had anyidea of taking aim at anybody, but he was in that condition ofresentment and violence that he would come and pay for fifty shotsand fire away till he was red hot. One day I said to him whenthere was nobody by and he had been talking to me angrily about hiswrongs, 'If this practice is a safety-valve, comrade, well andgood; but I don't altogether like your being so bent upon it inyour 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 hereceived it in very good part and left off directly. We shookhands 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 madea baited bull of him," said Mr. George.   "Was his name Gridley?""It was, sir."Mr. George directed another succession of quick bright glances atme as my guardian and I exchanged a word or two of surprise at thecoincidence, and I therefore explained to him how we knew the name.   He made me another of his soldierly bows in acknowledgment of whathe called my condescension.   "I don't know," he said as he looked at me, "what it is that setsme off again--but--bosh! What's my head running against!" Hepassed one of his heavy hands over his crisp dark hair as if tosweep the broken thoughts out of his mind and sat a little forward,with one arm akimbo and the other resting on his leg, looking in abrown study at the ground.   "I am sorry to learn that the same state of mind has got thisGridley into new troubles and that he is in hiding," said myguardian.   "So I am told, sir," returned Mr. George, still musing and lookingon the ground. "So I am told.""You don't know where?""No, sir," returned the trooper, lifting up his eyes and coming outof his reverie. "I can't say anything about him. He will be wornout soon, I expect. You may file a strong man's heart away for agood many years, but it will tell all of a sudden at last."Richard's entrance stopped the conversation. Mr. George rose, mademe another of his soldierly bows, wished 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 hispacking early in the afternoon; and our time was disengaged untilnight, when he was to go to Liverpool for Holyhead. Jarndyce andJarndyce being again expected to come on that day, Richard proposedto me that we should go down to the court and hear what passed. Asit was his last day, and he was eager to go, and I had never beenthere, I gave my consent and we walked down to Westminster, wherethe court was then sitting. We beguiled the way with arrangementsconcerning the letters that Richard was to write to me and theletters that I was to write to him and with a great many hopefulprojects. My guardian knew where we were going and therefore wasnot with us.   When we came to the court, there was the Lord Chancellor--the samewhom I had seen in his private room in Lincoln's Inn--sitting ingreat state and gravity on the bench, with the mace and seals on ared table below him and an immense flat nosegay, like a littlegarden, which scented the whole court. Below the table, again, wasa long row of solicitors, with bundles of papers on the matting attheir feet; and then there were the gentlemen of the bar in wigsand gowns--some awake and some asleep, and one talking, and nobodypaying much attention to what he said. The Lord Chancellor leanedback in his very easy chair with his elbow on the cushioned arm andhis forehead resting on his hand; some of those who were presentdozed; some read the newspapers; some walked about or whispered ingroups: all seemed perfectly at their ease, by no means in a hurry,very unconcerned, and extremely comfortable.   To see everything going on so smoothly and to think of theroughness of the suitors' lives and deaths; to see all that fulldress and ceremony and to think of the waste, and want, andbeggared misery it represented; to consider that while the sicknessof hope deferred was raging in so many hearts this polite show wentcalmly on from day to day, and year to year, in such good order andcomposure; to behold the Lord Chancellor and the whole array ofpractitioners under him looking at one another and at thespectators as if nobody had ever heard that all over England thename in which they were assembled was a bitter jest, was held inuniversal horror, contempt, and indignation, was known forsomething so flagrant and bad that little short of a miracle couldbring any good out of it to any one--this was so curious and self-contradictory to me, who had no experience of it, that it was atfirst incredible, and I could not comprehend it. I sat whereRichard put me, and tried to listen, and looked about me; but thereseemed to be no reality in the whole scene except poor little MissFlite, the madwoman, standing on a bench and nodding at it.   Miss Flite soon espied us and came to where we sat. She gave me agracious welcome to her domain and indicated, with muchgratification and pride, its principal attractions. Mr. Kenge alsocame to speak to us and did the honours of the place in much thesame way, with the bland modesty of a proprietor. It was not avery good day for a visit, he said; he would have preferred thefirst day of term; but it was imposing, it was imposing.   When we had been there half an hour or so, the case in progress--ifI may use a phrase so ridiculous in such a connexion--seemed to dieout of its own vapidity, without coming, or being by anybodyexpected to come, to any resuIt. The Lord Chancellor then threwdown a bundle of papers from his desk to the gentlemen below him,and somebody said, "Jarndyce and Jarndyce." Upon this there was abuzz, and a laugh, and a general withdrawal of the bystanders, anda bringing in of great heaps, and piles, and bags and bags full ofpapers.   I think it came on "for further directions"--about some bill ofcosts, to the best of my understanding, which was confused enough.   But I counted twenty-three gentlemen in wigs who said they were "init," and none of them appeared to understand it much better than I.   They chatted about it with the Lord Chancellor, and contradictedand explained among themselves, and some of them said it was thisway, and some of them said it was that way, and some of themjocosely proposed to read huge volumes of affidavits, and there wasmore buzzing and laughing, and everybody concerned was in a stateof idle entertainment, and nothing could be made of it by anybody.   After an hour or so of this, and a good many speeches being begunand cut short, it was "referred back for the present," as Mr. Kengesaid, and the papers were bundled up again before the clerks hadfinished bringing them in.   I glanced at Richard on the termination of these hopelessproceedings and was shocked to see the worn look of his handsomeyoung face. "It can't last for ever, Dame Durden. Better lucknext 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 bow, which renderedme desirous to get out of the court. Richard had given me his armand was taking me away when Mr. Guppy came up.   "I beg your pardon, Mr. Carstone," said he in a whisper, "and MissSummerson's also, but there's a lady here, a friend of mine, whoknows her and wishes to have the pleasure of shaking hands." As hespoke, I saw before me, as if she had started into bodily shapefrom my remembrance, Mrs. 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 littlealtered.   "I wonder you remember those times, Esther," she returned with herold 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 seemeddisappointed that I was not.   "Proud, Mrs. Rachael!" I remonstrated.   "I am married, Esther," she returned, coldly correcting me, "and amMrs. Chadband. Well! I wish you good day, and I hope you'll dowell."Mr. Guppy, who had been attentive to this short dialogue, heaved asigh in my ear and elbowed his own and Mrs. Rachael's way throughthe confused little crowd of people coming in and going out, whichwe were in the midst of and which the change in the business hadbrought together. Richard and I were making our way through it,and I was yet in the first chill of the late unexpected recognitionwhen I saw, coming towards us, but not seeing us, no less a personthan Mr. George. He made nothing of the people about him as hetramped on, staring 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 you, miss. Could youpoint a person out for me, I want? I don't understand theseplaces."Turning as he spoke and making an easy way for us, he stopped whenwe were out of the press in a corner behind a great red curtain.   "There's a little cracked old woman," he began, "that--"I put up my finger, for Miss Flite was close by me, having keptbeside me all the time and having called the attention of severalof her legal acquaintance to me (as I had overheard to myconfusion) by whispering in their ears, "Hush! Fitz Jarndyce on myleft!""Hem!" said Mr. George. "You remember, miss, that we passed someconversation on a certain man this morning? Gridley," in a lowwhisper behind his hand.   "Yes," said I.   "He is hiding at my place. I couldn't mention it. Hadn't hisauthority. He is on his last march, miss, and has a whim to seeher. He says they can feel for one another, and she has beenalmost as good as a friend to him here. I came down to look forher, for when I sat by Gridley this afternoon, I seemed to hear theroll of the muffled drums.""Shall I tell her?" said I.   "Would you be so good?" he returned with a glance of something likeapprehension at Miss Flite. "It's a providence I met you, miss; Idoubt if I should have known how to get on with that lady." And heput one hand in his breast and stood upright in a martial attitudeas I informed little Miss Flite, in her ear, of the purport of hiskind errand.   "My angry friend from Shropshire! Almost as celebrated as myself!"she exclaimed. "Now really! My dear, I will wait upon him withthe greatest pleasure.""He is living concealed at Mr. George's," said I. "Hush! This isMr. George.""In--deed!" returned Miss Flite. "Very proud to have the honour!   A military man, my dear. You know, a perfect general!" shewhispered to me.   Poor Miss Flite deemed it necessary to be so courtly and polite, asa mark of her respect for the army, and to curtsy so very oftenthat it was no easy matter to get her out of the court. When thiswas at last done, and addressing Mr. George as "General," she gavehim her arm, to the great entertainment of some idlers who werelooking 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 shetoo said, "Fitz Jarndyce, my dear, you will accompany us, ofcourse." As Richard seemed quite willing, and even anxious, thatwe should see them safely to their destination, we 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 themorning, I wrote a hasty note in pencil to my guardian to say wherewe were gone and why. Mr. George sealed it at a coffee-house, thatit might lead to no discovery, and we sent it off by a ticket-porter.   We then took a hackney-coach and drove away to the neighbourhood ofLeicester Square. We walked through some narrow courts, for whichMr. George apologized, and soon came to the shooting gallery, thedoor of which was closed. As he pulled a bell-handle which hung bya chain to the door-post, a very respectable old gentleman withgrey hair, wearing spectacles, and dressed in a black spencer andgaiters and a broad-brimmed hat, and carrying a large gold-beadedcane, addressed him.   "I ask your pardon, my good friend," said he, "but is this George'sShooting Gallery?""It is, sir," returned Mr. George, glancing up at the great lettersin which that inscription was painted on the whitewashed wall.   "Oh! To be sure!" said the old gentleman, following 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? ThenI am here as soon as you, you see. You came for me, no doubt?""No, sir. You have the advantage of me.""Oh, indeed?" said the old gentleman. "Then it was your young manwho came for me. I am a physician and was requested--five minutesago--to come and visit a sick man at George's Shooting Gallery.""The muffled drums," said Mr. George, turning to Richard and me andgravely shaking his head. "It's quite correct, sir. Will youplease to walk in."The door being at that moment opened by a very singular-lookinglittle man in a green-baize cap and apron, whose face and hands anddress were blackened all over, we passed along a dreary passageinto a large building with bare brick walls where there weretargets, and guns, and swords, and other things of that kind. Whenwe had all arrived here, the physician stopped, and taking off hishat, appeared to vanish by magic and to leave another and quite adifferent man in his place.   "Now lookee here, George," said the man, turning quickly round uponhim and tapping him on the breast with a large forefinger. "Youknow me, and I know you. You're a man of the world, and I'm a manof the world. My name's Bucket, as you are aware, and I have got apeace-warrant against Gridley. You have kept him out of the way along time, and you have been artful in it, and it does you credit."Mr. George, looking hard at him, bit his lip and shook his head.   "Now, George," said the other, keeping close to him, "you're asensible man and a well-conducted man; that's what YOU are, beyonda 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 dutycalls we must obey. Consequently you're very far from wanting togive trouble. If I required assistance, you'd assist me; that'swhat YOU'D do. Phil Squod, don't you go a-sidling round thegallery like that"--the dirty little man was shuffling about withhis shoulder against the wall, and his eyes on the intruder, in amanner that looked threatening--"because I know you and won't haveit.""Phil!" said Mr. George.   "Yes, guv'ner.""Be quiet."The little man, with a low growl, stood still.   "Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Bucket, "you'll excuse anythingthat may appear to be disagreeable in this, for my name's InspectorBucket of the Detective, and I have a duty to perform. George, Iknow where my man is because I was on the roof last night and sawhim 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 mustsee my man, and I must tell my man to consider himself in custody;but you know me, and you know I don't want to take anyuncomfortable measures. You give me your word, as from one man toanother (and an old soldier, mind you, likewise), that it'shonourable between us two, and I'll accommodate you to the utmostof my power.""I give it," was the reply. '"But it wasn't handsome in you, Mr.   Bucket.""Gammon, George! Not handsome?" said Mr. Bucket, tapping him onhis broad breast again and shaking hands with him. "I don't say itwasn't handsome in you to keep my man so close, do I? Be equallygood-tempered to me, old boy! Old William Tell, Old Shaw, the LifeGuardsman! Why, he's a model of the whole British army in himself,ladies and gentlemen. I'd give a fifty-pun' note to be such afigure of a man!"The affair being brought to this head, Mr. George, after a littleconsideration, proposed to go in first to his comrade (as he calledhim), taking Miss Flite with him. Mr. Bucket agreeing, they wentaway to the further end of the gallery, leaving us sitting andstanding by a table covered with guns. Mr. Bucket took thisopportunity of entering into a little light conversation, asking meif I were afraid of fire-arms, as most young ladies were; askingRichard if he were a good shot; asking Phil Squod which heconsidered the best of those rifles and what it might be worthfirst-hand, telling him in return that it was a pity he ever gaveway to his temper, for he was naturally so amiable that he mighthave been a young woman, and making himself generally agreeable.   After a time he followed us to the further end of the gallery, andRichard and I were going quietly away when Mr. George came afterus. He said that if we had no objection to see his comrade, hewould take a visit from us very kindly. The words had hardlypassed his lips when the bell was rung and my guardian appeared,"on the chance," he slightly observed, "of being able to do anylittle thing for a poor fellow involved in the same misfortune ashimself." We all four went back together and went into the placewhere Gridley was.   It was a bare room, partitioned off from the gallery with unpaintedwood. As the screening was not more than eight or ten feet highand only enclosed the sides, not the top, the rafters of the highgallery roof were overhead, and the skylight through which Mr.   Bucket had looked down. The sun was low--near setting--and itslight came redly in above, without descending to the ground. Upona plain canvas-covered sofa lay the man from Shropshire, dressedmuch as we had seen him last, but so changed that at first Irecognized no likeness in his colourless face to what Irecollected.   He had been still writing in his hiding-place, and still dwellingon his grievances, hour after hour. A table and some shelves werecovered with manuscript papers and with worn pens and a medley ofsuch tokens. Touchingly and awfully drawn together, he and thelittle mad woman were side by side and, as it were, alone. She saton a chair holding his hand, and none of us went close to them.   His voice had faded, with the old expression of his face, with hisstrength, with his anger, with his resistance to the wrongs thathad at last subdued him. The faintest shadow of an object full ofform and colour is such a picture of it as he was of the man fromShropshire 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 notlong 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 honouryou."They shook hands earnestly, and my guardian said some words ofcomfort to him.   "It may seem strange to you, sir," returned Gridley; "I should nothave liked to see you if this had been the flrst time of ourmeeting. But you know I made a fight for it, you know I stood upwith my single hand against them all, you know I told them thetruth to the last, and told them what they were, and what they haddone to me; so I don't mind your seeing me, this wreck.""You have been courageous with them many and many a time," returnedmy guardian.   "Sir, I have been," with a faint smile. "I told you what wouldcome of it when I ceased to be so, and see here! Look at us--lookat us!" He drew the hand Miss Flite held through her arm andbrought her something nearer to him.   "This ends it. Of all my old associations, of all my old pursuitsand hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor soulalone comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a tie ofmany suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie I everhad on earth that Chancery has not broken.""Accept my blessing, Gridley," said Miss Flite in tears. "Acceptmy blessing!""I thought, boastfully, that they never could break my heart, Mr.   Jarndyce. I was resolved that they should not. I did believe thatI could, and would, charge them with being the mockery they wereuntil I died of some bodily disorder. But I am worn out. How longI have been wearing out, I don't know; I seemed to break down in anhour. I hope they may never come to hear of it. I hope everybodyhere will lead them to believe that I died defying them,consistently and perseveringly, as I did through so many years."Here Mr. Bucket, who was sitting in a corner by the door, good-naturedly 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 littlelow sometimes. I am. Hold up, hold up! You'll lose your temperwith the whole round of 'em, again and again; and I shall take youon a score of warrants yet, if I have luck."He only shook his head.   "Don't shake your head," said Mr. Bucket. "Nod it; that's what Iwant to see you do. Why, Lord bless your soul, what times we havehad together! Haven't I seen you in the Fleet over and over againfor contempt? Haven't I come into court, twenty afternoons for noother 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? Askthe little old lady there; she has been always present. Hold up,Mr. Gridley, hold up, sir!""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 resuminghis encouragement, he pursued aloud: "Worn out, Mr. Gridley? Afterdodging me for all these weeks and forcing me to climb the roofhere like a tom cat and to come to see you as a doctor? That ain'tlike being worn out. I should think not! Now I tell you what youwant. You want excitement, you know, to keep YOU up; that's whatYOU want. You're used to it, and you can't do without it. Icouldn't myself. Very well, then; here's this warrant got by Mr.   Tulkinghorn of Lincoln's Inn Fields, and backed into half-a-dozencounties since. What do you say to coming along with me, upon thiswarrant, and having a good angry argument before the magistrates?   It'll do you good; it'll freshen you up and get you into trainingfor another turn at the Chancellor. Give in? Why, I am surprisedto hear a man of your energy talk of giving in. You mustn't dothat. You're half the fun of the fair in the Court of Chancery.   George, you lend Mr. Gridley a hand, and let's see now whether hewon'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. Idon't like to see an old acquaintance giving in like this. Itwould cheer him up more than anything if I could make him a littlewaxy with me. He's welcome to drop into me, right and left, if helikes. I shall never take advantage of it."The roof rang with a scream from Miss Flite, which still rings inmy ears.   "Oh, no, Gridley!" she cried as he fell heavily and calmly backfrom before her. "Not without my blessing. After so many years!"The sun was down, the light had gradually stolen from the roof, andthe shadow had crept upward. But to me the shadow of that pair,one living and one dead, fell heavier on Richard's departure thanthe darkness of the darkest night. And through Richard's farewellwords I heard it echoed: "Of all my old associations, of all my oldpursuits and hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this onepoor soul alone comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is atie of many suffering years between us two, and it is the only tieI ever had on earth that Chancery has not broken!" Chapter 25 Mrs. Snagsby Sees It All There is disquietude in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. Blacksuspicion hides in that peaceful region. The mass of Cook'sCourtiers are in their usual state of mind, no better and no worse;but Mr. Snagsby is changed, and his little woman knows it.   For Tom-all-Alone's and Lincoln's Inn Fields persist in harnessingthemselves, a pair of ungovernable coursers, to the chariot of Mr.   Snagsby's imagination; and Mr. Bucket drives; and the passengersare Jo and Mr. Tulkinghorn; and the complete equipage whirls thoughthe 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-table, when Mr.   Snagsby pauses in carving the first slice of the leg of muttonbaked 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 somewhere, but what something, what may come ofit, to whom, when, and from which unthought of and unheard ofquarter is the puzzle of his life. His remote impressions of therobes and coronets, the stars and garters, that sparkle through thesurface-dust of Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers; his veneration for themysteries presided over by that best and closest of his customers,whom all the Inns of Court, all Chancery Lane, and all the legalneighbourhood agree to hold in awe; his remembrance of DetectiveMr. Bucket with his forefinger and his confidential manner,impossible to be evaded or declined, persuade him that he is aparty to some dangerous secret without knowing what it is. And itis the fearful peculiarity of this condition that, at any hour ofhis daily life, at any opening of the shop-door, at any pull of thebell, at any entrance of a messenger, or any delivery of a letter,the secret may take air and fire, explode, and blow up--Mr. Bucketonly knows whom.   For which reason, whenever a man unknown comes into the shop (asmany men unknown do) and says, "Is Mr. Snagsby in?" or words tothat innocent effect, Mr. Snagsby's heart knocks hard at his guiltybreast. He undergoes so much from such inquiries that when theyare made by boys he revenges himself by flipping at their ears overthe counter and asking the young dogs what they mean by it and whythey can't speak out at once? More impracticable men and boyspersist in walking into Mr. Snagsby's sleep and terrifying him withunaccountable questions, so that often when the cock at the littledairy in Cursitor Street breaks out in his usual absurd way aboutthe morning, Mr. Snagsby finds himself in a crisis of nightmare,with his little woman shaking him and saying "What's the matterwith the man!"The little woman herself is not the least item in his difficulty.   To know that he is always keeping a secret from her, that he hasunder all circumstances to conceal and hold fast a tender doubletooth, which her sharpness is ever ready to twist out of his head,gives Mr. Snagsby, in her dentistical presence, much of the air ofa dog who has a reservation from his master and will look anywhererather than meet his eye.   These various signs and tokens, marked by the little woman, are notlost upon her. They impel her to say, "Snagsby has something onhis mind!" And thus suspicion gets into Cook's Court, CursitorStreet. From suspicion to jealousy, Mrs. Snagsby finds the road asnatural and short as from Cook's Court to Chancery Lane. And thusjealousy gets into Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. Once there (andit was always lurking thereabout), it is very active and nimble inMrs. Snagsby's breast, prompting her to nocturnal examinations ofMr. Snagsby's pockets; to secret perusals of Mr. Snagsby's letters;to private researches in the day book and ledger, till, cash-box,and iron safe; to watchings at windows, listenings 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 becomesghostly with creaking boards and rustling garments. The 'prenticesthink 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 isburied money underneath the cellar, guarded by an old man with awhite beard, who cannot get out for seven thousand years because hesaid 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. Snagsbyhas appropriated, and the lady being unproducible, she directs hermental eye, for the present, with redoubled vigilance to the boy.   "And who," quoth Mrs. Snagsby for the thousand and first time, "isthat boy? Who is that--!" And there Mrs. Snagsby is seized withan inspiration.   He has no respect for Mr. Chadband. No, to be sure, and hewouldn't have, of course. Naturally he wouldn't, under thosecontagious circumstances. He was invited and appointed by Mr.   Chadband--why, Mrs. Snagsby heard it herself with her own ears!--tocome back, and be told where he was to go, to be addressed by Mr.   Chadband; and he never came! Why did he never come? Because hewas told not to come. Who told him not to come? Who? Ha, ha!   Mrs. Snagsby sees it all.   But happily (and Mrs. Snagsby tightly shakes her head and tightlysmiles) that boy was met by Mr. Chadband yesterday in the streets;and that boy, as affording a subject which Mr. Chadband desires toimprove for the spiritual delight of a select congregation, wasseized by Mr. Chadband and threatened with being delivered over tothe police unless he showed the reverend gentleman where he livedand unless he entered into, and fulfilled, an undertaking to appearin Cook's Court to-morrow night, "'to--mor--row--night," Mrs.   Snagsby repeats for mere emphasis with another tight smile andanother tight shake of her head; and to-morrow night that boy willbe here, and to-morrow night Mrs. Snagsby will have her eye uponhim and upon some one else; and oh, you may walk a long while inyour secret ways (says Mrs. Snagsby with haughtiness and scorn),but you can't blind ME!   Mrs. Snagsby sounds no timbrel in anybody's ears, but holds herpurpose quietly, and keeps her counsel. To-morrow comes, thesavoury preparations for the Oil Trade come, the evening comes.   Comes Mr. Snagsby in his black coat; come the Chadbands; come (whenthe gorging vessel is replete) the 'prentices and Guster, to beedified; comes at last, with his slouching head, and his shufllebackward, and his shuffle forward, and his shuffle to the right,and his shuffle to the left, and his bit of fur cap in his muddyhand, which he picks as if it were some mangy bird he had caughtand was plucking before eating raw, Jo, the very, very toughsubject Mr. Chadband is to improve.   Mrs. Snagsby screws a watchful glance on Jo as he is brought intothe little drawing-room by Guster. He looks at Mr. Snagsby themoment he comes in. Aha! Why does he look at Mr. Snagsby? Mr.   Snagsby looks at him. Why should he do that, but that Mrs. Snagsbysees it all? Why else should that look pass between them, why elseshould Mr. Snagsby be confused and cough a signal cough behind hishand? It is as clear as crystal that Mr. Snagsby is that boy'sfather.   '"Peace, my friends," says Chadband, rising and wiping the oilyexudations from his reverend visage. "Peace be with us! Myfriends, why with us? Because," with his fat smile, "it cannot beagainst us, because it must be for us; because it is not hardening,because it is softening; because it does not make war like thehawk, but comes home unto us like the dove. Therefore, my friends,peace be with us! My human boy, come forward!"Stretching forth his flabby paw, Mr. Chadband lays the same on Jo'sarm and considers where to station him. Jo, very doubtful of hisreverend friend's intentions and not at all clear but thatsomething practical and painful is going to be done to him,mutters, "You let me alone. I never said nothink to you. You letme alone.""No, my young friend," says Chadband smoothly, "I will not let youalone. And why? Because I am a harvest-labourer, because I am atoiler and a moiler, because you are delivered over unto me and arebecome as a precious instrument in my hands. My friends, may I soemploy this instrument as to use it to your advantage, to yourprofit, to your gain, to your welfare, to your enrichment! Myyoung friend, sit upon this stool."Jo, apparently possessed by an impression that the reverendgentleman wants to cut his hair, shields his head with both armsand is got into the required position with great difficulty andevery possible manifestation of reluctance.   When he is at last adjusted like a lay-figure, Mr. Chadband,retiring behind the table, holds up his bear's-paw and says, "Myfriends!" This is the signal for a general settlement of theaudience. The 'prentices giggle internally and nudge each other.   Guster falls into a staring and vacant state, compounded of astunned admiration of Mr. Chadband and pity for the friendlessoutcast whose condition touches her nearly. Mrs. Snagsby silentlylays trains of gunpowder. Mrs. Chadband composes herself grimly bythe fire and warms her knees, finding that sensation favourable tothe reception of eloquence.   It happens that Mr. Chadband has a pulpit habit of fixing somemember of his congregation with his eye and fatly arguing hispoints with that particular person, who is understood to beexpected to be moved to an occasional grunt, groan, gasp, or otheraudible expression of inward working, which expression of inwardworking, being echoed by some elderly lady in the next pew and socommunicated like a game of forfeits through a circle of the morefermentable sinners present, serves the purpose of parliamentarycheering and gets Mr. Chadband's steam up. From mere force ofhabit, Mr. Chadband in saying "My friends!" has rested his eye onMr. Snagsby and proceeds to make that ill-starred stationer,already sufficiently confused, the immediate recipient of hisdiscourse.   "We have here among us, my friends," says Chadband, "a Gentile anda heathen, a dweller in the tents of Tom-all-Alone's and a mover-onupon the surface of the earth. We have here among us, my friends,"and Mr. Chadband, untwisting the point with his dirty thumb-nail,bestows an oily smile on Mr. Snagsby, signifying that he will throwhim 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 ofprecious stones. Now, my friends, why do I say he is devoid ofthese possessions? Why? Why is he?" Mr. Chadband states thequestion as if he were propoundlng an entirely new riddle of muchingenuity and merit to Mr. Snagsby and entreating him not to giveit up.   Mr. Snagsby, greatly perplexed by the mysterious look he receivedjust now from his little woman--at about the period when Mr.   Chadband mentioned the word parents--is tempted into modestlyremarking, "I don't know, I'm sure, sir." On which interruptionMrs. Chadband glares and Mrs. Snagsby says, "For shame!""I hear a voice," says Chadband; "is it a still small voice, myfriends? I fear not, though I fain would hope so--""Ah--h!" from Mrs. Snagsby.   "Which says, 'I don't know.' Then I will tell you why. I say thisbrother present here among us is devoid of parents, devoid ofrelations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold, of silver,and of precious stones because he is devoid of the light thatshines in upon some of us. What is that light? What is it? I askyou, what is that light?"Mr. Chadband draws back his head and pauses, but Mr. Snagsby is notto be lured on to his destruction again. Mr. Chadband, leaningforward over the table, pierces what he has got to follow directlyinto Mr. Snagsby with the thumb-nail already mentioned.   "It is," says Chadband, "the ray of rays, the sun of suns, the moonof 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. Chadband, hitting him again. "Say not to methat it is NOT the lamp of lamps. I say to you it is. I say toyou, a million of times over, it is. It is! I say to you that Iwill proclaim it to you, whether you like it or not; nay, that theless you like it, the more I will proclaim it to you. With aspeaking-trumpet! I say to you that if you rear yourself againstit, you shall fall, you shall be bruised, you shall be battered,you shall be flawed, you shall be smashed."The present effect of this flight of oratory--much admired for itsgeneral power by Mr. Chadband's followers--being not only to makeMr. Chadband unpleasantly warm, but to represent the innocent Mr.   Snagsby in the light of a determined enemy to virtue, with aforehead of brass and a heart of adamant, that unfortunatetradesman becomes yet more disconcerted and is in a very advancedstate of low spirits and false position when Mr. Chadbandaccidentally 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 it, which smokes, too, after every dab--"to pursuethe subject we are endeavouring with our lowly gifts to improve,let us in a spirit of love inquire what is that Terewth to which Ihave alluded. For, my young friends," suddenly addressing the'prentices and Guster, to their consternation, "if I am told by thedoctor that calomel or castor-oil is good for me, I may naturallyask what is calomel, and what is castor-oil. I may wish to beinformed of that before I dose myself with either or with both.   Now, my young friends, what is this Terewth then? Firstly (in aspirit of love), what is the common sort of Terewth--the workingclothes--the every-day wear, my 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 namesbelongs to it. When this young heathen now among us--who is now,my friends, asleep, the seal of indifference and perdition beingset upon his eyelids; but do not wake him, for it is right that Ishould have to wrestle, and to combat and to struggle, and toconquer, for his sake--when this young hardened heathen told us astory 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 andentirely? No, my friends, no!"If Mr. Snagsby could withstand his little woman's look as it entersat his eyes, the windows of his soul, and searches the wholetenement, he were other than the man he is. He cowers and droops.   "Or, my juvenile friends," says Chadband, descending to the levelof their comprehension with a very obtrusive demonstration in hisgreasily meek smile of coming a long way downstairs for thepurpose, "if the master of this house was to go forth into the cityand there see an eel, and was to come back, and was to call untohim the mistress of this house, and was to say, 'Sarah, rejoicewith 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, andreturning 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 Chadband, stimulated by thesound, "that the unnatural parents of this slumbering heathen--forparents he had, my juvenile friends, beyond a doubt--after castinghim forth to the wolves and the vultures, and the wild dogs and theyoung gazelles, and the serpents, went back to their dwellings andhad their pipes, and their pots, and their flutings and theirdancings, and their malt liquors, and their butcher's meat andpoultry, would THAT be Terewth?"Mrs. Snagsby replies by delivering herself a prey to spasms, not anunresisting prey, but a crying and a tearing one, so that Cook'sCourt re-echoes with her shrieks. Finally, becoming cataleptic,she has to be carried up the narrow staircase like a grand piano.   After unspeakable suffering, productive of the utmostconsternation, she is pronounced, by expresses from the bedroom,free from pain, though much exhausted, in which state of affairsMr. Snagsby, trampled and crushed in the piano-forte removal, andextremely timid and feeble, ventures to come out from behind thedoor 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. Hespits them out with a remorseful air, for he feels that it is inhis nature to be an unimprovable reprobate and that it's no goodHIS trying to keep awake, for HE won't never know nothink. Thoughit may be, Jo, that there is a history so interesting and affectingeven to minds as near the brutes as thine, recording deeds done onthis earth for common men, that if the Chadbands, removing theirown persons from the light, would but show it thee in simplereverence, would but leave it unimproved, would but regard it asbeing eloquent enough without their modest aid--it might hold theeawake, and thou might learn from it yet!   Jo never heard of any such book. Its compilers and the ReverendChadband are all one to him, except that he knows the ReverendChadband and would rather run away from him for an hour than hearhim talk for five minutes. "It an't no good my waiting here nolonger," thinks Jo. "Mr. Snagsby an't a-going to say nothink to meto-night." And downstairs he shuffles.   But downstairs is the charitable Guster, holding by the handrail ofthe kitchen stairs and warding off a fit, as yet doubtfully, thesame having been induced by Mrs. Snagsby's screaming. She has herown supper of bread and cheese to hand to Jo, with whom sheventures 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 thisorphan charge of the Christian saint whose shrine was at Tootinghas patted him on the shoulder, and it is the first time in hislife 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 repressingsymptoms favourable to the fit when she seems to take alarm atsomething and vanishes down the stairs.   "Jo," whispers the law-stationer softly as the boy lingers on thestep.   "Here I am, Mr. Snagsby!""I didn't know you were gone--there's another half-crown, Jo. Itwas quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the othernight when we were out together. It would breed trouble. Youcan't be too quiet, Jo.""I am fly, master!"And so, good night.   A ghostly shade, frilled and night-capped, follows the law-stationer to the room he came from and glides higher up. Andhenceforth he begins, go where he will, to be attended by anothershadow than his own, hardly less constant than his own, hardly lessquiet than his own. And into whatsoever atmosphere of secrecy hisown shadow may pass, let all concerned in the secrecy beware! Forthe watchful Mrs. Snagsby is there too--bone of his bone, flesh ofhis flesh, shadow of his shadow. Chapter 26 Sharpshooters Wintry morning, looking with dull eyes and sallow face upon theneighbourhood of Leicester Square, finds its inhabitants unwillingto get out of bed. Many of them are not early risers at thebrightest of times, being birds of night who roost when the sun ishigh and are wide awake and keen for prey when the stars shine out.   Behind dingy blind and curtain, in upper story and garret, skulkingmore or less under false names, false hair, false titles, falsejewellery, and false histories, a colony of brigands lie in theirfirst sleep. Gentlemen of the green-baize road who could discoursefrom personal experience of foreign galleys and home treadmills;spies of strong governments that eternally quake with weakness andmiserable fear, broken traitors, cowards, bullies, gamesters,shufflers, swindlers, and false witnesses; some not unmarked by thebranding-iron beneath their dirty braid; all with more cruelty inthem than was in Nero, and more crime than is in Newgate. Forhowsoever bad the devil can be in fustian or smock-frock (and hecan be very bad in both), he is a more designing, callous, andintolerable devil when he sticks a pin in his shirt-front, callshimself a gentleman, backs a card or colour, plays a game or so ofbilliards, and knows a little about bills and promissory notes thanin any other form he wears. And in such form Mr. Bucket shall findhim, when he will, still pervading the tributary channels ofLeicester Square.   But the wintry morning wants him not and wakes him not. It wakesMr. George of the shooting gallery and his familiar. They arise,roll up and stow away their mattresses. Mr. George, having shavedhimself before a looking-glass of minute proportions, then marchesout, bare-headed and bare-chested, to the pump in the little yardand anon comes back shining with yellow soap, friction, driftingrain, and exceedingly cold water. As he rubs himself upon a largejack-towel, blowing like a military sort of diver just come up, hishair curling tighter and tighter on his sunburnt temples the morehe rubs it so that it looks as if it never could be loosened by anyless coercive instrument than an iron rake or a curry-comb--as herubs, and puffs, and polishes, and blows, turning his head fromside to side the more conveniently to excoriate his throat, andstanding with his body well bent forward to keep the wet from hismartial legs, Phil, on his knees lighting a fire, looks round as ifit were enough washing for him to see all that done, and sufficientrenovation for one day to take in the superfluous health his masterthrows off.   When Mr. George is dry, he goes to work to brush his head with twohard brushes at once, to that unmerciful degree that Phil,shouldering his way round the gallery in the act of sweeping it,winks with sympathy. This chafing over, the ornamental part of Mr.   George's toilet is soon performed. He fills his pipe, lights it,and marches up and down smoking, as his custom is, while Phil,raising a powerful odour of hot rolls and coffee, preparesbreakfast. He smokes gravely and marches in slow time. Perhapsthis morning's pipe is devoted to the memory of Gridley in hisgrave.   "And so, Phil," says George of the shooting gallery after severalturns in silence, "you were dreaming of the country last night?"Phil, by the by, said as much in a tone of surprise as he scrambledout of bed.   "Yes, guv'ner.""What was it like?""I hardly know what it was like, guv'ner," said Phil, considering.   "How did you know it was the country?""On account of the grass, I think. And the swans upon it," saysPhil 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 march, and the man resumes his preparationof breakfast. It is not necessarily a lengthened preparation,being limited to the setting forth of very simple breakfastrequisites for two and the broiling of a rasher of bacon at thefire in the rusty grate; but as Phil has to sidle round aconsiderable part of the gallery for every object he wants, andnever brings two objects at once, it takes time under thecircumstances. At length the breakfast is ready. Phil announcingit, Mr. George knocks the ashes out of his pipe on the hob, standshis pipe itself in the chimney corner, and sits down to the meal.   When he has helped himself, Phil follows suit, sitting at theextreme end of the little oblong table and taking his plate on hisknees. Either in humility, or to hide his blackened hands, orbecause it is his natural manner of eating.   "The country," says Mr. George, plying his knife and fork; "why, Isuppose you never clapped your eyes on the country, Phil?""I see the marshes once," says Phil, contentedly eating hisbreakfast.   "What marshes?""THE marshes, commander," returns Phil.   "Where are they?""I don't know where they are," says Phil; "but I see 'em, guv'ner.   They was flat. And miste."Governor and commander are interchangeable terms with Phil,expressive of the same respect and deference and applicable tonobody but Mr. George.   "I was born in the country, Phil.""Was you indeed, commander?""Yes. And bred there."Phil elevates his one eyebrow, and after respectfully staring athis master to express interest, swallows 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 manya tree that I couldn't climb yet if I was put to it. I was a realcountry 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 asupright as me, and 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 thetrooper. "What set me on about country boys, and runaways, andgood-for-nothings? You, to be sure! So you never clapped youreyes 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 Phil, "I ain't acquainted withanythink else, and I doubt if I ain't a-getting too old to take tonovelties.""How old ARE you, Phil?" asks the trooper, pausing as he conveyshis smoking saucer to his lips.   "I'm something with a eight in it," says Phil. "It can't beeighty. Nor yet eighteen. It's betwixt 'em, somewheres."Mr. George, slowly putting down his saucer without tasting itscontents, is laughingly beginning, "Why, what the deuce, Phil--"when he stops, seeing that Phil is counting on his dirty fingers.   "I was just eight," says Phil, "agreeable to the parishcalculation, 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 tohimself wery comfortable, and he says, 'Would you like to comealong a me, my man?' I says 'Yes,' and him and me and the firegoes home to Clerkenwell together. That was April Fool Day. I wasable 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 aeight 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 upperhand of me, but this is how I always know there's a eight in it.""Ah!" says Mr. George, resuming his breakfast. "And where's thetinker?""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'tmuch of a beat--round Saffron Hill, Hatton Garden, Clerkenwell,Smiffeld, and there--poor neighbourhood, where they uses up thekettles till they're past mending. Most of the tramping tinkersused to come and lodge at our place; that was the best part of mymaster'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 atune 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--neverhad a note of music in me. Besides, I was too ill-looking, andtheir 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 Phil, shaking his head. "No, I shouldn't.   I was passable enough when I went with the tinker, though nothingto boast of then; but what with blowing the fire with my mouth whenI was young, and spileing my complexion, and singeing my hair off,and swallering the smoke, and what with being nat'rally unfort'natein the way of running against hot metal and marking myself by sichmeans, and what with having turn-ups with the tinker as I gotolder, almost whenever he was too far gone in drink--which wasalmost always--my beauty was queer, wery queer, even at that time.   As to since, what with a dozen years in a dark forge where the menwas given to larking, and what with being scorched in a accident ata gas-works, and what with being blowed out of winder case-fillingat the firework business, I am ugly enough to be made a show on!"Resigning himself to which condition with a perfectly satisfiedmanner, Phil begs the favour of another cup of coffee. Whiledrinking it, he says, "It was after the case-filling blow-up when Ifirst 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 Phil, excited.   "In a night-cap--""And hobbling with a couple of sticks!" cries Phil, still moreexcited.   "With a couple of sticks. When--""When you stops, you know," cries Phil, putting down his cup andsaucer and hastily removing his plate from his knees, "and says tome, 'What, comrade! You have been in the wars!' I didn't say muchto you, commander, then, for I was took by surprise that a personso strong and healthy and bold as you was should stop to speak tosuch a limping bag of bones as I was. But you says to me, saysyou, delivering it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so thatit was like a glass of something hot, 'What accident have you metwith? You have been badly hurt. What's amiss, old boy? Cheer up,and tell us about it!' Cheer up! I was cheered already! I saysas much to you, you says more to me, I says more to you, you saysmore to me, and here I am, commander! Here I am, commander!" criesPhil, who has started from his chair and unaccountably begun tosidle away. "If a mark's wanted, or if it will improve thebusiness, let the customers take aim at me. They can't spoil MYbeauty. 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'tmind. If they want a light-weight to be throwed for practice,Cornwall, Devonshire, or Lancashire, let 'em throw me. They won'thurt ME. I have been throwed, all sorts of styles, all my life!"With this unexpected speech, energetically delivered andaccompanied by action illustrative of the various exercisesreferred to, Phil Squod shoulders his way round three sides of thegallery, and abruptly tacking off at his commander, makes a butt athim with his head, intended to express devotion to his service. Hethen begins to clear away the breakfast.   Mr. George, after laughing cheerfully and clapping him on theshoulder, assists in these arrangements and helps to get thegallery into business order. That done, he takes a turn at thedumb-bells, and afterwards weighing himself and opining that he isgetting "too fleshy," engages with great gravity in solitarybroadsword practice. Meanwhile Phil has fallen to work at hisusual table, where he screws and unscrews, and cleans, and files,and whistles into small apertures, and blackens himself more andmore, and seems to do and undo everything that can be done andundone 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 unusualcompany. These steps, advancing nearer and nearer to the gallery,bring into it a group at first sight scarcely reconcilable with anyday in the year but the fifth of November.   It consists of a limp and ugly figure carried in a chair by twobearers and attended by a lean female with a face like a pinchedmask, who might be expected immediately to recite the popularverses commemorative of the time when they did contrive to blow OldEngland up alive but for her keeping her lips tightly and defiantlyclosed as the chair is put down. At which point the figure in itgasping, "O Lord! Oh, dear me! I am shaken!" adds, "How de do, mydear friend, how de do?" Mr. George then descries, in theprocession, the venerable Mr. Smallweed out for an airing, attendedby his granddaughter Judy as body-guard.   "Mr. George, my dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed, removinghis right arm from the neck of one of his bearers, whom he hasnearly throttled coming along, "how de do? You're surprised to seeme, my dear friend.""I should hardly have been more surprised to have seen your friendin the city," returns Mr. George.   "I am very seldom out," pants Mr. Smallweed. "I haven't been outfor many months. It's inconvenient--and it comes expensive. But Ilonged so much to see you, my dear Mr. George. How de do, sir?""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 himby both hands. "I have brought my granddaughter Judy. I couldn'tkeep 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 thecorner they lifted me out of the cab and into the chair, andcarried me here that I might see my dear friend in his ownestablishment! This," says Grandfather Smallweed, alluding to thebearer, who has been in danger of strangulation and who withdrawsadjusting his windpipe, "is the driver of the cab. He has nothingextra. It is by agreement included in his fare. This person," theother bearer, "we engaged in the street outside for a pint of beer.   Which is twopence. Judy, give the person twopence. I was not sureyou had a workman of your own here, my dear friend, or we needn'thave employed this person."Grandfather Smallweed refers to Phil with a glance of considerableterror and a half-subdued "O Lord! Oh, dear me!" Nor in hisapprehension, on the surface of things, without some reason, forPhil, who has never beheld the apparition in the black-velvet capbefore, has stopped short with a gun in his hand with much of theair of a dead shot intent on picking Mr. Smallweed off as an uglyold bird of the crow species.   "Judy, my child," says Grandfather Smallweed, "give the person histwopence. It's a great deal for what he has done."The person, who is one of those extraordinary specimens of humanfungus that spring up spontaneously in the western streets ofLondon, ready dressed in an old red jacket, with a "mission" forholding horses and calling coaches, received his twopence withanything but transport, tosses the money into the air, catches itover-handed, and retires.   "My dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, "would you be sokind 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 bythe suddenness with which Mr. Squod, like a genie, catches him up,chair and all, and deposits him on the hearth-stone.   "O Lord!" says Mr. Smallweed, panting. "Oh, dear me! Oh, mystars! My dear friend, your workman is very strong--and veryprompt. O Lord, he is very prompt! Judy, draw me back a little.   I'm being scorched in the legs," which indeed is testified to thenoses of all present by the smell of his worsted stockings.   The gentle Judy, having backed her grandfather a little way fromthe fire, and having shaken him up as usual, and having releasedhis overshadowed eye from its black-velvet extinguisher, Mr.   Smallweed again says, "Oh, dear me! O Lord!" and looking about andmeeting Mr. George's glance, again stretches out both hands.   "My dear friend! So happy in this meeting! And this is yourestablishment? It's a delightful place. It's a picture! Younever find that anything goes off here accidentally, do you, mydear friend?" adds Grandfather Smallweed, very ill at ease.   "No, no. No fear of that.""And your workman. He--Oh, dear me!--he never lets anything offwithout meaning it, does he, my dear friend?""He has never hurt anybody but himself," says Mr. George, smiling.   "But he might, you know. He seems to have hurt himself a gooddeal, and he might hurt somebody else," the old gentleman returns.   "He mightn't mean it--or he even might. Mr. George, will you orderhim to leave his infernal firearms alone and go away?"Obedient to a nod from the trooper, Phil retires, empty-handed, tothe other end of the gallery. Mr. Smallweed, reassured, falls torubbing his legs.   "And you're doing well, Mr. George?" he says to the trooper,squarely standing faced about towards him with his broadsword inhis hand. "You are prospering, please the Powers?"Mr. George answers with a cool nod, adding, "Go on. You have notcome to say that, I know.""You are so sprightly, Mr. George," returns the venerablegrandfather. "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 Judyas the trooper takes a step or two away to lay it aside. "He owesme money, and might think of paying off old scores in thismurdering place. I wish your brimstone grandmother was here, andhe'd shave her head off."Mr. George, returning, folds his arms, and looking down at the oldman, sliding every moment lower and lower in his chair, saysquietly, "Now for it!""Ho!" cries Mr. Smallweed, rubbing his hands with an artfulchuckle. "Yes. Now for it. Now for what, my dear friend?""For a pipe," says Mr. George, who with great composure sets hischair in the chimney-corner, takes his pipe from the grate, fillsit and lights it, and falls to smoking peacefully.   This tends to the discomfiture of Mr. Smallweed, who finds it sodifficult to resume his object, whatever it may be, that he becomesexasperated and secretly claws the air with an impotentvindictiveness expressive of an intense desire to tear and rend thevisage of Mr. George. As the excellent old gentleman's nails arelong and leaden, and his hands lean and veinous, and his eyes greenand watery; and, over and above this, as he continues, while heclaws, to slide down in his chair and to collapse into a shapelessbundle, he becomes such a ghastly spectacle, even in the accustomedeyes of Judy, that that young virgin pounces at him with somethingmore than the ardour of affection and so shakes him up and pats andpokes him in divers parts of his body, but particularly in thatpart which the science of self-defence would call his wind, that inhis grievous distress he utters enforced sounds like a paviour'srammer.   When Judy has by these means set him up again in his chair, with awhite face and a frosty nose (but still clawing), she stretches outher weazen forefinger and gives Mr. George one poke in the back.   The trooper raising his head, she makes another poke at heresteemed grandfather, and having thus brought them together, staresrigidly 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 withme, you must speak out. I am one of the roughs, and I can't goabout and about. I haven't the art to do it. I am not cleverenough. It don't suit me. When you go winding round and roundme," says the trooper, putting his pipe between his lips again,"damme, if I don't feel as if I was being smothered!"And he inflates his broad chest to its utmost extent as if toassure himself that he is not smothered yet.   "If you have come to give me a friendly call," continues Mr.   George, "I am obliged to you; how are you? If you have come to seewhether there's any property on the premises, look about you; youare welcome. If you want to out with something, out with it!"The blooming Judy, without removing her gaze from the fire, givesher grandfather one ghostly poke.   "You see! It's her opinion too. And why the devil that youngwoman won't sit down like a Christian," says Mr. George with hiseyes musingly fixed on Judy, "I can't comprehend.""She keeps at my side to attend to me, sir," says GrandfatherSmallweed. "I am an old man, my dear Mr. George, and I need someattention. I can carry my years; I am not a brimstone poll-parrot"(snarling and looking unconsciously for the cushion), "but I needattention, my dear friend.""Well!" returns the trooper, wheeling his chair to face the oldman. "Now then?""My friend in the city, Mr. George, has done a little business witha pupil of yours.""Has he?" says Mr. George. "I am sorry to hear it.""Yes, sir." Grandfather Smallweed rubs his legs. "He is a fineyoung soldier now, Mr. George, by the name of Carstone. Friendscame forward and paid it all up, honourable.""Did they?" returns Mr. George. "Do you think your friend in thecity 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 myknowledge, is brought to a dead halt.""No, no, my dear friend. No, no, Mr. George. No, no, no, sir,"remonstrates Grandfather Smallweed, cunningly rubbing his sparelegs. "Not quite a dead halt, I think. He has good friends, andhe is good for his pay, and he is good for the selling price of hiscommission, and he is good for his chance in a lawsuit, and he isgood for his chance in a wife, and--oh, do you know, Mr. George, Ithink my friend would consider the young gentleman good forsomething yet?" says Grandfather Smallweed, turning up his velvetcap and scratching his ear like a monkey.   Mr. George, who has put aside his pipe and sits with an arm on hischair-back, beats a tattoo on the ground with his right foot as ifhe were not particularly pleased with the turn the conversation hastaken.   "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. George, pausing with a frown instroking 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 hesees both grandfather and granddaughter looking hard at him. "Youare there! Well? What about it? Come, I won't be smothered anymore. Speak!""My dear friend," returns the old man, "I was applied--Judy, shakeme up a little!--I was applied to yesterday about the captain, andmy opinion still is that the captain is not dead.""Bosh!" observes Mr. George.   "What was your remark, my dear friend?" inquires the old man withhis hand to his ear.   "Bosh!""Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Mr. George, of my opinion youcan judge for yourself according to the questions asked of me andthe reasons given for asking 'em. Now, what do you think thelawyer making the inquiries wants?""A job," says Mr. George.   "Nothing of the kind!""Can't be a lawyer, then," says Mr. George, folding his arms withan air of confirmed resolution.   "My dear friend, he is a lawyer, and a famous one. He wants to seesome fragment in Captain Hawdon's writing. He don't want to keepit. He only wants to see it and compare it with a writing in hispossession.""Well?""Well, Mr. George. Happening to remember the advertisementconcerning Captain Hawdon and any information that could be givenrespecting him, he looked it up and came to me--just as you did, mydear friend. WILL you shake hands? So glad you came that day! Ishould have missed forming such a friendship if you hadn't come!""Well, Mr. Smallweed?" says Mr. George again after going throughthe ceremony with some stiffness.   "I had no such thing. I have nothing but his signature. Plaguepestilence and famine, battle murder and sudden death upon him,"says the old man, making a curse out of one of his few remembrancesof a prayer and squeezing up his velvet cap between his angryhands, "I have half a million of his signatures, I think! Butyou," breathlessly recovering his mildness of speech as Judy re-adjusts the cap on his skittle-ball of a head, "you, my dear Mr.   George, are likely to have some letter or paper that would suit thepurpose. Anything would suit the purpose, written in the hand.""Some writing in that hand," says the trooper, pondering; "may be,I have.""My dearest friend!""May be, I have not.""Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed, crest-fallen.   "But if I had bushels of it, I would not show as much as would makea cartridge without knowing why.""Sir, I have told you why. My dear Mr. George, I have told youwhy.""Not enough," says the trooper, shaking his head. "I must knowmore, and approve it.""Then, will you come to the lawyer? My dear friend, will you comeand see the gentleman?" urges Grandfather Smallweed, pulling out alean old silver watch with hands like the leg of a skeleton. "Itold him it was probable I might call upon him between ten andeleven this forenoon, and it's now half after ten. Will you comeand see the gentleman, Mr. George?""Hum!" says he gravely. "I don't mind that. Though why thisshould concern you so much, I don't know.""Everything concerns me that has a chance in it of bringinganything to light about him. Didn't he take us all in? Didn't heowe us immense sums, all round? Concern me? Who can anythingabout him concern more than me? Not, my dear friend," saysGrandfather Smallweed, lowering his tone, "that I want YOU tobetray anything. Far from it. Are you ready to come, my dearfriend?""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 laughs, long andlow, before the fire. But ever while he laughs, he glances overhis paralytic shoulder at Mr. George and eagerly watches him as heunlocks the padlock of a homely cupboard at the distant end of thegallery, looks here and there upon the higher shelves, andultimately takes something out with a rustling of paper, folds it,and puts it in his breast. Then Judy pokes Mr. Smallweed once, andMr. Smallweed pokes Judy once.   "I am ready," says the trooper, coming back. "Phil, you can carrythis old gentleman to his coach, and make nothing of him.""Oh, dear me! O Lord! Stop a moment!" says Mr. Smallweed. "He'sso very prompt! Are you sure you can do it carefully, my worthyman?"Phil makes no reply, but seizing the chair and its load, sidlesaway, tightly bugged by the now speechless Mr. Smallweed, and boltsalong the passage as if he had an acceptable commission to carrythe old gentleman to the nearest volcano. His shorter trust,however, terminating at the cab, he deposits him there; and thefair Judy takes her place beside him, and the chair embellishes theroof, and Mr. George takes the vacant place upon the box.   Mr. George is quite confounded by the spectacle he beholds fromtime to time as he peeps into the cab through the window behindhim, where the grim Judy is always motionless, and the oldgentleman with his cap over one eye is always sliding off the seatinto the straw and looking upward at him out of his other eye witha helpless expression of being jolted in the back. Chapter 27 More Old Soldiers Than One Mr. George has not far to ride with folded arms upon the box, fortheir destination is Lincoln's Inn Fields. When the driver stopshis horses, Mr. George alights, and looking in at the window, says,"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 knowhim, and he don't know me."There ensues the carrying of Mr. Smallweed upstairs, which is doneto perfection with the trooper's help. He is borne into Mr.   Tulkinghorn's great room and deposited on the Turkey rug before thefire. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not within at the present moment but willbe back directly. The occupant of the pew in the hall, having saidthus much, stirs the fire and leaves the triumvirate to warmthemselves.   Mr. George is mightily curious in respect of the room. He looks upat the painted ceiling, looks round at the old law-books,contemplates the portraits of the great clients, reads aloud thenames on the boxes.   "'Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,'" Mr. George reads thoughtfully.   "Ha! 'Manor of Chesney Wold.' Humph!" Mr. George stands lookingat these boxes a long while--as if they were pictures--and comesback to the fire repeating, "Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, andManor of Chesney Wold, hey?""Worth a mint of money, Mr. George!" whispers GrandfatherSmallweed, rubbing 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. Notbad quarters, either," says Mr. George, looking round again. "Seethe strong-box yonder!"This reply is cut short by Mr. Tulkinghorn's arrival. There is nochange in him, of course. Rustily drest, with his spectacles inhis hand, and their very case worn threadbare. In manner, closeand dry. In voice, husky and low. In face, watchful behind ablind; habitually not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps. Thepeerage may have warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers thanMr. Tulkinghorn, after all, if everything were known.   "Good morning, Mr. Smallweed, good morning!" he says as he comesin. "You have brought the sergeant, I see. Sit down, sergeant."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 trooperstands and says within himself perchance, "You'll do, my friend!""Sit down, sergeant," he repeats as he comes to his table, which isset on one side of the fire, and takes his easy-chair. "Cold andraw this morning, cold and raw!" Mr. Tulkinghorn warms before thebars, alternately, the palms and knuckles of his hands and looks(from behind that blind which is always down) at the trio sittingin a little semicircle before him.   "Now, I can feel what I am about" (as perhaps he can in twosenses), "Mr. Smallweed." The old gentleman is newly shaken up byJudy to bear his part in the conversation. "You have brought ourgood friend the sergeant, I see.""Yes, sir," returns Mr. Smallweed, very servile to the lawyer'swealth and influence.   "And what does the sergeant say about this business?""Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed with a tremulous wave ofhis shrivelled hand, "this is the gentleman, sir."Mr. George salutes the gentleman but otherwise sits bolt uprightand profoundly silent--very forward in his chair, as if the fullcomplement of regulation appendages for a field-day hung about him.   Mr. Tulkinghorn proceeds, "Well, George--I believe your name isGeorge?""It is so, Sir.""What do you say, George?""I ask your pardon, sir," returns the trooper, "but I should wishto 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 suddenlybreaks out with "You're a brimstone beast!" and as suddenly askspardon of Mr. Tulkinghorn, excusing himself for this slip of thetongue by saying to Judy, "I was thinking of your grandmother, mydear.""I supposed, sergeant," Mr. Tulkinghorn resumes as he leans on oneside of his chair and crosses his legs, "that Mr. Smallweed mighthave sufficiently explained the matter. It lies in the smallestcompass, however. You served under Captain Hawdon at one time, andwere his attendant in illness, and rendered him many littleservices, and were rather in his confidence, I am told. That isso, 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 hiswriting 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 Smallweed, screwing uphis eyes.   "If not, say how much more, in your conscience as a soldier, youcan 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 attitude, looks at thepainted ceiling, and says never a word. The irascible Mr.   Smallweed scratches the air.   "The question is," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his methodical, subdued,uninterested way, "first, whether you have any of Captain Hawdon'swriting?""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 likethat," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, suddenly handing him some sheets ofwritten 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 glanceat the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, that has been given tohim for his inspection (though he still holds it in his hand), butcontinues to look at the lawyer with an air of troubled meditation.   "Well?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "What do you say?""Well, sir," replies Mr. George, rising erect and looking immense,"I would rather, if you'll excuse me, have nothing to do withthis."Mr. Tulkinghorn, outwardly quite undisturbed, demands, "Why not?""Why, sir," returns the trooper. "Except on military compulsion, Iam not a man of business. Among civilians I am what they call inScotland a ne'er-do-weel. I have no head for papers, sir. I canstand any fire better than a fire of cross questions. I mentionedto Mr. Smallweed, only an hour or so ago, that when I come intothings of this kind I feel as if I was being smothered. And thatis my sensation," says Mr. George, looking round upon the company,"at the present moment."With that, he takes three strides forward to replace the papers onthe lawyer's table and three strides backward to resume his formerstation, where he stands perfectly upright, now looking at theground and now at the painted ceillhg, with his hands behind him asif to prevent himself from accepting any other document whatever.   Under this provocation, Mr. Smallweed's favourite adjective ofdisparagement is so close to his tongue that he begins the words"my dear friend" with the monosyllable "brim," thus converting thepossessive pronoun into brimmy and appearing to have an impedimentin his speech. Once past this difficulty, however, he exhorts hisdear friend in the tenderest manner not to be rash, but to do whatso 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 arethe best judge of your own interest, sergeant." "Take care you dono harm by this." "Please yourself, please yourself." "If youknow what you mean, that's quite enough." These he utters with anappearance of perfect indifference as he looks over the papers onhis table and prepares to write a letter.   Mr. George looks distrustfully from the painted ceiling to theground, from the ground to Mr. Smallweed, from Mr. Smallweed to Mr.   Tulkinghorn, and 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. George, "not to say itoffensively, that between you and Mr. Smallweed here, I really ambeing smothered fifty times over. I really am, sir. I am not amatch for you gentlemen. Will you allow me to ask why you want tosee the captain's hand, in the case that I could find any specimenof it?"Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly shakes his head. "No. If you were a manof business, sergeant, you would not need to be informed that thereare confidential reasons, very harmless in themselves, for manysuch wants in the profession to which I belong. But if you areafraid of doing any injury to Captain Hawdon, you may set your mindat rest about that.""Aye! He is dead, sir.""IS he?" Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly sits down to write.   "Well, sir," says the trooper, looking into his hat after anotherdisconcerted pause, "I am sorry not to have given you moresatisfaction. If it would be any satisfaction to any one that Ishould be confirmed in my judgment that I would rather have nothingto do with this by a friend of mine who has a better head forbusiness than I have, and who is an old soldier, I am willing toconsult with him. I--I really am so completely smothered myself atpresent," says Mr. George, passing his hand hopelessly across hisbrow, "that I don't know but what it might be a satisfaction tome."Mr. Smallweed, hearing that this authority is an old soldier, sostrongly inculcates the expediency of the trooper's taking counselwith him, and particularly informing him of its being a question offive guineas or more, that 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 thetrooper, "and I'll take the liberty of looking in again with thefinal answer in the course of the day. Mr. Smallweed, if you wishto be carried downstairs--""In a moment, my dear friend, in a moment. Will you first let mespeak half a word with this gentleman in private?""Certainly, sir. Don't hurry yourself on my account." The trooperretires to a distant part of the room and resumes his curiousinspection of the boxes, strong and otherwise.   "If I wasn't as weak as a brimstone baby, sir," whispersGrandfather Smallweed, drawing the lawyer down to his level by thelapel of his coat and flashing some half-quenched green fire out ofhis angry eyes, "I'd tear the writing away from him. He's got itbuttoned in his breast. I saw him put it there. Judy saw him putit there. Speak up, you crabbed image for the sign of a walking-stick shop, and say you saw him put it there!"This vehement conjuration the old gentleman accompanies with such athrust at his granddaughter that it is too much for his strength,and he slips away out of his chair, drawing Mr. Tulkinghorn withhim, until he is arrested by Judy, and well shaken.   "Violence will not do for me, my friend," Mr. Tulkinghorn thenremarks 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 Judy, who only looks at the fire, "to know hehas 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, hehas only his own way for a little while. I have him periodicallyin a vice. I'll twist him, sir. I'll screw him, sir. If he won'tdo it with a good grace, I'll make him do it with a bad one, sir!   Now, my dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, winking atthe lawyer hideously as he releases him, "I am ready for your kindassistance, my excellent friend!"Mr. Tulkinghorn, with some shadowy sign of amusement manifestingitself through his self-possession, stands on the hearth-rug withhis back to the fire, watching the disappearance of Mr. Smallweedand acknowledging the trooper's parting salute with one slight nod.   It is more difficult to get rid of the old gentleman, Mr. Georgefinds, than to bear a hand in carrying him downstairs, for when heis replaced in his conveyance, he is so loquacious on the subjectof the guineas and retains such an affectionate hold of his button--having, in truth, a secret longing to rip his coat open and robhim--that some degree of force is necessary on the trooper's partto effect a separation. It is accomplished at last, and heproceeds alone in quest of his adviser.   By the cloisterly Temple, and by Whitefriars (there, not without aglance at Hanging-Sword Alley, which would seem to be something inhis way), and by Blackfriars Bridge, and Blackfriars Road, Mr.   George sedately marches to a street of little shops lying somewherein that ganglion of roads from Kent and Surrey, and of streets fromthe bridges of London, centring in the far-famed elephant who haslost his castle formed of a thousand four-horse coaches to astronger iron monster than he, ready to chop him into mince-meatany day he dares. To one of the little shops in this street, whichis a musician's shop, having a few fiddles in the window, and somePan's pipes and a tambourine, and a triangle, and certain elongatedscraps of music, Mr. George directs his massive tread. And haltingat a few paces from it, as he sees a soldierly looking woman, withher outer skirts tucked up, come forth with a small wooden tub, andin that tub commence a-whisking and a-splashing on the margin ofthe pavement, Mr. George says to himself, "She's as usual, washinggreens. I never saw her, except upon a baggage-waggon, when shewasn't washing greens!"The subject of this reflection is at all events so occupied inwashing greens at present that she remains unsuspicious of Mr.   George's approach until, lifting up herself and her tub togetherwhen she has poured the water off into the gutter, she finds himstanding near her. Her reception of him is not flattering.   "George, I never see you but I wish you was a hundred mile away!"The trooper, without remarking on this welcome, follows into themusical-instrument shop, where the lady places her tub of greensupon the counter, and having shaken hands with him, rests her armsupon it.   "I never," she says, "George, consider Matthew Bagnet safe a minutewhen 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 good-humouredly.   "Ah!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, something shrilly. "But what satisfactionwill the nature of the animal be to me when the animal shall havetempted my Mat away from the musical business to New Zealand orAustraley?"Mrs. Bagnet is not at all an ill-looking woman. Rather large-boned, a little coarse in the grain, and freckled by the sun andwind which have tanned her hair upon the forehead, but healthy,wholesome, and bright-eyed. A strong, busy, active, honest-facedwoman of from forty-five to fifty. Clean, hardy, and soeconomically dressed (though substantially) that the only articleof ornament of which she stands possessed appear's to be herwedding-ring, around which her finger has grown to be so largesince it was put on that it will never come off again until itshall mingle with Mrs. Bagnet's dust.   "Mrs. Bagnet," says the trooper, "I am on my parole with you. Matwill 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. "Ah, George, George! If you had only settleddown 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 halflaughingly, half seriously, "but I shall never settle down into arespectable man now. Joe Pouch's widow might have done me good--there was something in her, and something of her--but I couldn'tmake up my mind to it. If I had had the luck to meet with such awife as Mat found!"Mrs. Bagnet, who seems in a virtuous way to be under little reservewith a good sort of fellow, but to be another good sort of fellowherself for that matter, receives this compliment by flicking Mr.   George in the face with a head of greens and taking her tub intothe little room behind the shop.   "Why, Quebec, my poppet," says George, following, on invitation,into that department. "And little Malta, too! Come and kiss yourBluffy!"These young ladies--not supposed to have been actually christenedby the names applied to them, though always so called in the familyfrom the places of their birth in barracks--are respectivelyemployed on three-legged stools, the younger (some five or sixyears old) in learning her letters out of a penny primer, the elder(eight or nine perhaps) in teaching her and sewing with greatassiduity. Both hail Mr. George with acclamations as an old friendand after some kissing and romping plant their stools beside him.   "And how's young Woolwich?" says Mr. George.   "Ah! There now!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning about from hersaucepans (for she is cooking dinner) with a bright flush on herface. "Would you believe it? Got an engagement at the theayter,with his father, to play the fife in a military piece.""Well done, my godson!" cries Mr. George, slapping his thigh.   "I believe you!" says Mrs. Bagnet. "He's a Briton. That's whatWoolwich is. A Briton!""And Mat blows away at his bassoon, and you're respectablecivilians one and all," says Mr. George. "Family people. Childrengrowing up. Mat's old mother in Scotland, and your old fathersomewhere else, corresponded with, and helped a little, and--well,well! To be sure, I don't know why I shouldn't be wished a hundredmile away, for I have not much to do with all this!"Mr. George is becoming thoughtful, sitting before the fire in thewhitewashed room, which has a sanded floor and a barrack smell andcontains nothing superfluous and has not a visible speck of dirt ordust in it, from the faces of Quebec and Malta to the bright tinpots and pannikins upon the dresser shelves--Mr. George is becomingthoughtful, sitting here while Mrs. Bagnet is busy, when Mr. Bagnetand young Woolwich opportunely come home. Mr. Bagnet is an ex-artilleryman, tall and upright, with shaggy eyebrows and whiskerslike the fibres of a coco-nut, not a hair upon his head, and atorrid complexion. His voice, short, deep, and resonant, is not atall unlike the tones of the instrument to which he is devoted.   Indeed there may be generally observed in him an unbending,unyielding, brass-bound air, as if he were himself the bassoon ofthe human orchestra. Young Woolwich is the type and model of ayoung drummer.   Both father and son salute the trooper heartily. He saying, in dueseason, that he has come to advise with Mr. Bagnet, Mr. Bagnethospitably declares that he will hear of no business until afterdinner and that his friend shall not partake of his counsel withoutfirst partaking of boiled pork and greens. The trooper yielding tothis invitation, he and Mr. Bagnet, not to embarrass the domesticpreparations, go forth to take a turn up and down the littlestreet, which 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 thatadvises. She has the head. But I never own to it before her.   Discipline must be maintained. Wait till the greens is off hermind. Then we'll consult. Whatever the old girl says, do--do it!""I intend to, Mat," replies the other. "I would sooner take heropinion than that of a college.""College," returns Mr. Bagnet in short sentences, bassoon-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 hometo Europe? The old girl would do it to-morrow. Did it once!""You are right," says Mr. George.   "What college," pursues Bagnet, "could you set up in life--with twopenn'orth of white lime--a penn'orth of fuller's earth--a ha'porthof 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. Bagnet, acquiescing, "saves. Has astocking somewhere. With money in it. I never saw it. But I knowshe's got it. Wait till the greens is off her mind. Then she'llset you up.""She is a treasure!" exclaims Mr. George.   "She's more. But I never own to it before her. Discipline must bemaintained. It was the old girl that brought out my musicalabilities. I should have been in the artillery now but for the oldgirl. Six years I hammered at the fiddle. Ten at the flute. Theold girl said it wouldn't do; intention good, but want offlexibility; try the bassoon. The old girl borrowed a bassoon fromthe 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 anapple.   "The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet in reply, "is a thoroughly finewoman. Consequently she is like a thoroughly fine day. Gets fineras she gets on. I never saw the old girl's equal. But I never ownto it before her. Discipline must be maintained!"Proceeding to converse on indifferent matters, they walk up anddown the little street, keeping step and time, until summoned byQuebec and Malta to do justice to the pork and greens, over whichMrs. Bagnet, like a military chaplain, says a short grace. In thedistribution of these comestibles, as in every other householdduty, Mrs. Bagnet developes an exact system, sitting with everydish before her, allotting to every portion of pork its own portionof pot-liquor, greens, potatoes, and even mustard, and serving itout complete. Having likewise served out the beer from a can andthus supplied the mess with all things necessary, Mrs. Bagnetproceeds to satisfy her own hunger, which is in a healthy state.   The kit of the mess, if the table furniture may be so denominated,is chiefly composed of utensils of horn and tin that have done dutyin several parts of the world. Young Woolwich's knife, inparticular, which is of the oyster kind, with the additionalfeature of a strong shutting-up movement which frequently balks theappetite of that young musician, is mentioned as having gone invarious hands the complete round of foreign service.   The dinner done, Mrs. Bagnet, assisted by the younger branches (whopolish their own cups and platters, knives and forks), makes allthe dinner garniture shine as brightly as before and puts it allaway, first sweeping the hearth, to the end that Mr. Bagnet and thevisitor may not be retarded in the smoking of their pipes. Thesehousehold cares involve much pattening and counter-pattening in thebackyard and considerable use of a pail, which is finally so happyas to assist in the ablutions of Mrs. Bagnet herself. That oldgirl reappearing by and by, quite fresh, and sitting down to herneedlework, then and only then--the greens being only then to beconsidered as entirely off her mind--Mr. Bagnet requests thetrooper to state his case.   This Mr. George does with great discretion, appearing to addresshimself to Mr. Bagnet, but having an eye solely on the old girl allthe time, as Bagnet has himself. She, equally discreet, busiesherself with her needlework. The case fully stated, Mr. Bagnetresorts 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 George, "entirely by it.""Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "give 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 toodeep for him and cannot be too careful of interference with mattershe does not understand--that the plain rule is to do nothing in thedark, to be a party to nothing underhanded or mysterious, and neverto put his foot where he cannot see the ground. This, in effect,is Mr. Bagnet's opinion, as delivered through the old girl, and itso relieves Mr. George's mind by confirming his own opinion andbanishing his doubts that he composes himself to smoke another pipeon that exceptional occasion and to have a talk over old times withthe whole Bagnet family, according to their various ranges ofexperience.   Through these means it comes to pass that Mr. George does not againrise to his full height in that parlour until the time is drawingon when the bassoon and fife are expected by a British public atthe theatre; and as it takes time even then for Mr. George, in hisdomestic character of Bluffy, to take leave of Quebec and Malta andinsinuate a sponsorial shilling into the pocket of his godson withfelicitations on his success in life, it is dark when Mr. Georgeagain turns his face towards Lincoln's Inn Fields.   "A family home," he ruminates as he marches along, "however smallit is, makes a man like me look lonely. But it's well I never madethat evolution of matrimony. I shouldn't have been fit for it. Iam such a vagabond still, even at my present time of life, that Icouldn't hold to the gallery a month together if it was a regularpursuit or if I didn't camp there, gipsy fashion. Come! Idisgrace nobody and cumber nobody; that's something. I have notdone that for many a long year!"So he whistles it off and marches on.   Arrived in Lincoln's Inn Fields and mounting Mr. Tulkinghorn'sstair, he finds the outer door closed and the chambers shut, butthe trooper not knowing much about outer doors, and the staircasebeing dark besides, he is yet fumbling and groping about, hoping todiscover a bell-handle or to open the door for himself, when Mr.   Tulkinghorn comes up the stairs (quietly, of course) and angrilyasks, "Who 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 thetrooper, rather 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 theman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, opening his door with the key, "inwhose hiding-place Mr. Gridley was found?""Yes, I AM the man," says the trooper, stopping two or three stairsdown. "What then, sir?""What then? I don't like your associates. You should not haveseen the inside of my door this morning if I had thought of yourbeing that man. Gridley? A threatening, murderous, dangerousfellow."With these words, spoken in an unusually high tone for him, thelawyer goes into his rooms and shuts the door with a thunderingnoise.   Mr. George takes his dismissal in great dudgeon, the greaterbecause a clerk coming up the stairs has heard the last words ofall and evidently applies them to him. "A pretty character tobear," the trooper growls with a hasty oath as he stridesdownstairs. "A threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow!" Andlooking up, he sees the clerk looking down at him and marking himas he passes a lamp. This so intensifies his dudgeon that for fiveminutes he is in an ill humour. But he whistles that off like therest of it and marches home to the shooting gallery. Chapter 28 The Ironmaster Sir Leicester Dedlock has got the better, for the time being, ofthe family gout and is once more, in a literal no less than in afigurative point of view, upon his legs. He is at his place inLincolnshire; but the waters are out again on the low-lyinggrounds, and the cold and damp steal into Chesney Wold, though welldefended, and eke into Sir Leicester's bones. The blazing fires offaggot and coal--Dedlock timber and antediluvian forest--that blazeupon the broad wide hearths and wink in the twilight on thefrowning woods, sullen to see how trees are sacrificed, do notexclude the enemy. The hot-water pipes that trail themselves allover the house, the cushioned doors and windows, and the screensand curtains fail to supply the fires' deficiencies and to satisfySir Leicester's need. Hence the fashionable intelligence proclaimsone morning to the listening earth that Lady Dedlock is expectedshortly to return to town for a few weeks.   It is a melancholy truth that even great men have their poorrelations. Indeed great men have often more than their fair shareof poor relations, inasmuch as very red blood of the superiorquality, like inferior blood unlawfully shed, WILL cry aloud andWILL be heard. Sir Leicester's cousins, in the remotest degree,are so many murders in the respect that they "will out." Amongwhom there are cousins who are so poor that one might almost dareto think it would have been the happier for them never to have beenplated links upon the Dedlock chain of gold, but to have been madeof common iron at first and done base service.   Service, however (with a few limited reservations, genteel but notprofitable), they may not do, being of the Dedlock dignity. Sothey visit their richer cousins, and get into debt when they can,and live but shabbily when they can't, and find--the women nohusbands, and the men no wives--and ride in borrowed carriages, andsit at feasts that are never of their own making, and so go throughhigh life. The rich family sum has been divided by so manyfigures, and they are the something over that nobody knows what todo with.   Everybody on Sir Leicester Dedlock's side of the question and ofhis way of thinking would appear to be his cousin more or less.   From my Lord Boodle, through the Duke of Foodle, down to Noodle,Sir Leicester, like a glorious spider, stretches his threads ofrelationship. But while he is stately in the cousinship of theEverybodys, he is a kind and generous man, according to hisdignified way, in the cousinship of the Nobodys; and at the presenttime, in despite of the damp, he stays out the visit of severalsuch cousins at Chesney Wold with the constancy of a martyr.   Of these, foremost in the front rank stands Volumnia Dedlock, ayoung lady (of sixty) who is doubly highly related, having thehonour to be a poor relation, by the mother's side, to anothergreat family. Miss Volumnia, displaying in early life a prettytalent for cutting ornaments out of coloured paper, and also forsinging to the guitar in the Spanish tongue, and propounding Frenchconundrums in country houses, passed the twenty years of herexistence between twenty and forty in a sufficiently agreeablemanner. Lapsing then out of date and being considered to boremankind by her vocal performances in the Spanish language, sheretired to Bath, where she lives slenderly on an annual presentfrom Sir Leicester and whence she makes occasional resurrections inthe country houses of her cousins. She has an extensiveacquaintance at Bath among appalling old gentlemen with thin legsand nankeen trousers, and is of high standing in that dreary city.   But she is a little dreaded elsewhere in consequence of anindiscreet profusion in the article of rouge and persistency in anobsolete pearl necklace like a rosary of little bird's-eggs.   In any country in a wholesome state, Volumnia would be a clear casefor the pension list. Efforts have been made to get her on it, andwhen William Buffy came in, it was fully expected that her namewould be put down for a couple of hundred a year. But WilliamBuffy somehow discovered, contrary to all expectation, that thesewere not the times when it could be done, and this was the firstclear indication Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed to him that thecountry was going to pieces.   There is likewise the Honourable Bob Stables, who can make warmmashes with the skill of a veterinary surgeon and is a better shotthan most gamekeepers. He has been for some time particularlydesirous 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 aspirited young gentleman so highly connected would be speedilyrecognized, but somehow William Buffy found when he came in thatthese were not times in which he could manage that little mattereither, and this was the second indication Sir Leicester Dedlockhad conveyed to him that the country was going to pieces.   The rest of the cousins are ladies and gentlemen of various agesand capacities, the major part amiable and sensible and likely tohave done well enough in life if they could have overcome theircousinship; as it is, they are almost all a little worsted by it,and lounge in purposeless and listless paths, and seem to be quiteas much at a loss how to dispose of themselves as anybody else canbe how to dispose of them.   In this society, and where not, my Lady Dedlock reigns supreme.   Beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and powerful in her little world(for the world of fashion does not stretch ALL the way from pole topole), her influence in Sir Leicester's house, however haughty andindifferent her manner, is greatly to improve it and refine it.   The cousins, even those older cousins who were paralysed when SirLeicester married her, do her feudal homage; and the Honourable BobStables daily repeats to some chosen person between breakfast andlunch his favourite original remark, that she is the best-groomedwoman in the whole stud.   Such the guests in the long drawing-room at Chesney Wold thisdismal night when the step on the Ghost's Walk (inaudible here,however) might be the step of a deceased cousin shut out in thecold. It is near bed-time. Bedroom fires blaze brightly all overthe house, raising ghosts of grim furniture on wall and ceiling.   Bedroom candlesticks bristle on the distant table by the door, andcousins yawn on ottomans. Cousins at the piano, cousins at thesoda-water tray, cousins rising from the card-table, cousinsgathered round the fire. Standing on one side of his own peculiarfire (for there are two), Sir Leicester. On the opposite side ofthe broad hearth, my Lady at her table. Volumnia, as one of themore privileged cousins, in a luxurious chair between them. SirLeicester glancing, with magnificent displeasure, at the rouge andthe pearl necklace.   "I occasionally meet on my staircase here," drawls Volumnia, whosethoughts perhaps are already hopping up it to bed, after a longevening of very desultory talk, "one of the prettiest girls, Ithink, 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 pickedthat girl out. She really is a marvel. A dolly sort of beautyperhaps," says Miss Volumnia, reserving her own sort, "but in itsway, perfect; such bloom I never saw!"Sir Leicester, with his magnificent glance of displeasure at therouge, appears to say so too.   "Indeed," remarks my Lady languidly, "if there is any uncommon eyein the case, it is Mrs. Rouncewell's, and not mine. Rosa is herdiscovery.""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 aflower, or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle--no, not a poodle,though--or anything else that was equally pretty?" says Volumnia,sympathizing. "Yes, how charming now! And how well thatdelightful old soul Mrs. Rouncewell is looking. She must be animmense age, and yet she is as active and handsome! She is thedearest friend I have, positively!"Sir Leicester feels it to be right and fitting that the housekeeperof Chesney Wold should be a remarkable person. Apart from that, hehas a real regard for Mrs. Rouncewell and likes to hear herpraised. So he says, "You are right, Volumnia," which Volumnia isextremely glad to hear.   "She has no daughter of her own, has she?""Mrs. Rouncewell? No, Volumnia. She has a son. Indeed, she hadtwo."My Lady, whose chronic malady of boredom has been sadly aggravatedby Volumnia this evening, glances wearily towards the candlesticksand heaves a noiseless sigh.   "And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which thepresent age has fallen; of the obliteration of landmarks, theopening of floodgates, and the uprooting of distinctions," says SirLeicester with stately gloom, "that I have been informed by Mr.   Tulkinghorn that Mrs. Rouncewell's son has been invited to go intoParliament."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 itslowly and with gravity and doubt, as not being sure but that he iscalled a lead-mistress or that the right word may be some otherword 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. Tulkinghornbeing always correct and exact; still that does not," says SirLeicester, "that does not lessen the anomaly, which is fraught withstrange considerations--startling considerations, as it appears tome."Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wards, Sir Leicesterpolitely performs the grand tour of the drawing-room, brings one,and lights it at my Lady's shaded lamp.   "I must beg you, my Lady," he says while doing so, "to remain a fewmoments, for this individual of whom I speak arrived this eveningshortly before dinner and requested in a very becoming note"--SirLeicester, with his habitual regard to truth, dwells upon it--"I ambound to say, in a very becoming and well-expressed note, thefavour of a short interview with yourself and MYself on the subjectof this young girl. As it appeared that he wished to depart to-night, I replied that we would see him before retiring."Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight, wishing herhosts--O Lud!--well rid of the--what is it?--ironmaster!   The other cousins soon disperse, to the last cousin there. SirLeicester rings the bell, "Make my compliments to Mr. Rouncewell,in the housekeeper's apartments, and say I can receive him now."My Lady, who has beard all this with slight attention outwardly,looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in. He is a little overfifty perhaps, of a good figure, like his mother, and has a clearvoice, a broad forehead from which his dark hair has retired, and ashrewd though open face. He is a responsible-looking gentlemandressed in black, portly enough, but strong and active. Has aperfectly natural and easy air and is not in the least embarrassedby the great presence into which he comes.   "Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, as I have already apologized forintruding on you, I cannot do better than be very brief. I thankyou, Sir Leicester."The head of the Dedlocks has motioned towards a sofa betweenhimself and my Lady. Mr. Rouncewell quietly takes his seat there.   "In these busy times, when so many great undertakings are inprogress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many placesthat we are always on the flight."Sir Leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should feelthat there is no hurry there; there, in that ancient house, rootedin that quiet park, where the ivy and the moss have had time tomature, and the gnarled and warted elms and the umbrageous oaksstand deep in the fern and leaves of a hundred years; and where thesun-dial on the terrace has dumbly recorded for centuries that timewhich 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 restlessflights of ironmasters.   "Lady Dedlock has been so kind," proceeds Mr. Rouncewell with arespectful glance and a bow that way, "as to place near her a youngbeauty of the name of Rosa. Now, my son has fallen in love withRosa and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her andto their becoming engaged if she will take him--which I suppose shewill. I have never seen Rosa until to-day, but I have someconfidence in my son's good sense--even in love. I find her whathe represents her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaksof 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 commenton the value to me of your kind opinion of her.""That," observes Sir Leicester with unspeakable grandeur, for hethinks the ironmaster a little too glib, "must be quiteunnecessary.""Quite unnecessary, Sir Leicester. Now, my son is a very youngman, and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made my way, so my sonmust make his; and his being married at present is out of thequestion. But supposing I gave my consent to his engaging himselfto this pretty girl, if this pretty girl will engage herself tohim, I think it a piece of candour to say at once--I am sure, SirLeicester and Lady Dedlock, you will understand and excuse me--Ishould make it a condition that she did not remain at Chesney Wold.   Therefore, before communicating further with my son, I take theliberty of saying that if her removal would be in any wayinconvenient or objectionable, I will hold the matter over with himfor any reasonable time and leave it precisely where it is."Not remain at Chesney Wold! Make it a condition! All SirLeicester's old misgivings relative to Wat Tyler and the people inthe iron districts who do nothing but turn out by torchlight comein a shower upon his head, the fine grey hair of which, as well asof his whiskers, actually stirs with indignation.   "Am I to understand, sir," says Sir Leicester, "and is my Lady tounderstand"--he brings her in thus specially, first as a point ofgallantry, and next as a point of prudence, having great relianceon her sense--"am I to understand, Mr. Rouncewell, and is my Ladyto understand, sir, that you consider this young woman too good forChesney 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 Lady, warning Sir Leicester offwith the slightest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he were a fly,"explain to me what you mean.""Willingly, Lady Dedlock. There is nothing I could desire more."Addressing her composed face, whose intelligence, however, is tooquick and active to be concealed by any studied impassiveness,however habitual, to the strong Saxon face of the visitor, apicture of resolution and perseverance, my Lady listens withattention, occasionally slightly bending her head.   "I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and passed mychildhood about this house. My mother has lived here half acentury and will die here I have no doubt. She is one of thoseexamples--perhaps as good a one as there is--of love, andattachment, and fidelity in such a nation, which England may wellbe proud of, but of which no order can appropriate the whole prideor the whole merit, because such an instance bespeaks high worth ontwo sides--on the great side assuredly, on the small one no lessassuredly."Sir Leicester snorts a little to hear the law laid down in thisway, but in his honour and his love of truth, he freely, thoughsilently, admits the justice of the ironmaster's proposition.   "Pardon me for saying what is so obvious, but I wouldn't have ithastily supposed," with the least turn of his eyes towards SirLeicester, "that I am ashamed of my mother's position here, orwanting in all just respect for Chesney Wold and the family. Icertainly may have desired--I certainly have desired, Lady Dedlock--that my mother should retire after so many years and end her dayswith me. But as I have found that to sever this strong bond wouldbe 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 dayswith an ironmaster.   "I have been," proceeds the visitor in a modest, clear way, "anapprentice and a workman. I have lived on workman's wages, yearsand years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate myself.   My wife was a foreman's daughter, and plainly brought up. We havethree daughters besides this son of whom I have spoken, and beingfortunately able to give them greater advantages than we have hadourselves, we have educated them well, very well. It has been oneof our great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of anystation."A little boastfulness in his fatherly tone here, as if he added inhis heart, "even of the Chesney Wold station." Not a little moremagnificence, therefore, on the part of Sir Leicester.   "All this is so frequent, Lady Dedlock, where I live, and among theclass to which I belong, that what would be generally calledunequal marriages are not of such rare occurrence with us aselsewhere. A son will sometimes make it known to his father thathe has fallen in love, say, with a young woman in the factory. Thefather, who once worked in a factory himself, will be a littledisappointed at first very possibly. It may be that he had otherviews for his son. However, the chances are that havingascertained the young woman to be of unblemished character, he willsay 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 havethis girl educated for two years,' or it may be, 'I shall placethis 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 onlyso often. If at the expiration of that time, when she has so farprofited 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 youhappy.' I know of several cases such as I describe, my Lady, and Ithink they indicate to me my own course now."Sir Leicester's magnificence explodes. Calmly, but terribly.   "Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester with his right hand in thebreast of his blue coat, the attitude of state in which he ispainted in the gallery, "do you draw a parallel between ChesneyWold and a--" Here he resists a disposition to choke, "a factory?""I need not reply, Sir Leicester, that the two places are verydifferent; but for the purposes of this case, I think a parallelmay be justly drawn between them."Sir Leicester directs his majestic glance down one side of the longdrawing-room and up the other before he can believe that he isawake.   "Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Lady--my Lady--has placed near her person was brought up at the village schooloutside 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 Leicester, "the application ofwhat you have said is, to me, incomprehensible.""Will it be more comprehensible, Sir Leicester, if I say," theironmaster is reddening a little, "that I do not regard the villageschool as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son'swife?"From the village school of Chesney Wold, intact as it is thisminute, to the whole framework of society; from the whole frameworkof society, to the aforesaid framework receiving tremendous cracksin consequence of people (iron-masters, lead-mistresses, and whatnot) not minding their catechism, and getting out of the stationunto which they are called--necessarily and for ever, according toSir Leicester's rapid logic, the first station in which they happento find themselves; and from that, to their educating other peopleout of THEIR stations, and so obliterating the landmarks, andopening the floodgates, and all the rest of it; this is the swiftprogress of the Dedlock mind.   "My Lady, I beg your pardon. Permit me, for one moment!" She hasgiven a faint indication of intending to speak. "Mr. Rouncewell,our views of duty, and our views of station, and our views ofeducation, and our views of--in short, ALL our views--are sodiametrically opposed, that to prolong this discussion must berepellent to your feelings and repellent to my own. This youngwoman is honoured with my Lady's notice and favour. If she wishesto withdraw herself from that notice and favour or if she choosesto place herself under the influence of any one who may in hispeculiar opinions--you will allow me to say, in his peculiaropinions, though I readily admit that he is not accountable forthem to me--who may, in his peculiar opinions, withdraw her fromthat notice and favour, she is at any time at liberty to do so. Weare obliged to you for the plainness with which you have spoken.   It will have no effect of itself, one way or other, on the youngwoman's position here. Beyond this, we can make no terms; and herewe beg--if you will be so good--to leave the subject."The visitor pauses a moment to give my Lady an opportunity, but shesays nothing. He then rises and replies, "Sir Leicester and LadyDedlock, allow me to thank you for your attention and only toobserve that I shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer hispresent inclinations. Good night!""Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester with all the nature of agentleman shining in him, "it is late, and the roads are dark. Ihope your time is not so precious but that you will allow my Ladyand myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for to-night at least.""I hope so," adds my Lady.   "I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night in orderto reach a distant part of the country punctually at an appointedtime in the morning."Therewith the ironmaster takes his departure, Sir Leicester ringingthe bell and my Lady rising as he leaves the room.   When my Lady goes to her boudoir, she sits down thoughtfully by thefire, and inattentive to the Ghost's Walk, looks at Rosa, writingin an inner room. Presently my Lady calls her.   "Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in love?""Oh! My Lady!"My Lady, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says 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 lovewith 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 intotears.   Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beauty, smoothingher dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with eyesso full of musing interest? Aye, indeed it is!   "Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I believe youare attached to me.""Indeed I am, my Lady. Indeed there is nothing in the world Iwouldn't do to show how much.""And I don't think you would wish to leave me just yet, Rosa, evenfor a lover?""No, my Lady! Oh, no!" Rosa looks up for the first time, quitefrightened 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."Rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand. MyLady takes the hand with which she has caught it, and standing withher eyes fixed on the fire, puts it about and about between her owntwo hands, and 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 more, of any hand thatnever was, of any touch that might have magically changed her life?   Or does she listen to the Ghost's Walk and think what step does itmost resemble? A man's? A woman's? The pattering of a littlechild's feet, ever coming on--on--on? Some melancholy influence isupon her, or why should so proud a lady close the doors and sitalone upon the hearth so desolate?   Volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered beforedinner. Not a cousin of the batch but is amazed to hear from SirLeicester at breakfast-time of the obliteration of landmarks, andopening of floodgates, and cracking of the framework of society,manifested through Mrs. Rouncewell's son. Not a cousin of thebatch but is really indignant, and connects it with the feeblenessof William Buffy when in office, and really does feel deprived of astake in the country--or the pension list--or something--by fraudand wrong. As to Volumnia, she is handed down the great staircaseby Sir Leicester, as eloquent upon the theme as if there were ageneral rising in the north of England to obtain her rouge-pot andpearl necklace. And thus, with a clatter of maids and valets--forit is one appurtenance of their cousinship that however difficultthey may find it to keep themselves, they MUST keep maids andvalets--the cousins disperse to the four winds of heaven; and theone wintry wind that blows to-day shakes a shower from the treesnear the deserted house, as if all the cousins had been changedinto leaves. Chapter 29 The Young Man Chesney Wold is shut up, carpets are rolled into great scrolls incorners of comfortless rooms, bright damask does penance in brownholland, carving and gilding puts on mortification, and the Dedlockancestors retire from the light of day again. Around and aroundthe house the leaves fall thick, but never fast, for they comecircling down with a dead lightness that is sombre and slow. Letthe gardener sweep and sweep the turf as he will, and press theleaves into full barrows, and wheel them off, still they lie ankle-deep. Howls the shrill wind round Chesney Wold; the sharp rainbeats, the windows rattle, and the chimneys growl. Mists hide inthe avenues, veil the points of view, and move in funeral-wiseacross the rising grounds. On all the house there is a cold, blanksmell like the smell of a little church, though something dryer,suggesting that the dead and buried Dedlocks walk there in the longnights and leave the flavour of their graves behind them.   But the house in town, which is rarely in the same mind as ChesneyWold at the same time, seldom rejoicing when it rejoices ormourning when it mourns, expecting when a Dedlock dies--the housein town shines out awakened. As warm and bright as so much statemay be, as delicately redolent of pleasant scents that bear notrace of winter as hothouse flowers can make it, soft and hushed sothat the ticking of the clocks and the crisp burning of the firesalone disturb the stillness in the rooms, it seems to wrap thosechilled bones of Sir Leicester's in rainbow-coloured wool. And SirLeicester is glad to repose in dignified contentment before thegreat fire in the library, condescendingly perusing the backs ofhis books or honouring the fine arts with a glance of approbation.   For he has his pictures, ancient and modern. Some of the FancyBall School in which art occasionally condescends to become amaster, which would be best catalogued like the miscellaneousarticles in a sale. As '"Three high-backed chairs, a table andcover, long-necked bottle (containing wine), one flask, one Spanishfemale's costume, three-quarter face portrait of Miss Jogg themodel, and a suit of armour containing Don Quixote." Or "One stoneterrace (cracked), one gondola in distance, one Venetian senator'sdress complete, richly embroidered white satin costume with profileportrait of Miss Jogg the model, one Scimitar superbly mounted ingold with jewelled handle, elaborate Moorish dress (very rare), andOthello."Mr. Tulkinghorn comes and goes pretty often, there being estatebusiness to do, leases to be renewed, and so on. He sees my Ladypretty often, too; and he and she are as composed, and asindifferent, and take as little heed of one another, as ever. Yetit may be that my Lady fears this Mr. Tulkinghorn and that he knowsit. It may be that he pursues her doggedly and steadily, with notouch of compunction, remorse, or pity. It may be that her beautyand all the state and brilliancy surrounding her only gives him thegreater zest for what he is set upon and makes him the moreinflexible in it. Whether he be cold and cruel, whether immovablein what he has made his duty, whether absorbed in love of power,whether determined to have nothing hidden from him in ground wherehe has burrowed among secrets all his life, whether he in his heartdespises the splendour of which he is a distant beam, whether he isalways treasuring up slights and offences in the affability of hisgorgeous clients--whether he be any of this, or all of this, it maybe that my Lady had better have five thousand pairs of fashionahleeyes upon her, in distrustful vigilance, than the two eyes of thisrusty lawyer with his wisp of neckcloth and his dull black breechestied 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 Lady, as on that day, sits before thefire with her screen in her hand. Sir Leicester is particularlycomplacent because he has found in his newspaper some congenialremarks bearing directly on the floodgates and the framework ofsociety. They apply so happily to the late case that Sir Leicesterhas come from the library to my Lady's room expressly to read themaloud. "The man who wrote this article," he observes by way ofpreface, nodding at the fire as if he were nodding down at the manfrom a mount, "has a well-balanced mind."The man's mind is not so well balanced but that he bores my Lady,who, after a languid effort to listen, or rather a languidresignation of herself to a show of listening, becomes distraughtand falls into a contemplation of the fire as if it were her fireat Chesney Wold, and she had never left it. Sir Leicester, quiteunconscious, reads on through his double eye-glass, occasionallystopping to remove his glass and express approval, as "Very trueindeed," "Very properly put," "I have frequently made the sameremark 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 thedoor opens, and the Mercury in powder makes this strangeannouncement, "The young man, my Lady, of the name of Guppy."Sir Leicester pauses, stares, repeats in a killing voice, "Theyoung man of the name of Guppy?"Looking round, he beholds the young man of the name of Guppy, muchdiscomfited and not presenting a very impressive letter ofintroduction in his manner and appearance.   "Pray," says Sir Leicester to Mercury, "what do you mean byannouncing with this abruptness a young man of the name of Guppy?""I beg your pardon, Sir Leicester, but my Lady said she would seethe young man whenever he called. I was not aware that you werehere, Sir Leicester."With this apology, Mercury directs a scornful and indignant look atthe young man of the name of Guppy which plainly says, "What do youcome 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 willnot interrupt you." Sir Leicester in his gallantry retires, ratherdeclining to accept a bow from the young man as he goes out andmajestically supposing him to be some shoemaker of intrusiveappearance.   Lady Dedlock looks imperiously at her visitor when the servant hasleft the room, casting her eyes over him from head to foot. Shesuffers him to stand by the door and asks him what he wants.   "That your ladyship would have the kindness to oblige me with alittle conversation," returns Mr. Guppy, embarrassed.   "You are, of course, the person who has written me so manyletters?""Several, your ladyship. Several before your ladyship condescendedto favour me with an answer.""And could you not take the same means of rendering a Conversationunnecessary? 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, afterall, that what you have to say does not concern me--and I don'tknow how it can, and don't expect that it will--you will allow meto cut you short with but little ceremony. Say what you have tosay, if you please."My Lady, with a careless toss of her screen, turns herself towardsthe fire again, sitting almost with her back to the young man ofthe name of Guppy.   "With your ladyship's permission, then," says the young man, "Iwill now enter on my business. Hem! I am, as I told your ladyshipin my first letter, in the law. Being in the law, I have learntthe habit of not committing myself in writing, and therefore I didnot mention to your ladyship the name of the firm with which I amconnected and in which my standing--and I may add income--istolerably 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 connexionwith the case in Chancery of Jarndyce and Jarndyce."My Lady's figure begins to be expressive of some attention. Shehas ceased to toss the screen and holds it as if she werelistening.   "Now, I may say to your ladyship at once," says Mr. Guppy, a littleemboldened, "it is no matter arising out of Jarndyce and Jarndycethat made me so desirous to speak to your ladyship, which conduct Ihave no doubt did appear, and does appear, obtrusive--in fact,almost blackguardly."After waiting for a moment to receive some assurance to thecontrary, and not receiving any, Mr. Guppy proceeds, "If it hadbeen Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I should have gone at once to yourladyship's solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, of the Fields. I have thepleasure of being acquainted with Mr. Tulkinghorn--at least we movewhen we meet one another--and if it had been any business of thatsort, I should have gone to him."My Lady turns a little round and says, "You had better sit down.""Thank your ladyship." Mr. Guppy does so. "Now, your ladyship"--Mr. Guppy refers to a little slip of paper on which he has madesmall notes of his line of argument and which seems to involve himin the densest obscurity whenever he looks at it--"I--Oh, yes!--Iplace myself entirely in your ladyship's hands. If your ladyshipwas to make any complaint to Kenge and Carboy or to Mr. Tulkinghornof the present visit, I should be placed in a very disagreeablesituation. That, I openly admit. Consequently, I rely upon yourladyship's honour."My Lady, with a disdainful gesture of the hand that holds thescreen, assures 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 theorder of the points I thought of touching upon, and they're writtenshort, and I can't quite make out what they mean. If your ladyshipwill excuse me taking it to the window half a moment, I--"Mr. Guppy, going to the window, tumbles into a pair of love-birds,to whom he says in his confusion, "I beg your pardon, I am sure."This does not tend to the greater legibility of his notes. Hemurmurs, growing warm and red and holding the slip of paper nowclose to his eyes, now a long way off, "C.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. Guppy, standing midway between my Ladyand his chair, "whether your ladyship ever happened to hear of, orto 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 namenot long ago. This past autumn.""Now, did it strike your ladyship that she was like anybody?" asksMr. Guppy, crossing his arms, holding his head on one side, andscratching 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. Guppy, "can hardly remember MissSummerson's face?""I remember the young lady very well. What has this to do withme?""Your ladyship, I do assure you that having Miss Summerson's imageimprinted on my 'eart--which I mention in confidence--I found, whenI had the honour of going over your ladyship's mansion of ChesneyWold while on a short out in the county of Lincolnshire with afriend, such a resemblance between Miss Esther Summerson and yourladyship's own portrait that it completely knocked me over, so muchso that I didn't at the moment even know what it WAS that knockedme over. And now I have the honour of beholding your ladyship near(I have often, since that, taken the liberty of looking at yourladyship in your carriage in the park, when I dare say you was notaware of me, but I never saw your ladyship so near), it's reallymore surprising than I thought it."Young man of the name of Guppy! There have been times, when ladieslived in strongholds and had unscrupulous attendants within call,when that poor life of yours would NOT have been worth a minute'spurchase, with those beautiful eyes looking at you as they look atthis moment.   My Lady, slowly using her little hand-screen as a fan, asks himagain what he supposes that his taste for likenesses has to do withher.   "Your ladyship," replies Mr. Guppy, again 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 himselfagain. My Lady reclines in her chair composedly, though with atrifle less of graceful ease than usual perhaps, and never faltersin her steady gaze. "A--stop a minute, though!" Mr. Guppy refersagain. "E.S. twice? Oh, yes! Yes, I see my way now, right on."Rolling up the slip of paper as an instrument to point his speechwith, Mr. Guppy proceeds.   "Your ladyship, there is a mystery about Miss Esther Summerson'sbirth and bringing up. I am informed of that fact because--which Imention in confidence--I know it in the way of my profession atKenge and Carboy's. Now, as I have already mentioned to yourladyship, Miss Summerson's image is imprinted on my 'eart. If Icould clear this mystery for her, or prove her to be well related,or find that having the honour to be a remote branch of yourladyship's family she had a right to be made a party in Jarndyceand Jarndyce, why, I might make a sort of a claim upon MissSummerson to look with an eye of more dedicated favour on myproposals than she has exactly done as yet. In fact, as yet shehasn'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.   Guppy, "though one of those circumstances that do fall in the wayof us professional men--which I may call myself, for though notadmitted, yet I have had a present of my articles made to me byKenge and Carboy, on my mother's advancing from the principal ofher little income the money for the stamp, which comes heavy--thatI have encountered the person who lived as servant with the ladywho brought Miss Summerson up before Mr. Jarndyce took charge ofher. That lady was a Miss Barbary, your ladyship."Is the dead colour on my Lady's face reflected from the screenwhich has a green silk ground and which she holds in her raisedhand as if she had forgotten it, or is it a dreadful paleness thathas fallen on her?   "Did your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "ever happen to hear of MissBarbary?""I don't know. I think so. Yes.""Was Miss Barbary at all connected with your ladyship's family?"My Lady's lips move, but they utter nothing. She shakes her head.   "NOT connected?" says Mr. Guppy. "Oh! Not to your ladyship'sknowledge, perhaps? Ah! But might be? Yes." After each of theseinterrogatories, she has inclined her head. "Very good! Now, thisMiss Barbary was extremely close--seems to have beenextraordinarily close for a female, females being generally (incommon life at least) rather given to conversation--and my witnessnever had an idea whether she possessed a single relative. On oneoccasion, and only one, she seems to have been confidential to mywitness on a single point, and she then told her that the littlegirl's real name was not Esther Summerson, but Esther Hawdon.""My God!"Mr. Guppy stares. Lady Dedlock sits before him looking himthrough, with the same dark shade upon her face, in the sameattitude even to the holding of the screen, with her lips a littleapart, her brow a little contracted, but for the moment dead. Hesees her consciousness return, sees a tremor pass across her framelike a ripple over water, sees her lips shake, sees her composethem by a great effort, sees her force herself back to theknowledge of his presence and of what he has said. All this, soquickly, that her exclamation and her dead condition seem to havepassed away like the features of those long-preserved dead bodiessometimes opened up in tombs, which, struck by the air likelightning, vanish 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'sfamily?""No.""Now, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "I come to the last point ofthe case, so far as I have got it up. It's going on, and I shallgather it up closer and closer as it goes on. Your ladyship mustknow--if your ladyship don't happen, by any chance, to knowalready--that there was found dead at the house of a person namedKrook, near Chancery Lane, some time ago, a law-writer in greatdistress. Upon which law-writer there was an inquest, and whichlaw-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, aqueer thing happened after that man's death. A lady started up, adisguised lady, your ladyship, who went to look at the scene ofaction and went to look at his grave. She hired a crossing-sweeping boy to show it her. If your ladyship would wish to havethe boy produced in corroboration of this statement, I can lay myhand upon him at any time."The wretched boy is nothing to my Lady, and she does NOT wish tohave him produced.   "Oh, I assure your ladyship it's a very queer start indeed," saysMr. Guppy. "If you was to hear him tell about the rings thatsparkled on her fingers when she took her glove off, you'd think itquite romantic."There are diamonds glittering on the hand that holds the screen.   My Lady trifles with the screen and makes them glitter more, againwith that expression which in other times might have been sodangerous to the young man of the name of Guppy.   "It was supposed, your ladyship, that he left no rag or scrapbehind him by which he could be possibly identified. But he did.   He left a bundle of old letters."The screen still goes, as before. All this time her eyes neveronce 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 youthink there's enough in this chain of circumstances put together--in the undoubted strong likeness of this young lady to yourladyship, which is a positive fact for a jury; in her having beenbrought up by Miss Barbary; in Miss Barbary stating MissSummerson's real name to be Hawdon; in your ladyship's knowing boththese names VERY WELL; and in Hawdon's dying as he did--to giveyour ladyship a family interest in going further into the case, Iwill bring these papers here. I don't know what they are, exceptthat they are old letters: I have never had them in my posessionyet. I will bring those papers here as soon as I get them and goover them for the first time with your ladyship. I have told yourladyship my object. I have told your ladyship that I should beplaced 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 Guppy, orhas he any other? Do his words disclose the length, breadth,depth, of his object and suspicion in coming here; or if not, whatdo they hide? He is a match for my Lady there. She may look athim, but he can look at the table and keep that witness-box face ofhis from telling anything.   "You may bring the letters," says my Lady, "if you choose.""Your ladyship is not very encouraging, upon my word and honour,"says Mr. Guppy, a little injured.   "You may bring the letters," she repeats in the same tone, "if you--please.""It shall he done. I wish your ladyship good day."On a table near her is a rich bauble of a casket, barred andclasped like an old strong-chest. She, looking at him still, takesit to her and unlocks it.   "Oh! I assure your ladyship I am not actuated by any motives ofthat sort," says Mr. Guppy, "and I couldn't accept anything of thekind. I wish your ladyship good day, and am much obliged to youall the same."So the young man makes his bow and goes downstairs, where thesupercilious Mercury does not consider himself called upon to leavehis 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 him, not to say tomake the very trees at Chesney Wold fling up their knotted arms,the very portraits frown, the very armour stir?   No. Words, sobs, and cries are but air, and air is so shut in andshut out throughout the house in town that sounds need be utteredtrumpet-tongued indeed by my Lady in her chamber to carry any faintvibration to Sir Leicester's ears; and yet this cry is in thehouse, going upward from a wild figure on its knees.   "O my child, my child! Not dead in the first hours of her life, asmy cruel sister told me, but sternly nurtured by her, after she hadrenounced me and my name! O my child, O my child!" Chapter 30 Esther's Narrative Richard had been gone away some time when a visitor came to pass afew days with us. It was an elderly lady. It was Mrs. Woodcourt,who, having come from Wales to stay with Mrs. Bayham Badger andhaving written to my guardian, "by her son Allan's desire," toreport that she had heard from him and that he was well "and senthis kind remembrances to all of us," had been invited by myguardian to make a visit to Bleak House. She stayed with us nearlythree weeks. She took very kindly to me and was extremelyconfidential, so much so that sometimes she almost made meuncomfortable. I had no right, I knew very well, to beuncomfortable because she confided in me, and I felt it wasunreasonable; 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 handsfolded in each other looking so very watchful while she talked tome that perhaps I found that rather irksome. Or perhaps it was herbeing so upright and trim, though I don't think it was that,because I thought that quaintly pleasant. Nor can it have been thegeneral expression of her face, which was very sparkling and prettyfor an old lady. I don't know what it was. Or at least if I donow, 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 meinto 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 quitelow-spirited! Sometimes she recited a few verses fromCrumlinwallinwer and the Mewlinn-willinwodd (if those are the rightnames, which I dare say they are not), and would become quite fierywith the sentiments they expressed. Though I never knew what theywere (being in Welsh), further than that they were highlyeulogistic of the lineage of Morgan ap-Kerrig.   "So, Miss Summerson," she would say to me with stately triumph,"this, you see, is the fortune inherited by my son. Wherever myson goes, he can claim kindred with Ap-Kerrig. He may not havemoney, but he always has what is much better--family, my dear."I had my doubts of their caring so very much for Morgan ap-Kerrigin India and China, but of course I never expressed them. I usedto say it was a great thing to be so highly connected.   "It IS, my dear, a great thing," Mrs. Woodcourt would reply. "Ithas its disadvantages; my son's choice of a wife, for instance, islimited by it, but the matrimonial choice of the royal family islimited in much the same manner."Then she would pat me on the arm and smooth my dress, as much as toassure me that she had a good opinion of me, the distance betweenus notwithstanding.   "Poor Mr. Woodcourt, my dear," she would say, and always with someemotion, for with her lofty pedigree she had a very affectionateheart, "was descended from a great Highland family, the MacCoortsof MacCoort. He served his king and country as an officer in theRoyal Highlanders, and he died on the field. My son is one of thelast representatives of two old families. With the blessing ofheaven he will set them up again and unite them with another oldfamily."It was in vain for me to try to change the subject, as I used totry, only for the sake of novelty or perhaps because--but I neednot be so particular. Mrs. Woodcourt never would let me change it.   "My dear," she said one night, "you have so much sense and you lookat the world in a quiet manner so superior to your time of lifethat it is a comfort to me to talk to you about these familymatters of mine. You don't know much of my son, my dear; but youknow 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 I, "that is so difficult!""Why is it so difficult, my dear?" she returned. "I don't see itmyself.""To give an opinion--""On so slight an acquaintance, my dear. THAT'S true."I didn't mean that, because Mr. Woodcourt had been at our house agood deal altogether and had become quite intimate with myguardian. I said so, and added that he seemed to be very clever inhis profession--we thought--and that his kindness and gentleness toMiss Flite were above all praise.   "You do him justice!" said Mrs. Woodcourt, pressing my hand. "Youdefine him exactly. Allan is a dear fellow, and in his professionfaultless. I say it, though I am his mother. Still, I mustconfess he is not without faults, love.""None of us are," said I.   "Ah! But his really are faults that he might correct, and ought tocorrect," returned the sharp old lady, sharply 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 ficklenessitself."I said I should have thought it hardly possible that he could havebeen otherwise than constant to his profession and zealous in thepursuit of it, judging from the reputation he had earned.   "You are right again, my dear," the old lady retorted, "but I don'trefer to his profession, look you.""Oh!" said I.   "No," said she. "I refer, my dear, to his social conduct. He isalways paying trivial attentions to young ladies, and always hasbeen, ever since he was eighteen. Now, my dear, he has neverreally cared for any one of them and has never meant in doing thisto do any harm or to express anything but politeness and goodnature. Still, it's not right, you know; is it?""No," said I, as 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 bemore careful, both in justice to himself and in justice to others.   And he has always said, 'Mother, I will be; but you know me betterthan anybody else does, and you know I mean no harm--in short, meannothing.' All of which is very true, my dear, but is nojustification. However, as he is now gone so far away and for anindefinite time, and as he will have good opportunities andintroductions, we may consider this past and gone. And you, mydear," said the old lady, who 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 seekhis fortune and to find a wife--when do you mean to seek YOURfortune and to find a husband, Miss Summerson? Hey, look you! Nowyou blush!"I don't think I did blush--at all events, it was not important if Idid--and I said my present fortune perfectly contented me and I hadno wish to change it.   "Shall I tell you what I always think of you and the fortune yet tocome 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 veryworthy, much older--five and twenty years, perhaps--than yourself.   And you will be an excellent wife, and much beloved, and veryhappy.""That is a good fortune," said I. "But why is it to be mine?""My dear," she returned, "there's suitability in it--you are sobusy, and so neat, and so peculiarly situated altogether thatthere's suitability in it, and it will come to pass. And nobody,my love, will congratulate you more sincerely on such a marriagethan I shall."It was curious that this should make me uncomfortable, but I thinkit did. I know it did. It made me for some part of that nightuncomfortable. I was so ashamed of my folly that I did not like toconfess it even to Ada, and that made me more uncomfortable still.   I would have given anything not to have been so much in the brightold lady's confidence if I could have possibly declined it. Itgave me the most inconsistent opinions of her. At one time Ithought she was a story-teller, and at another time that she wasthe pink of truth. Now I suspected that she was very cunning, nextmoment I believed her honest Welsh heart to be perfectly innocentand simple. And after all, what did it matter to me, and why didit matter to me? Why could not I, going up to bed with my basketof keys, stop to sit down by her fire and accommodate myself for alittle while to her, at least as well as to anybody else, and nottrouble myself about the harmless things she said to me? Impelledtowards her, as I certainly was, for I was very anxious that sheshould like me and was very glad indeed that she did, why should Iharp afterwards, with actual distress and pain, on every word shesaid and weigh it over and over again in twenty scales? Why was itso worrying to me to have her in our house, and confidential to meevery night, when I yet felt that it was better and safer somehowthat she should be there than anywhere else? These wereperplexities and contradictions that I could not account for. Atleast, if I could--but I shall come to all that by and by, and itis mere idleness to go on about it now.   So when Mrs. Woodcourt went away, I was sorry to lose her but wasrelieved too. And then Caddy Jellyby came down, and Caddy broughtsuch a packet of domestic news that it gave us abundant occupation.   First Caddy declared (and would at first declare nothing else) thatI was the best adviser that ever was known. This, my pet said, wasno news at all; and this, I said, of course, was nonsense. ThenCaddy told us that she was going to be married in a month and thatif Ada and I would be her bridesmaids, she was the happiest girl inthe world. To be sure, this was news indeed; and I thought wenever should have done talking about it, we had so much to say toCaddy, and Caddy had so much to say to us.   It seemed that Caddy's unfortunate papa had got over hisbankruptcy--"gone through the Gazette," was the expression Caddyused, as if it were a tunnel--with the general clemency andcommiseration of his creditors, and had got rid of his affairs insome blessed manner without succeeding in understanding them, andhad given up everything he possessed (which was not worth much, Ishould think, to judge from the state of the furniture), and hadsatisfied every one concerned that he could do no more, poor man.   So, he had been honourably dismissed to "the office" to begin theworld again. What he did at the office, I never knew; Caddy saidhe was a "custom-house and general agent," and the only thing Iever understood about that business was that when he wanted moneymore than usual he went to the docks to look for it, and hardlyever found it.   As soon as her papa had tranquillized his mind by becoming thisshorn lamb, and they had removed to a furnished lodging in HattonGarden (where I found the children, when I afterwards went there,cutting the horse hair out of the seats of the chairs and chokingthemselves with it), Caddy had brought about a meeting between himand old Mr. Turveydrop; and poor Mr. Jellyby, being very humble andmeek, had deferred to Mr. Turveydrop's deportment so submissivelythat 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 contemplatingthat event as being near at hand and had given his gracious consentto the young couple commencing housekeeping at the academy inNewman Street when they would.   "And your papa, Caddy. What did he say?""Oh! Poor Pa," said Caddy, "only cried and said he hoped we mightget on better than he and Ma had got on. He didn't say so beforePrince, he only said so to me. And he said, 'My poor girl, youhave 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 badbetter 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 andhear him say such terrible things, and I couldn't help cryingmyself. But I told him that I DID mean it with all my heart andthat I hoped our house would be a place for him to come and findsome comfort in of an evening and that I hoped and thought I couldbe a better daughter to him there than at home. Then I mentionedPeepy's coming to stay with me, and then Pa began to cry again andsaid the children were Indians.""Indians, Caddy?""Yes," said Caddy, "wild Indians. And Pa said"--here she began tosob, poor girl, not at all like the happiest girl in the world--"that he was sensible the best thing that could happen to them wastheir being all tomahawked together."Ada suggested that it was comfortable to know that Mr. Jellyby didnot mean these destructive sentiments.   "No, of course I know Pa wouldn't like his family to be welteringin their blood," said Caddy, "but he means that they are veryunfortunate in being Ma's children and that he is very unfortunatein being Ma's husband; and I am sure that's true, though it seemsunnatural 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 impossibleto say whether she knows it or not. She has been told it oftenenough; and when she IS told it, she only gives me a placid look,as if I was I don't know what--a steeple in the distance," saidCaddy with a sudden idea; "and then she shakes her head and says'Oh, Caddy, Caddy, what a tease you are!' and goes on with theBorrioboola letters.""And about your wardrobe, Caddy?" said I. For she was under norestraint with us.   "Well, my dear Esther,'' she returned, drying her eyes, "I must dothe best I can and trust to my dear Prince never to have an unkindremembrance of my coming so shabbily to him. If the questionconcerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would know all about it andwould be quite excited. Being what it is, she neither knows norcares."Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother,but mentioned this with tears as an undeniable fact, which I amafraid it was. We were sorry for the poor dear girl and found somuch to admire in the good disposition which had survived undersuch discouragement that we both at once (I mean Ada and I)proposed a little scheme that made her perfectly joyful. This washer staying with us for three weeks, my staying with her for one,and our all three contriving and cutting out, and repairing, andsewing, and saving, and doing the very best we could think of tomake the most of her stock. My guardian being as pleased with theidea as Caddy was, we took her home next day to arrange the matterand brought her out again in triumph with her boxes and all thepurchases that could be squeezed out of a ten-pound note, which Mr.   Jellyby had found in the docks I suppose, but which he at allevents gave her. What my guardian would not have given her if wehad encouraged him, it would be difficult to say, but we thought itright to compound for no more than her wedding-dress and bonnet.   He agreed to this compromise, and if Caddy had ever been happy inher life, she was happy when we sat down to work.   She was clumsy enough with her needle, poor girl, and pricked herfingers as much as she had been used to ink them. She could nothelp reddening a little now and then, partly with the smart andpartly with vexation at being able to do no better, but she soongot over that and began to improve rapidly. So day after day she,and my darling, and my little maid Charley, and a milliner out ofthe town, and I, sat hard at work, as pleasantly as possible.   Over and above this, Caddy was very anxious "to learnhousekeeping," as she said. Now, mercy upon us! The idea of herlearning housekeeping of a person of my vast experience was such ajoke that I laughed, and coloured up, and fell into a comicalconfusion when she proposed it. However, I said, "Caddy, I am sureyou are very welcome to learn anything that you can learn of ME, mydear," and I showed her all my books and methods and all my fidgetyways. You would have supposed that I was showing her somewonderful inventions, by her study of them; and if you had seenher, whenever I jingled my housekeeping keys, get up and attend me,certainly you might have thought that there never was a greaterimposter than I with a blinder follower than Caddy Jellyby.   So what with working and housekeeping, and lessons to Charley, andbackgammon in the evening with my guardian, and duets with Ada, thethree weeks slipped fast away. Then I went home with Caddy to seewhat could be done there, and Ada and Charley remained behind totake care of my guardian.   When I say I went home with Caddy, I mean to the furnished lodgingin 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 forputting the newly married couple away cheaply at the top of thehouse--but our great point was to make the furnished lodging decentfor the wedding-breakfast and to imbue Mrs. Jellyby beforehand withsome 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 (theback one was a mere closet), and it was littered down with waste-paper and Borrioboolan documents, as an untidy stable might belittered with straw. Mrs. Jellyby sat there all day drinkingstrong coffee, dictating, and holding Borrioboolan interviews byappointment. The unwholesome boy, who seemed to me to be goinginto a decline, took his meals out of the house. When Mr. Jellybycame home, he usually groaned and went down into the kitchen.   There he got something to eat if the servant would give himanything, and then, feeling that he was in the way, went out andwalked about Hatton Garden in the wet. The poor children scrambledup and tumbled down the house as they had always been accustomed todo.   The production of these devoted little sacrifices in anypresentable condition being quite out of the question at a week'snotice, I proposed to Caddy that we should make them as happy as wecould on her marriage morning in the attic where they all slept,and should confine our greatest efforts to her mama and her mama'sroom, and a clean breakfast. In truth Mrs. Jellyby required a gooddeal of attention, the lattice-work up her back having widenedconsiderably since I first knew her and her hair looking like themane of a dustman's horse.   Thinking that the display of Caddy's wardrobe would be the bestmeans of approaching the subject, I invited Mrs. Jellyby to comeand look at it spread out on Caddy's bed in the evening after theunwholesome boy was gone.   "My dear Miss Summerson," said she, rising from her desk with herusual sweetness of temper, "these are really ridiculouspreparations, though your assisting them is a proof of yourkindness. There is something so inexpressibly absurd to me in theidea of Caddy being married! Oh, Caddy, you silly, silly, sillypuss!"She came upstairs with us notwithstanding and looked at the clothesin her customary far-off manner. They suggested one distinct ideato her, for she said with her placid smile, and shaking her head,"My good Miss Summerson, at half the cost, this weak child mighthave been equipped for Africa!"On our going downstairs again, Mrs. Jellyby asked me whether thistroublesome business was really to take place next Wednesday. Andon my replying yes, she said, "Will my room be required, my dearMiss Summerson? For it's quite impossible that I can put my papersaway."I took the liberty of saying that the room would certainly bewanted and that I thought we must put the papers away somewhere.   "Well, my dear Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Jellyby, "you know best,I dare say. But by obliging me to employ a boy, Caddy hasembarrassed me to that extent, overwhelmed as I am with publicbusiness, that I don't know which way to turn. We have aRamification meeting, too, on Wednesday afternoon, and theinconvenience is very serious.""It is not likely to occur again," said I, smiling. "Caddy will bemarried but once, probably.""That's true," Mrs. Jellyby replied; "that's true, my dear. Isuppose we must make the best of it!"The next question was how Mrs. Jellyby should be dressed on theoccasion. I thought it very curious to see her looking on serenelyfrom her writing-table while Caddy and I discussed it, occasionallyshaking her head at us with a half-reproachful smile like asuperior spirit who could just bear with our trifling.   The state in which her dresses were, and the extraordinaryconfusion in which she kept them, added not a little to ourdifficulty; but at length we devised something not very unlike whata common-place mother might wear on such an occasion. Theabstracted manner in which Mrs. Jellyby would deliver herself up tohaving this attire tried on by the dressmaker, and the sweetnesswith which she would then observe to me how sorry she was that Ihad not turned my thoughts to Africa, were consistent with the restof her behaviour.   The lodging was rather confined as to space, but I fancied that ifMrs. Jellyby's household had been the only lodgers in Saint Paul'sor Saint Peter's, the sole advantage they would have found in thesize of the building would have been its affording a great deal ofroom to be dirty in. I believe that nothing belonging to thefamily which it had been possible to break was unbroken at the timeof those preparations for Caddy's marriage, that nothing which ithad been possible to spoil in any way was unspoilt, and that nodomestic object which was capable of collecting dirt, from a dearchild's knee to the door-plate, was without as much dirt as couldwell accumulate upon it.   Poor Mr. Jellyby, who very seldom spoke and almost always sat whenhe was at home with his head against the wall, became interestedwhen he saw that Caddy and I were attempting to establish someorder among all this waste and ruin and took off his coat to help.   But such wonderful things came tumbling out of the closets whenthey were opened--bits of mouldy pie, sour bottles, Mrs. Jellyby'scaps, letters, tea, forks, odd boots and shoes of children,firewood, wafers, saucepan-lids, damp sugar in odds and ends ofpaper bags, footstools, blacklead brushes, bread, Mrs. Jellyby'sbonnets, books with butter sticking to the binding, guttered candleends put out by being turned upside down in broken candlesticks,nutshells, heads and tails of shrimps, dinner-mats, gloves, coffee-grounds, umbrellas--that he looked frightened, and left off again.   But he came regularly every evening and sat without his coat, withhis head against the wall, as though he would have helped us if hehad known how.   "Poor Pa!" said Caddy to me on the night before the great day, whenwe really had got things a little to rights. "It seems unkind toleave him, Esther. But what could I do if I stayed! Since I firstknew you, I have tidied and tidied over and over again, but it'suseless. Ma and Africa, together, upset the whole house directly.   We never have a servant who don't drink. Ma's ruinous toeverything."Mr. Jellyby could not hear what she said, but he seemed very lowindeed and shed tears, I thought.   "My heart aches for him; that it does!" sobbed Caddy. "I can'thelp thinking to-night, Esther, how dearly I hope to be happy withPrince, and how dearly Pa hoped, I dare say, to be happy with Ma.   What a disappointed life!""My dear Caddy!" said Mr. Jellyby, looking slowly round from thewail. It was the first time, I think, I ever heard him say threewords together.   "Yes, Pa!" cried Caddy, going to him and embracing himaffectionately.   "My dear Caddy," said Mr. Jellyby. "Never have--""Not Prince, Pa?" faltered Caddy. "Not have Prince?""Yes, my dear," said Mr. Jellyby. "Have him, certainly. But,never have--"I mentioned in my account of our first visit in Thavies Inn thatRichard described Mr. Jellyby as frequently opening his mouth afterdinner without saying anything. It was a habit of his. He openedhis mouth now a great many times and shook his head in a melancholymanner.   "What do you wish me not to have? Don't have what, dear Pa?" askedCaddy, coaxing him, with her arms round his neck.   "Never have a mission, my dear child."Mr. Jellyby groaned and laid his head against the wall again, andthis was the only time I ever heard him make any approach toexpressing his sentiments on the Borrioboolan question. I supposehe had been more talkative and lively once, but he seemed to havebeen completely exhausted long before I knew him.   I thought Mrs. Jellyby never would have left off serenely lookingover her papers and drinking coffee that night. It was twelveo'clock before we could obtain possession of the room, and theclearance it required then was so discouraging that Caddy, who wasalmost tired out, sat down in the middle of the dust and cried.   But she soon cheered up, and we did wonders with it before we wentto bed.   In the morning it looked, by the aid of a few flowers and aquantity of soap and water and a little arrangement, quite gay.   The plain breakfast made a cheerful show, and Caddy was perfectlycharming. But when my darling came, I 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 upstairs, and we put Peepyat the head of the table, and we showed them Caddy in her bridaldress, and they clapped their hands and hurrahed, and Caddy criedto think that she was going away from them and hugged them over andover again until we brought Prince up to fetch her away--when, I amsorry to say, Peepy bit him. Then there was old Mr. Turveydropdownstairs, in a state of deportment not to be expressed, benignlyblessing Caddy and giving my guardian to understand that his son'shappiness was his own parental work and that he sacrificed personalconsiderations to ensure it. "My dear sir," said Mr. Turveydrop,"these young people will live with me; my house is large enough fortheir accommodation, and they shall not want the shelter of myroof. I could have wished--you will understand the allusion, Mr.   Jarndyce, for you remember my illustrious patron the Prince Regent--I could have wished that my son had married into a family wherethere was more deportment, but the will of heaven be done!"Mr. and Mrs. Pardiggle were of the party--Mr. Pardiggle, anobstinate-looking man with a large waistcoat and stubbly hair, whowas always talking in a loud bass voice about his mite, or Mrs.   Pardiggle's mite, or their five boys' mites. Mr. Quale, with hishair brushed back as usual and his knobs of temples shining verymuch, was also there, not in the character of a disappointed lover,but as the accepted of a young--at least, an unmarried--lady, aMiss Wisk, who was also there. Miss Wisk's mission, my guardiansaid, was to show the world that woman's mission was man's missionand that the only genuine mission of both man and woman was to bealways moving declaratory resolutions about things in general atpublic meetings. The guests were few, but were, as one mightexpect at Mrs. Jellyby's, all devoted to public objects only.   Besides those I have mentioned, there was an extremely dirty ladywith her bonnet all awry and the ticketed price of her dress stillsticking on it, whose neglected home, Caddy told me, was like afilthy wilderness, but whose church was like a fancy fair. A verycontentious gentleman, who said it was his mission to beeverybody's brother but who appeared to be on terms of coolnesswith the whole of his large family, completed the party.   A party, having less in common with such an occasion, could hardlyhave been got together by any ingenuity. Such a mean mission asthe domestic mission was the very last thing to be endured amongthem; indeed, Miss Wisk informed us, with great indignation, beforewe sat down to breakfast, that the idea of woman's mission lyingchiefly in the narrow sphere of home was an outrageous slander onthe part of her tyrant, man. One other singularity was that nobodywith a mission--except Mr. Quale, whose mission, as I think I haveformerly said, was to be in ecstasies with everybody's mission--cared at all for anybody's mission. Mrs. Pardiggle being as clearthat the only one infallible course was her course of pouncing uponthe poor and applying benevolence to them like a strait-waistcoat;as Miss Wisk was that the only practical thing for the world wasthe emancipation of woman from the thraldom of her tyrant, man.   Mrs. Jellyby, all the while, sat smiling at the limited vision thatcould see anything but Borrioboola-Gha.   But I am anticipating now the purport of our conversation on theride home instead of first marrying Caddy. We all went to church,and Mr. Jellyby gave her away. Of the air with which old Mr.   Turveydrop, with his hat under his left arm (the inside presentedat the clergyman like a cannon) and his eyes creasing themselves upinto his wig, stood stiff and high-shouldered behind us bridesmaidsduring the ceremony, and afterwards saluted us, I could never sayenough to do it justice. Miss Wisk, whom I cannot report asprepossessing in appearance, and whose manner was grim, listened tothe proceedings, as part of woman's wrongs, with a disdainful face.   Mrs. Jellyby, with her calm smile and her bright eyes, looked theleast concerned of all the company.   We duly came back to breakfast, and Mrs. Jellyby sat at the head ofthe table and Mr. Jellyby at the foot. Caddy had previously stolenupstairs to hug the children again and tell them that her name wasTurveydrop. But this piece of information, instead of being anagreeable surprise to Peepy, threw him on his back in suchtransports of kicking grief that I could do nothing on being sentfor but accede to the proposal that he should be admitted to thebreakfast table. So he came down and sat in my lap; and Mrs.   Jellyby, after saying, in reference to the state of his pinafore,"Oh, you naughty Peepy, what a shocking little pig you are!" wasnot at all discomposed. He was very good except that he broughtdown Noah with him (out of an ark I had given him before we went tochurch) and WOULD dip him head first into the wine-glasses and thenput him in his mouth.   My guardian, with his sweet temper and his quick perception and hisamiable face, made something agreeable even out of the ungenialcompany. None of them seemed able to talk about anything but his,or her, own one subject, and none of them seemed able to talk abouteven that as part of a world in which there was anything else; butmy guardian turned it all to the merry encouragement of Caddy andthe honour of the occasion, and brought us through the breakfastnobly. What we should have done without him, I am afraid to think,for all the company despising the bride and bridegroom and old Mr.   Turveydrop--and old Mr. Thrveydrop, in virtue of his deportment,considering himself vastly superior to all the company--it was avery unpromising case.   At last the time came when poor Caddy was to go and when all herproperty was packed on the hired coach and pair that was to takeher and her husband to Gravesend. It affected us to see Caddyclinging, then, to her deplorable home and hanging on her mother'sneck 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 andover again that I have engaged a boy, and there's an end of it.""You are sure you are not the least angry with me, Ma? Say you aresure before I go away, Ma?""You foolish Caddy," returned Mrs. Jellyby, "do I look angry, orhave 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 romanticchild," said she, lightly patting Caddy's back. "Go along. I amexcellent friends with you. Now, good-bye, Caddy, and be veryhappy!"Then Caddy hung upon her father and nursed his cheek against hersas if he were some poor dull child in pain. All this took place inthe hall. Her father released her, took out his pockethandkerchief, and sat down on the stairs with his head against thewall. I hope he found some consolation in walls. I almost thinkhe did.   And then Prince took her arm in his and turned with great emotionand respect to his father, whose deportment at that moment wasoverwhelming.   "Thank you over and over again, father!" said Prince, kissing hishand. "I am very grateful for all your kindness and considerationregarding our marriage, and so, I can assure you, is Caddy.""Very," sobbed Caddy. "Ve-ry!""My dear son," said Mr. Turveydrop, "and dear daughter, I have donemy duty. If the spirit of a sainted wooman hovers above us andlooks down on the occasion, that, and your constant affection, willbe my recompense. You will not fail in YOUR duty, my son anddaughter, I believe?""Dear father, never!" cried Prince.   "Never, never, dear Mr. Turveydrop!" said Caddy.   "This," returned Mr. Turveydrop, "is as it should be. My children,my home is yours, my heart is yours, my all is yours. I will neverleave you; nothing but death shall part us. My dear son, youcontemplate an absence of a week, I think?""A week, dear father. We shall return home this day week.""My dear child," said Mr. Turveydrop, "let me, even under thepresent 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 fires, my dearCaroline, in your own room, and dinner prepared in my apartment.   Yes, yes, Prince!" anticipating some self-denying objection on hisson's part with a great air. "You and our Caroline will be strangein the upper part of the premises and will, therefore, dine thatday in my apartment. Now, bless ye!"They drove away, and whether I wondered most at Mrs. Jellyby or atMr. Turveydrop, I did not know. Ada and my guardian were in thesame condition when we came to talk it over. But before we droveaway too, I received a most unexpected and eloquent compliment fromMr. Jellyby. He came up to me in the hall, took both my hands,pressed them earnestly, and opened his mouth twice. I was so sureof his meaning that I said, quite flurried, "You are very welcome,sir. Pray don't mention it!""I hope this marriage is for the best, guardian," said I when wethree 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 answered, "No.""But it must have been this morning, I think," said I.   He answered "No" again, and this time my dear girl confidentlyanswered "No" too and shook the lovely head which, with itsblooming flowers against the golden hair, was like the very spring.   "Much YOU know of east winds, my ugly darling," said I, kissing herin my admiration--I couldn't help it.   Well! It was only their love for me, I know very well, and it is along time ago. I must write it even if I rub it out again, becauseit gives me so much pleasure. They said there could be no eastwind where Somebody was; they said that wherever Dame Durden went,there was sunshine and summer air. Chapter 31 Nurse and Patient I had not been at home again many days when one evening I wentupstairs into my own room to take a peep over Charley's shoulderand see how she was getting on with her copy-book. Writing was atrying business to Charley, who seemed to have no natural powerover a pen, but in whose hand every pen appeared to becomeperversely animated, and to go wrong and crooked, and to stop, andsplash, and sidle into corners like a saddle-donkey. It was veryodd to see what old letters Charley's young hand had made, they sowrinkled, and shrivelled, and tottering, it so plump and round.   Yet Charley was uncommonly expert at other things and had as nimblelittle fingers as I ever watched.   "Well, Charley," said I, looking over a copy of the letter O inwhich it was represented as square, triangular, pear-shaped, andcollapsed in all kinds of ways, "we are improving. If we only getto make it round, we shall be perfect, Charley."Then I made one, and Charley made one, and the pen wouldn't joinCharley's neatly, but twisted it up into a knot.   "Never mind, Charley. We shall do it in time."Charley laid down her pen, the copy being finished, opened and shuther cramped little hand, looked gravely at the page, half in prideand half in doubt, and got up, and dropped me a curtsy.   "Thank you, miss. If you please, miss, did you know a poor personof the name of Jenny?""A brickmaker's wife, Charley? Yes.""She came and spoke to me when I was out a little while ago, andsaid you knew her, miss. She asked me if I wasn't the young lady'slittle 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 tolive--she and Liz. Did you know another poor person of the name ofLiz, miss?""I think I do, Charley, though not by name.""That's what she said!" returned Chariey. "They have both comeback, miss, and have been tramping high and low.""Tramping high and low, have they, Charley?""Yes, miss." If Charley could only have made the letters in hercopy as round as the eyes with which she looked into my face, theywould have been excellent. "And this poor person came about thehouse three or four days, hoping to get a glimpse of you, miss--allshe wanted, she said--but you were away. That was when she saw me.   She saw me a-going about, miss," said Charley with a short laugh ofthe greatest delight and pride, "and she thought I looked like yourmaid!""Did she though, really, Charley?""Yes, miss!" said Charley. "Really and truly." And Charley, withanother short laugh of the purest glee, made her eyes very roundagain and looked as serious as became my maid. I was never tiredof seeing Charley in the full enjoyment of that great dignity,standing before me with her youthful face and figure, and hersteady manner, and her childish exultation breaking through it nowand then in the pleasantest way.   "And where did you see her, Charley?" said I.   My little maid's countenance fell as she replied, "By the doctor'sshop, miss." For Charley wore her black frock yet.   I asked if the brickmaker's wife were ill, but Charley said no. Itwas some one else. Some one in her cottage who had tramped down toSaint Albans and was tramping he didn't know where. A poor boy,Charley said. No father, no mother, no any one. "Like as Tommight have been, miss, if Emma and me had died after father," saidCharley, her round eyes filling with tears.   "And she was getting medicine for him, Charley?""She said, miss," returned Charley, "how that he had once done asmuch for her."My little maid's face was so eager and her quiet hands were foldedso closely in one another as she stood looking at me that I had nogreat difficulty in reading her thoughts. "Well, Charley," said I,"it appears to me that you and I can do no better than go round toJenny's and see what's the matter."The alacrity with which Charley brought my bonnet and veil, andhaving dressed me, quaintly pinned herself into her warm shawl andmade herself look like a little old woman, sufficiently expressedher readiness. So Charley and I, without saying anything to anyone, went out.   It was a cold, wild night, and the trees shuddered in the wind.   The rain had been thick and heavy all day, and with littleintermission for many days. None was falling just then, however.   The sky had partly cleared, but was very gloomy--even above us,where a few stars were shining. In the north and north-west, wherethe sun had set three hours before, there was a pale dead lightboth beautiful and awful; and into it long sullen lines of cloudwaved up like a sea stricken immovable as it was heaving. TowardsLondon a lurid glare overhung the whole dark waste, and thecontrast between these two lights, and the fancy which the redderlight engendered of an unearthly fire, gleaming on all the unseenbuildings of the city and on all the faces of its many thousands ofwondering inhabitants, was as solemn as might be.   I had no thought that night--none, I am quite sure--of what wassoon to happen to me. But I have always remembered since that whenwe had stopped at the garden-gate to look up at the sky, and whenwe went upon our way, I had for a moment an undefinable impressionof myself as being something different from what I then was. Iknow it was then and there that I had it. I have ever sinceconnected the feeling with that spot and time and with everythingassociated with that spot and time, to the distant voices in thetown, the barking of a dog, and the sound of wheels coming down themiry hill.   It was Saturday night, and most of the people belonging to theplace where we were going were drinking elsewhere. We found itquieter than I had previously seen it, though quite as miserable.   The kilns were burning, and a stifling vapour set towards us with apale-blue glare.   We came to the cottage, where there was a feeble candle in thepatched window. We tapped at the door and went in. The mother ofthe little child who had died was sitting in a chair on one side ofthe poor fire by the bed; and opposite to her, a wretched boy,supported by the chimney-piece, was cowering on the floor. He heldunder his arm, like a little bundle, a fragment of a fur cap; andas he tried to warm himself, he shook until the crazy door andwindow shook. The place was closer than before and had anunhealthy and a very peculiar smell.   I had not lifted by veil when I first spoke to the woman, which wasat the moment of our going in. The boy staggered up instantly andstared at me with a remarkable expression of surprise and terror.   His action was so quick and my being the cause of it was so evidentthat I stood still instead of advancing nearer.   "I won't go no more to the berryin ground," muttered the boy; "Iain't a-going there, so I tell you!"I lifted my veil and spoke to the woman. She said to me in a lowvoice, "Don't mind him, ma'am. He'll soon come back to his head,"and said to him, "Jo, 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 theberryin ground. I won't go to the berryin ground. I don't likethe name on it. She might go a-berryin ME." His shivering came onagain, and as he leaned against the wall, he shook the hovel.   "He has been talking off and on about such like all day, ma'am,"said Jenny softly. "Why, how you stare! This is MY lady, Jo.""Is it?" returned the boy doubtfully, and surveying me with his armheld out above his burning eyes. "She looks to me the t'other one.   It ain't the bonnet, nor yet it ain't the gownd, but she looks tome the t'other one."My little Charley, with her premature experience of illness andtrouble, had pulled off her bonnet and shawl and now went quietlyup to him with a chair and sat him down in it like an old sicknurse. Except that no such attendant could have shown himCharley's youthful face, which seemed to engage his confidence.   "I say!" said the boy. "YOU tell me. Ain't the lady the t'otherlady?"Charley shook her head as she methodically drew his rags about himand 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 thematter with you?""I'm a-being froze," returned the boy hoarsely, with his haggardgaze wandering about me, "and then burnt up, and then froze, andthen burnt up, ever so many times in a hour. And my head's allsleepy, and all a-going mad-like--and I'm so dry--and my bonesisn'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 hadknown him up in London yonder. Hadn't I, Jo?""Tom-all-Alone's," the boy replied.   Whenever he fixed his attention or his eyes, it was only for a verylittle while. He soon began to droop his head again, and roll itheavily, and speak as if he were half awake.   "When did he come from London?" I asked.   "I come from London yes'day," said the boy himself, now flushed andhot. "I'm a-going somewheres.""Where is he going?" I asked.   "Somewheres," repeated the boy in a louder tone. "I have beenmoved on, and moved on, more nor ever I was afore, since thet'other one give me the sov'ring. Mrs. Snagsby, she's always a-watching, and a-driving of me--what have I done to her?--andthey're all a-watching and a-driving of me. Every one of 'em'sdoing of it, from the time when I don't get up, to the time when Idon't go to bed. And I'm a-going somewheres. That's where I'm a-going. She told me, down in Tom-all-Alone's, as she came fromStolbuns, and so I took the Stolbuns Road. It's as good asanother."He always concluded by addressing Charley.   "What is to be done with him?" said I, taking the woman aside. "Hecould not travel in this state even if he had a purpose and knewwhere he was going!""I know no more, ma'am, than the dead," she replied, glancingcompassionately at him. "Perhaps the dead know better, if theycould only tell us. I've kept him here all day for pity's sake,and I've given him broth and physic, and Liz has gone to try if anyone will take him in (here's my pretty in the bed--her child, but Icall it mine); but I can't keep him long, for if my husband was tocome home and find him here, he'd be rough in putting him out andmight do him a hurt. Hark! Here comes Liz back!"The other woman came hurriedly in as she spoke, and the boy got upwith a half-obscured sense that he was expected to be going. Whenthe little child awoke, and when and how Charley got at it, took itout of bed, and began to walk about hushing it, I don't know.   There she was, doing all this in a quiet motherly manner as if shewere living in Mrs. Blinder's attic with Tom and Emma again.   The friend had been here and there, and had been played about fromhand to hand, and had come back as she went. At first it was tooearly for the boy to be received into the proper refuge, and atlast it was too late. One official sent her to another, and theother sent her back again to the first, and so backward andforward, until it appeared to me as if both must have beenappointed for their skill in evading their duties instead ofperforming them. And now, after all, she said, breathing quickly,for she had been running and was frightened too, "Jenny, yourmaster's on the road home, and mine's not far behind, and the Lordhelp the boy, for we can do no more for him!" They put a fewhalfpence together and hurried them into his hand, and so, in anoblivious, half-thankful, half-insensible way, he shuffled out ofthe house.   "Give me the child, my dear," said its mother to Charley, "andthank you kindly too! Jenny, woman dear, good night!   Young lady, if my master don't fall out with me, I'll look down bythe kiln by and by, where the boy will be most like, and again inthe morning!" She hurried off, and presenfty we passed her hushingand singing to her child at her own door and looking anxiouslyalong the road for her drunken husband.   I was afraid of staying then to speak to either woman, lest Ishould bring her into trouble. But I said to Charley that we mustnot leave the boy to die. Charley, who knew what to do much betterthan I did, and whose quickness equalled her presence of mind,glided on before me, and presently we came up with Jo, just shortof the brick-kiln.   I think he must have begun his journey with some small bundle underhis arm and must have had it stolen or lost it. For he stillcarried his wretched fragment of fur cap like a bundle, though hewent bareheaded through the rain, which now fell fast. He stoppedwhen we called to him and again showed a dread of me when I cameup, standing with his lustrous eyes fixed upon me, and evenarrested in his shivering fit.   I asked him to come with us, and we would take care that he hadsome shelter for the night.   "I don't want no shelter," he said; "I can lay amongst the warmbricks.""But don't you know that people die there?" replied Charley.   "They dies everywheres," said the boy. "They dies in theirlodgings--she knows where; I showed her--and they dies down in Tom-all-Alone's in heaps. They dies more than they lives, according towhat I see." Then he hoarsely whispered Charley, "If she ain't thet'other one, she ain't the forrenner. Is there THREE of 'em then?"Charley looked at me a little frightened. I felt half frightenedat myself when the boy glared on me so.   But he turned and followed when I beckoned to him, and finding thathe acknowledged that influence in me, I led the way straight home.   It was not far, only at the summit of the hill. We passed but oneman. I doubted if we should have got home without assistance, theboy's steps were so uncertain and tremulous. He made no complaint,however, and was strangely unconcerned about himself, if I may sayso strange a thing.   Leaving him in the hall for a moment, shrunk into the corner of thewindow-seat and staring with an indifference that scarcely could becalled wonder at the comfort and brightness about him, I went intothe drawing-room to speak to my guardian. There I found Mr.   Skimpole, who had come down by the coach, as he frequently didwithout notice, and never bringing any clothes with him, but alwaysborrowing everything he wanted.   They came out with me directly to look at the boy. The servantshad gathered in the hall too, and he shivered in the window-seatwith Charley standing by him, like some wounded animal that hadbeen found in a ditch.   "This is a sorrowful case," said my guardian after asking him aquestion or two and touching him and examining his eyes. "What doyou say, Harold?""You had better turn him out," said Mr. Skimpole.   "What do you mean?" inquired my guardian, almost sternly.   "My dear Jarndyce," said Mr. Skimpole, "you know what I am: I am achild. Be cross to me if I deserve it. But I have aconstitutional objection to this sort of thing. I always had, whenI was a medical man. He's not safe, you know. There's a very badsort of fever about him."Mr. Skimpole had retreated from the hall to the drawing-room againand said this in his airy way, seated on the music-stool as westood by.   "You'll say it's childish," observed Mr. Skimpole, looking gaily atus. "Well, I dare say it may be; but I AM a child, and I neverpretend to be anything else. If you put him out in the road, youonly put him where he was before. He will be no worse off than hewas, you know. Even make him better off, if you like. Give himsixpence, or five shillings, or five pound ten--you arearithmeticians, and I am not--and get rid of him!""And what is he to do then?" asked my guardian.   "Upon my life," said Mr. Skimpole, shrugging his shoulders with hisengaging smile, "I 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 guardian, to whom Ihad hastily explained the unavailing efforts of the two women, "isit not a horrible reflection," walking up and down and rumpling hishair, "that if this wretched creature were a convicted prisoner,his hospital would be wide open to him, and he would be as welltaken care of as any sick boy in the kingdom?""My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "you'll pardon thesimplicity of the question, coming as it does from a creature whois perfectly simple in worldly matters, but why ISN'T he a prisonerthen?"My guardian stopped and looked at him with a whimsical mixture ofamusement and indignation in his face.   "Our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy, I shouldimagine," said Mr. Skimpole, unabashed and candid. "It seems to methat it would be wiser, as well as in a certain kind of way morerespectable, if he showed some misdirected energy that got him intoprison. There would be more of an adventurous spirit in it, andconsequently more of a certain sort of poetry.""I believe," returned my guardian, resuming his uneasy walk, "thatthere is not such another child on earth as yourself.""Do you really?" said Mr. Skimpole. "I dare say! But I confess Idon't see why our young friend, in his degree, should not seek toinvest himself with such poetry as is open to him. He is no doubtborn with an appetite--probably, when he is in a safer state ofhealth, he has an excellent appetite. Very well. At our youngfriend's natural dinner hour, most likely about noon, our youngfriend says in effect to society, 'I am hungry; will you have thegoodness to produce your spoon and feed me?' Society, which hastaken upon itself the general arrangement of the whole system ofspoons and professes to have a spoon for our young friend, does NOTproduce that spoon; and our young friend, therefore, says 'Youreally must excuse me if I seize it.' Now, this appears to me acase of misdirected energy, which has a certain amount of reason init and a certain amount of romance; and I don't know but what Ishould be more interested in our young friend, as an illustrationof such a case, than merely as a poor vagabond--which any one canbe.""In the meantime," I ventured to observe, "he is getting worse.""In the meantime," said Mr. Skimpole cheerfully, "as MissSummerson, with her practical good sense, observes, he is gettingworse. Therefore I recommend your turning him out before he getsstill worse."The amiable face with which he said it, I think I shall neverforget.   "Of course, little woman," observed my guardian, tuming to me, "Ican ensure his admission into the proper place by merely goingthere to enforce it, though it's a bad state of things when, in hiscondition, that is necessary. But it's growing late, and is a verybad night, and the boy is worn out already. There is a bed in thewholesome loft-room by the stable; we had better keep him theretill morning, when he can be wrapped up and removed. We'll dothat.""Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole, with his hands upon the keys of the pianoas we moved away. "Are you going back to our young friend?""Yes," said my guardian.   "How I envy you your constitution, Jarndyce!" returned Mr. Skimpolewith playful admiration. "You don't mind these things; neitherdoes Miss Summerson. You are ready at all times to go anywhere,and do anything. Such is will! I have no will at all--and nowon't--simply can't.""You can't recommend anything for the boy, I suppose?" said myguardian, looking back over his shoulder half angrily; only halfangrily, for he never seemed to consider Mr. Skimpole anaccountable being.   "My dear Jarndyce, I observed a bottle of cooling medicine in hispocket, and it's impossible for him to do better than take it. Youcan tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about the place where hesleeps and to keep it moderately cool and him moderately warm. Butit is mere impertinence in me to offer any recommendation. MissSummerson has such a knowledge of detail and such a capacity forthe administration of detail that she knows all about it."We went back into the hall and explained to Jo what we proposed todo, which Charley explained to him again and which he received withthe languid unconcern I had already noticed, wearily looking on atwhat was done as if it were for somebody else. The servantscompassionating his miserable state and being very anxious to help,we soon got the loft-room ready; and some of the men about thehouse carried him across the wet yard, well wrapped up. It waspleasant to observe how kind they were to him and how thereappeared to be a general impression among them that frequentlycalling him "Old Chap" was likely to revive his spirits. Charleydirected the operations and went to and fro between the loft-roomand the house with such little stimulants and comforts as wethought it safe to give him. My guardian himself saw him before hewas left for the night and reported to me when he returned to thegrowlery to write a letter on the boy's behalf, which a messengerwas charged to deliver at day-light in the morning, that he seemedeasier and inclined to sleep. They had fastened his door on theoutside, he said, in case of his being delirious, but had soarranged that he could not make any noise without being heard.   Ada being in our room with a cold, Mr. Skimpole was left alone allthis time and entertained himself by playing snatches of patheticairs and sometimes singing to them (as we heard at a distance) withgreat expression and feeling. When we rejoined him in the drawing-room he said he would give us a little ballad which had come intohis head "apropos of our young friend," and he sang one about apeasant boy,"Thrown on the wide world, doomed to wander and roam,Bereft of his parents, bereft of a home."quite exquisitely. It was a song that always made him cry, he toldus.   He was extremely gay all the rest of the evening, for he absolutelychirped--those were his delighted words--when he thought by what ahappy talent for business he was surrounded. He gave us, in hisglass of negus, "Better health to our young friend!" and supposedand gaily pursued the case of his being reserved like Whittingtonto become Lord Mayor of London. In that event, no doubt, he wouldestablish the Jarndyce Institution and the Summerson Almshouses,and a little annual Corporation Pilgrimage to St. Albans. He hadno doubt, he said, that our young friend was an excellent boy inhis way, but his way was not the Harold Skimpole way; what HaroldSkimpole was, Harold Skimpole had found himself, to hisconsiderable surprise, when he first made his own acquaintance; hehad accepted himself with all his failings and had thought it soundphilosophy to make the best of the bargain; and he hoped we woulddo the same.   Charley's last report was that the boy was quiet. I could see,from my window, the lantern they had left him burning quietly; andI went to bed very happy to think that he was sheltered.   There was more movement and more talking than usual a little beforedaybreak, and it awoke me. As I was dressing, I looked out of mywindow and asked one of our men who had been among the activesympathizers last night whether there was anything wrong about thehouse. 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 gone, or how, or why, it seemedhopeless ever to divine. The door remaining as it had been left,and the lantern standing in the window, it could only be supposedthat he had got out by a trap in the floor which communicated withan empty cart-house below. But he had shut it down again, if thatwere so; and it looked as if it had not been raised. Nothing ofany kind was missing. On this fact being clearly ascertained, weall yielded to the painful belief that delirium had come upon himin the night and that, allured by some imaginary object or pursuedby some imaginary horror, he had strayed away in that worse thanhelpless state; all of us, that is to say, but Mr. Skimpole, whorepeatedly suggested, in his usual easy light style, that it hadoccurred to our young friend that he was not a safe inmate, havinga bad kind of fever upon him, and that he had with great naturalpoliteness taken himself off.   Every possible inquiry was made, and every place was searched. Thebrick-kilns were examined, the cottages were visited, the two womenwere particularly questioned, but they knew nothing of him, andnobody could doubt that their wonder was genuine. The weather hadfor some time been too wet and the night itself had been too wet toadmit of any tracing by footsteps. Hedge and ditch, and wall, andrick and stack, were 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. Fromthe time when he was left in the loft-room, he vanished.   The search continued for five days. I do not mean that it ceasedeven then, but that my attention was then diverted into a currentvery memorable to me.   As Charley was at her writing again in my room in the evening, andas I sat opposite to her at work, I felt the table tremble.   Looking up, I saw my little maid shivering from head to foot.   "Charley," said I, "are you so cold?""I think I am, miss," she replied. "I don't know what it is. Ican't hold myself still. I felt so yesterday at about this sametime, miss. Don't be uneasy, I think I'm ill."I heard Ada's voice outside, and I hurried to the door ofcommunication between my room and our pretty sitting-room, andlocked it. Just in time, for she tapped at it while my hand wasyet upon the key.   Ada called to me to let her in, but I said, "Not now, my dearest.   Go away. There's nothing the matter; I will come to youpresently." Ah! It was a long, long time before my darling girland I were companions again.   Charley fell ill. In twelve hours she was very ill. I moved herto my room, and laid her in my bed, and sat down quietly to nurseher. I told my guardian all about it, and why I felt it wasnecessary that I should seclude myself, and my reason for notseeing my darling above all. At first she came very often to thedoor, and called to me, and even reproached me with sobs and tears;but I wrote her a long letter saying that she made me anxious andunhappy and imploring her, as she loved me and wished my mind to beat peace, to come no nearer than the garden. After that she camebeneath the window even oftener than she had come to the door, andif I had learnt to love her dear sweet voice before when we werehardly ever apart, how did I learn to love it then, when I stoodbehind the window-curtain listening and replying, but not so muchas looking out! How did I learn to love it afterwards, when theharder time came!   They put a bed for me in our sitting-room; and by keeping the doorwide open, I turned the two rooms into one, now that Ada hadvacated that part of the house, and kept them always fresh andairy. There was not a servant in or about the house but was sogood that they would all most gladly have come to me at any hour ofthe day or night without the least fear or unwillingness, but Ithought it best to choose one worthy woman who was never to see Adaand whom I could trust to come and go with all precaution. Throughher means I got out to take the air with my guardian when there wasno fear of meeting Ada, and wanted for nothing in the way ofattendance, any more than in any other respect.   And thus poor Charley sickened and grew worse, and fell into heavydanger of death, and lay severely ill for many a long round of dayand night. So patient she was, so uncomplaining, and inspired bysuch a gentle fortitude that very often as I sat by Charley holdingher head in my arms--repose would come to her, so, when it wouldcome to her in no other attitude--I silently prayed to our Fatherin heaven that I might not forget the lesson which this littlesister taught me.   I was very sorrowful to think that Charley's pretty looks wouldchange and be disfigured, even if she recovered--she was such achild with her dimpled face--but that thought was, for the greaterpart, lost in her greater peril. When she was at the worst, andher mind rambled again to the cares of her father's sick bed andthe little children, she still knew me so far as that she would bequiet in my arms when she could lie quiet nowhere else, and murmurout the wanderings of her mind less restlessly. At those times Iused to think, how should I ever tell the two remaining babies thatthe baby who had learned of her faithful heart to be a mother tothem 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 wassure Tom would grow up to be a good man. At those times Charleywould speak to me of what she had read to her father as well as shecould to comfort him, of that young man carried out to be buriedwho was the only son of his mother and she was a widow, of theruler's daughter raised up by the gracious hand upon her bed ofdeath. And Charley told me that when her father died she hadkneeled down and prayed in her first sorrow that he likewise mightbe raised up and given back to his poor children, and that if sheshould never get better and should die too, she thought it likelythat it might come into Tom's mind to offer the same prayer forher. Then would I show Tom how these people of old days had beenbrought back to life on earth, only that we might know our hope tobe restored to heaven!   But of all the various times there were in Charley's illness, therewas not one when she lost the gentle qualities I have spoken of.   And there were many, many when I thought in the night of the lasthigh belief in the watching angel, and the last higher trust inGod, on the part of her poor despised father.   And Charley did not die. She flutteringiy and slowly turned thedangerous point, after long lingering there, and then began tomend. The hope that never had been given, from the first, ofCharley being in outward appearance Charley any more soon began tobe encouraged; and even that prospered, and I saw her growing intoher old childish likeness again.   It was a great morning when I could tell Ada all this as she stoodout in the garden; and it was a great evening when Charley and I atlast took tea together in the next room. But on that same evening,I felt that I was stricken cold.   Happily for both of us, it was not until Charley was safe in bedagain and placidly asleep that I began to think the contagion ofher illness was upon me. I had been able easily to hide what Ifelt at tea-time, but I was past that already now, and I knew thatI was rapidly following in Charley's steps.   I was well enough, however, to be up early in the morning, and toreturn my darling's cheerful blessing from the garden, and to talkwith her as long as usual. But I was not free from an impressionthat I had been walking about the two rooms in the night, a littlebeside myself, though knowing where I was; and I felt confused attimes--with a curious sense of fullness, as if I were becoming toolarge altogether.   In the evening I was so much worse that I resolved to prepareCharley, with which view I said, "You're getting quite strong,Charley, are you not?'   "Oh, quite!" said Charley.   "Strong enough to be told a secret, I think, Charley?""Quite strong enough for that, miss!" cried Charley. But Charley'sface fell in the height of her delight, for she saw the secret inMY face; and she came out of the great chair, and fell upon mybosom, and said "Oh, miss, it's my doing! It's my doing!" and agreat 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 werefor yourself, you can never fulfil it, Charley.""If you'll let me cry a little longer, miss," said Charley. "Oh,my dear, my dear! If you'll only let me cry a little longer. Oh,my dear!"--how affectionately and devotedly she poured this out asshe clung to my neck, I never can remember without tears--"I'll begood."So I let Charley cry a little longer, and it did us both good.   "Trust in me now, if you please, miss," said Charley quietly. "Iam listening to everything you say.""It's very little at present, Charley. I shall tell your doctorto-night that I don't think I am well and that you are going tonurse me."For that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. "And inthe morning, when you hear Miss Ada in the garden, if I should notbe quite able to go to the window-curtain as usual, do you go,Charley, and say I am asleep--that I have rather tired myself, andam asleep. At all times keep the room as I have kept it, Charley,and let no one come."Charley promised, and I lay down, for I was very heavy. I saw thedoctor that night and asked the favour of him that I wished to askrelative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as yet.   I have a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting intoday, and of day melting into night again; but I was just able onthe first morning to get to the window and speak to my darling.   On the second morning I heard her dear voice--Oh, how dear now!--outside; and I asked Charley, with some difficulty (speech beingpainful to me), to go and say I was asleep. I heard her answersoftly, "Don't disturb her, Charley, for the world!""How does my own Pride look, Charley?" I inquired.   "Disappointed, miss," said Charley, peeping through the curtain.   "But I know she is very beautiful this morning.""She is indeed, miss," answered Charley, peeping. "Still lookingup at the window."With her blue clear eyes, God bless them, always loveliest whenraised 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 herway into the room. Keep her out, Charley, if you love me truly, tothe last! Charley, if you let her in but once, only to look uponme 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 fora little while, and touch me with your hand. For I cannot see you,Charley; I am blind." Chapter 32 The Appointed Time It is night in Lincoln's Inn--perplexed and troublous valley of theshadow of the law, where suitors generally find but little day--andfat candles are snuffed out in offices, and clerks have rattleddown the crazy wooden stairs and dispersed. The bell that rings atnine o'clock has ceased its doleful clangour about nothing; thegates are shut; and the night-porter, a solemn warder with a mightypower of sleep, keeps guard in his lodge. From tiers of staircasewindows clogged lamps like the eyes of Equity, bleared Argus with afathomless pocket for every eye and an eye upon it, dimly blink atthe stars. In dirty upper casements, here and there, hazy littlepatches of candlelight reveal where some wise draughtsman andconveyancer yet toils for the entanglement of real estate in meshesof sheep-skin, in the average ratio of about a dozen of sheep to anacre of land. Over which bee-like industry these benefactors oftheir species linger yet, though office-hours be past, that theymay give, for every day, some good account at last.   In the neighbouring court, where the Lord Chancellor of the rag andbottle shop dwells, there is a general tendency towards beer andsupper. Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins, whose 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 forsome hours and scouring the plain of the same thoroughfare to theconfusion of passengers--Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins have but nowexchanged congratulations on the children being abed, and theystill linger on a door-step over a few parting words. Mr. Krookand his lodger, and the fact of Mr. Krook's being "continually inliquor," and the testamentary prospects of the young man are, asusual, the staple of their conversation. But they have somethingto say, likewise, of the Harmonic Meeting at the Sol's Arms, wherethe sound of the piano through the partly opened windows jinglesout into the court, and where Little Swills, after keeping thelovers of harmony in a roar like a very Yorick, may now be heardtaking the gruff line in a concerted piece and sentimentallyadjuring his friends and patrons to "Listen, listen, listen, tewthe wa-ter fall!" Mrs. Perkins and Mrs. Piper compare opinions onthe subject of the young lady of professional celebrity who assistsat the Harmonic Meetings and who has a space to herself in themanuscript announcement in the window, Mrs. Perkins possessinginformation that she has been married a year and a half, thoughannounced as Miss M. Melvilleson, the noted siren, and that herbaby is clandestinely conveyed to the Sol's Arms every night toreceive its natural nourishment during the entertainments. "Soonerthan which, myself," says Mrs. Perkins, "I would get my living byselling lucifers." Mrs. Piper, as in duty bound, is of the sameopinion, holding that a private station is better than publicapplause, and thanking heaven for her own (and, by implication,Mrs. Perkins') respectability. By this time the pot-boy of theSol's Arms appearing with her supper-pint well frothed, Mrs. Piperaccepts that tankard and retires indoors, first giving a fair goodnight to Mrs. Perkins, who has had her own pint in her hand eversince it was fetched from the same hostelry by young Perkins beforehe 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; andshooting stars are seen in upper windows, further indicatingretirement to rest. Now, too, the policeman begins to push atdoors; to try fastenings; to be suspicious of bundles; and toadminister his beat, on the hypothesis that every one is eitherrobbing or being robbed.   It is a close night, though the damp cold is searching too, andthere is a laggard mist a little way up in the air. It is a finesteaming night to turn the slaughter-houses, the unwholesometrades, the sewerage, bad water, and burial-grounds to account, andgive the registrar of deaths some extra business. It may besomething in the air--there is plenty in it--or it may be somethingin himself that is in fault; but Mr. Weevle, otherwise Jobling, isvery ill at ease. He comes and goes between his own room and theopen street door twenty times an hour. He has been doing so eversince it fell dark. Since the Chancellor shut up his shop, whichhe did very early to-night, Mr. Weevle has been down and up, anddown and up (with a cheap tight velvet skull-cap on his head,making his whiskers look out of all proportion), oftener thanbefore.   It is no phenomenon that Mr. Snagsby should be ill at ease too, forhe always is so, more or less, under the oppressive influence ofthe secret that is upon him. Impelled by the mystery of which heis a partaker and yet in which he is not a sharer, Mr. Snagsbyhaunts what seems to be its fountain-head--the rag and bottle shopin the court. It has an irresistible attraction for him. Evennow, coming round by the Sol's Arms with the intention of passingdown the court, and out at the Chancery Lane end, and soterminating his unpremeditated after-supper stroll of ten minutes'   long from his own door and back again, Mr. Snagsby approaches.   "What, Mr. Weevle?" says the stationer, stopping to speak. "AreYOU there?""Aye!" says Weevle, "Here I am, Mr. Snagsby.""Airing yourself, as I am doing, before you go to bed?" thestationer inquires.   "Why, there's not much air to be got here; and what there is, isnot very freshening," Weevle answers, glancing up and down thecourt.   "Very true, sir. Don't you observe," says Mr. Snagsby, pausing tosniff and taste the air a little, "don't you observe, Mr. Weevle,that you're--not to put too fine a point upon it--that you'rerather greasy here, sir?""Why, I have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of flavourin the place to-night," Mr. Weevle rejoins. "I suppose it's chopsat the Sol's Arms.""Chops, do you think? Oh! Chops, eh?" Mr. Snagsby sniffs andtastes again. "Well, sir, I suppose it is. But I should say theircook at the Sol wanted a little looking after. She has beenburning 'em, sir! And I don't think"--Mr. Snagsby sniffs andtastes 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 freshwhen 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. Snagsby, "and I findit 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 andthen falling back a step to look up at the house. "I couldn't livein that room alone, as you do, sir. I should get so fidgety andworried of an evening, sometimes, that I should be driven to cometo the door and stand here sooner than sit there. But then it'svery true that you didn't see, in your room, what I saw there.   That makes a difference.""I know quite enough about it," returns Tony.   "It's not agreeable, is it?" pursues Mr. Snagsby, coughing hiscough of mild persuasion behind his hand. "Mr. Krook ought toconsider it in the rent. I hope he does, I 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, butthe law seems to put things up in price. Not," adds Mr. Snagsbywith his apologetic cough, "that I mean to say a word against theprofession I get my living by."Mr. Weevle again glances up and down the court and then looks atthe stationer. Mr. Snagsby, blankly catching his eye, looks upwardfor a star or so and coughs a cough expressive of not exactlyseeing his way out of this conversation.   "It's a curious fact, sir," he observes, slowly rubbing his hands,"that he should have been--""Who's he?" interrupts Mr. Weevle.   "The deceased, you know," says Mr. Snagsby, twitching his head andright eyebrow towards the staircase and tapping his acquaintance onthe button.   "Ah, to be sure!" returns the other as if he were not over-fond ofthe subject. "I thought we had done with him.""I was only going to say it's a curious fact, sir, that he shouldhave come and lived here, and been one of my writers, and then thatyou should come and live here, and be one of my writers too. Whichthere is nothing derogatory, but far from it in the appellation,"says Mr. Snagsby, breaking off with a mistrust that he may haveunpolitely asserted a kind of proprietorship in Mr. Weevle,"because I have known writers that have gone into brewers' housesand done really very respectable indeed. Eminently respectable,sir," adds Mr. Snagsby with a misgiving that he has not improvedthe matter.   "It's a curious coincidence, as you say," answers Weevle, once moreglancing 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 afraidI must bid you good night"--Mr. Snagsby speaks as if it made himdesolate to go, though he has been casting about for any means ofescape ever since he stopped to speak--"my little woman will belooking for me else. Good night, sir!"If Mr. Snagsby hastens home to save his little woman the trouble oflooking for him, he might set his mind at rest on that score. Hislittle woman has had her eye upon him round the Sol's Arms all thistime and now glides after him with a pocket handkerchief wrappedover her head, honourmg Mr. Weevle and his doorway with a searchingglance as she goes past.   "You'll know me again, ma'am, at all events," says Mr. Weevle tohimself; "and I can't compliment you on your appearance, whoeveryou are, with your head tied up in a bundle. Is this fellow NEVERcoming!"This fellow approaches as he speaks. Mr. Weevle softly holds uphis finger, and draws him into the passage, and closes the streetdoor. Then they go upstairs, Mr. Weevle heavily, and Mr. Guppy(for it is he) very lightly indeed. When they are shut into theback room, they speak low.   "I thought you had gone to Jericho at least instead of cominghere," says Tony.   "Why, I said about ten.""You said about ten," Tony repeats. "Yes, so you did say aboutten. But according to my count, it's ten times ten--it's a hundredo'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 herehave I been stewing and fuming in this jolly old crib till I havehad the horrors falling on me as thick as hail. THERE'S a blessed-looking candle!" says Tony, pointing to the heavily burning taperon his table with a great cabbage head and a long winding-sheet.   "That's easily improved," Mr. Guppy observes as he takes thesnuffers in hand.   "IS it?" returns his friend. "Not so easily as you think. It hasbeen smouldering like that ever since it was lighted.""Why, what's the matter with you, Tony?" inquires Mr. Guppy,looking at him, snuffers in hand, as he sits down with his elbow onthe table.   "William Guppy," replies the other, "I am in the downs. It's thisunbearably dull, suicidal room--and old Boguey downstairs, Isuppose." Mr. Weevle moodily pushes the snuffers-tray from himwith his elbow, leans his head on his hand, puts his feet on thefender, and looks at the fire. Mr. Guppy, observing him, slightlytosses his head and sits down on the other side of the table in aneasy attitude.   "Wasn't that Snagsby talking to you, Tony?""Yes, and he--yes, it was Snagsby," said Mr. Weevle, altering theconstruction of his sentence.   "On business?""No. No business. He was only sauntering by and stopped toprose.""I thought it was Snagsby," says Mr. Guppy, "and thought it as wellthat he shouldn't see me, so I waited till he was gone.""There we go again, William G.!" cried Tony, looking up for aninstant. "So mysterious and secret! By George, if we were goingto commit a murder, we couldn't have more mystery about it!"Mr. Guppy affects to smile, and with the view of changing theconversation, looks with an admiration, real or pretended, roundthe room at the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, terminating hissurvey with the portrait of Lady Dedlock over the mantelshelf, inwhich she is represented on a terrace, with a pedestal upon theterrace, and a vase upon the pedestal, and her shawl upon the vase,and a prodigious piece of fur upon the shawl, and her arm on theprodigious piece of fur, and a bracelet on her arm.   "That's very like Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Guppy. "It's a speakinglikeness.""I wish it was," growls Tony, without changing his position. "Ishould have some fashionable conversation, here, then."Finding by this time that his friend is not to be wheedled into amore sociable humour, Mr. Guppy puts about upon the ill-used tackand remonstrates with him.   "Tony," says he, "I can make allowances for lowness of spirits, forno man knows what it is when it does come upon a man better than Ido, and no man perhaps has a better right to know it than a man whohas an unrequited image imprinted on his 'eart. But there arebounds to these things when an unoffending party is in question,and I will acknowledge to you, Tony, that I don't think your manneron the present occasion is hospitable or quite gentlemanly.""This is strong language, William Guppy," returns Mr. Weevle.   "Sir, it may be," retorts Mr. William Guppy, "but I feel stronglywhen I use it."Mr. Weevle admits that he has been wrong and begs Mr. William Guppyto think no more about it. Mr. William Guppy, however, having gotthe advantage, cannot quite release it without a little moreinjured remonstrance.   "No! Dash it, Tony," says that gentleman, "you really ought to becareful how you wound the feelings of a man who has an unrequitedimage imprinted on his 'eart and who is NOT altogether happy inthose chords which vibrate to the tenderest emotions. You, Tony,possess in yourself all that is calculated to charm the eye andallure the taste. It is not--happily for you, perhaps, and I maywish that I could say the same--it is not your character to hoveraround one flower. The ole garden is open to you, and your airypinions carry you through it. Still, Tony, far be it from me, I amsure, to wound even your feelings without a cause!"Tony again entreats that the subject may be no longer pursued,saying emphatically, "William Guppy, drop it!" Mr. Guppyacquiesces, with the reply, "I never should have taken it up, Tony,of my own accord.""And now," says Tony, stirring the fire, "touching this same bundleof letters. Isn't it an extraordinary thing of Krook to haveappointed 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 hisbirthday and he'd hand 'em over to-night at twelve o'clock. He'llhave 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 sawhim to-night, about eight--helped him to shut up his shop--and hehad got the letters then in his hairy cap. He pulled it off andshowed 'em me. When the shop was closed, he took them out of hiscap, hung his cap on the chair-back, and stood turning them overbefore the fire. I heard him a little while afterwards, throughthe floor here, humming like the wind, the only song he knows--about Bibo, and old Charon, and Bibo being drunk when he died, orsomething or other. He has been as quiet since as an old ratasleep 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 ahundred.""Tony," says Mr. Guppy after considering a little with his legscrossed, "he 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 goton that much, under me; but he can't put them together. He's tooold to acquire the knack of it now--and too drunk.""Tony," says Mr. Guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, "how doyou suppose he spelt out that name of Hawdon?""He never spelt it out. You know what a curious power of eye hehas and how he has been used to employ himself in copying things byeye alone. He imitated it, evidently from the direction of aletter, and asked me what it meant.""Tony," says Mr. Guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs again,"should you say that the original was a man's writing or awoman's?""A woman's. Fifty to one a lady's--slopes a good deal, and the endof 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. Ashe is going to do so again, he happens to look at his coat-sleeve.   It takes his attention. He stares at it, aghast.   "Why, Tony, what on earth is going on in this house to-night? Isthere a chimney on fire?""Chimney on fire!""Ah!" returns Mr. Guppy. "See how the soot's falling. See here,on my arm! See again, on the table here! Confound the stuff, itwon't blow off--smears like black fat!"They look at one another, and Tony goes listening to the door, anda little way upstairs, and a little way downstairs. Comes back andsays it's all right and all quiet, and quotes the remark he latelymade to Mr. Snagsby about their cooking chops at the Sol's Arms.   "And it was then," resumes Mr. Guppy, still glancing withremarkable aversion at the coat-sleeve, as they pursue theirconversation before the fire, leaning on opposite sides of thetable, with their heads very near together, "that he told you ofhis having taken the bundle of letters from his lodger'sportmanteau?""That was the time, sir," answers Tony, faintly adjusting hiswhiskers. "Whereupon I wrote a line to my dear boy, the HonourableWilliam Guppy, informing him of the appointment for to-night andadvising him not to call before, Boguey being a slyboots."The light vivacious tone of fashionable life which is usuallyassumed by Mr. Weevle sits so ill upon him to-night that heabandons that and his whiskers together, and after looking over hisshoulder, appears to yield himself up a prey to the horrors again.   "You are to bring the letters to your room to read and compare, andto get yourself into a position to tell him all about them. That'sthe arrangement, isn't it, Tony?" asks Mr. Guppy, anxiously bitinghis 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 hissagacious head, advances it yet closer, and drops into a whisper.   "I tell you what. The first thing to be done is to make anotherpacket like the real one so that if he should ask to see the realone 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 withhis biting screw of an eye is about five hundred times more likelythan not," suggests Tony.   "Then we'll face it out. They don't belong to him, and they neverdid. You found that, and you placed them in my hands--a legalfriend of yours--for security. If he forces us to it, they'll beproducible, won't they?""Ye-es," is Mr. Weevle's reluctant admission.   "Why, Tony," remonstrates his friend, "how you look! You don'tdoubt William Guppy? You don't suspect any harm?""I don't suspect anything more than I know, William," returns theother gravely.   "And what do you know?" urges Mr. Guppy, raising his voice alittle; but on his friend's once more warning him, "I tell you, youcan't speak too low," he repeats his question without any sound atall, forming with his lips only the words, "What do you know?""I know three things. First, I know that here we are whispering insecrecy, a pair of conspirators.""Well!" says Mr. Guppy. "And we had better be that than a pair ofnoodles, which we should be if we were doing anything else, forit'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 beprofitable, after all."Mr. Guppy casts up his eyes at the portrait of Lady Dedlock overthe mantelshelf and replies, "Tony, you are asked to leave that tothe honour of your friend. Besides its being calculated to servethat friend in those chords of the human mind which--which need notbe called into agonizing vibration on the present occasion--yourfriend is no fool. What's that?""It's eleven o'clock striking by the bell of Saint Paul's. Listenand you'll hear all the bells in the city jangling."Both sit silent, listening to the metal voices, near and distant,resounding from towers of various heights, in tones more variousthan their situations. When these at length cease, all seems moremysterious and quiet than before. One disagreeable result ofwhispering is that it seems to evoke an atmosphere of silence,haunted by the ghosts of sound--strange cracks and tickings, therustling of garments that have no substance in them, and the treadof dreadful feet that would leave no mark on the sea-sand or thewinter snow. So sensitive the two friends happen to be that theair is full of these phantoms, and the two look over theirshoulders by one consent to see that the door is shut.   "Yes, Tony?" says Mr. Guppy, drawing nearer to the fire and bitinghis unsteady thumb-nail. "You were going to say, thirdly?""It's far from a pleasant thing to be plotting about a dead man inthe 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 seehow YOU like it.""As to dead men, Tony," proceeds Mr. Guppy, evading this proposal,"there have been dead men in most rooms.""I know there have, but in most rooms you let them alone, and--andthey let you alone," Tony answers.   The two look at each other again. Mr. Guppy makes a hurried remarkto the effect that they may be doing the deceased a service, thathe hopes so. There is an oppressive blank until Mr. Weevle, bystirring the fire suddenly, makes Mr. Guppy start as if his hearthad 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 tooclose."He raises the sash, and they both rest on the window-sill, half inand half out of the room. The neighbouring houses are too near toadmit of their seeing any sky without craning their necks andlooking up, but lights in frowsy windows here and there, and therolling of distant carriages, and the new expression that there isof the stir of men, they find to be comfortable. Mr. Guppy,noiselessly tapping on the window-sill, resumes his whisperirig inquite a light-comedy tone.   "By the by, Tony, don't forget old Smallweed," meaning the youngerof that name. "I have not let him into this, you know. Thatgrandfather 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. "Now, do you suppose hereally has got hold of any other papers of importance, as he hasboasted to you, since you have been such allies?"Tony shakes his head. "I don't know. Can't Imagine. If we getthrough this business without rousing his suspicions, I shall bebetter informed, no doubt. How can I know without seeing them,when he don't know himself? He is always spelling out words fromthem, and chalking them over the table and the shop-wall, andasking what this is and what that is; but his whole stock frombeginning to end may easily be the waste-paper he bought it as, foranything I can say. It's a monomania with him to think he ispossessed of documents. He has been going to learn to read themthis last quarter of a century, I should judge, from what he tellsme.""How did he first come by that idea, though? That's the question,"Mr. Guppy suggests with one eye shut, after a little forensicmeditation. "He may have found papers in something he bought,where papers were not supposed to be, and may have got it into hisshrewd head from the manner and place of their concealment thatthey are worth something.""Or he may have been taken in, in some pretended bargain. Or hemay have been muddled altogether by long staring at whatever he HASgot, and by drink, and by hanging about the Lord Chancellor's Courtand hearing of documents for ever," returns Mr. Weevle.   Mr. Guppy sitting on the window-sill, nodding his head andbalancing all these possibilities in his mind, continuesthoughtfully to tap it, and clasp it, and measure it with his hand,until he hastily draws his hand away.   "What, in the devil's name," he says, "is this! Look at myfingers!"A thick, yellow liquor defiles them, which is offensive to thetouch and sight and more offensive to the smell. A stagnant,sickening oil with some natural repulsion in it that makes themboth shudder.   "What have you been doing here? What have you been pouring out ofwindow?""I pouring out of window! Nothing, I swear! Never, since I havebeen here!" cries the lodger.   And yet look here--and look here! When he brings the candle here,from the corner of the window-sill, it slowly drips and creeps awaydown the bricks, here lies in a little thick nauseous pool.   "This is a horrible house," says Mr. Guppy, shutting down thewindow. "Give me some water or I shall cut my hand off."He so washes, and rubs, and scrubs, and smells, and washes, that hehas not long restored himself with a glass of brandy and stoodsilently before the fire when Saint Paul's bell strikes twelve andall those other bells strike twelve from their towers of variousheights in the dark air, and in their many tones. When all isquiet again, the lodger says, "It's the appointed time at last.   Shall I go?"Mr. Guppy nods and gives him a "lucky touch" on the back, but notwith the washed hand, though it is his right hand.   He goes downstairs, and Mr. Guppy tries to compose himself beforethe fire for waiting a long time. But in no more than a minute ortwo 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 histerror seizes the other, who 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 lookedin. And the burning smell is there--and the soot is there, and theoil is there--and he is not there!" Tony ends this with a groan.   Mr. Guppy takes the light. They go down, more dead than alive, andholding one another, push open the door of the back shop. The cathas retreated close to it and stands snarling, not at them, atsomething on the ground before the fire. There is a very littlefire left in the grate, but there is a smouldering, suffocatingvapour in the room and a dark, greasy coating on the walls andceiling. The chairs and table, and the bottle so rarely absentfrom the table, all stand as usual. On one chair-back hang the oldman's hairy cap and coat.   "Look!" whispers the lodger, pointing his friend's attention tothese objects with a trembling finger. "I told you so. When I sawhim last, he took his cap off, took out the little bundle of oldletters, hung his cap on the back of the chair--his coat was therealready, for he had pulled that off before he went to put theshutters 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 adirty bit of thin red cord that they tie up pens with. That wentround the letters. He undid it slowly, leering and laughing at me,before he began to turn them over, and threw it there. I saw itfall.""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 slowly, looking at all these things. The cat remainswhere they found her, still snarling at the something on the groundbefore the fire and between the two chairs. What is it? Hold upthe light.   Here is a small burnt patch of flooring; here is the tinder from alittle bundle of burnt paper, but not so light as usual, seeming tobe steeped in something; and here is--is it the cinder of a smallcharred and broken log of wood sprinkled with white ashes, or is itcoal? Oh, horror, he 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.   Help, help, help! Come into this house for heaven's sake! Plentywill come in, but none can help. The Lord Chancellor of thatcourt, true to his title in his last act, has died the death of alllord chancellors in all courts and of all authorities in all placesunder all names soever, where false pretences are made, and whereinjustice is done. Call the death by any name your Highness will,attribute it to whom you will, or say it might have been preventedhow you will, it is the same death eternally--inborn, inbred,engendered in the corrupted humours of the vicious body itself, andthat only--spontaneous combustion, and none other of all the deathsthat can be died. Chapter 33 Interlopers Now do those two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs andbuttons who attended the last coroner's inquest at the Sol's Armsreappear in the precincts with surprising swiftness (being, infact, breathlessly fetched by the active and intelligent beadle),and institute perquisitions through the court, and dive into theSol's parlour, and write with ravenous little pens on tissue-paper.   Now do they note down, in the watches of the night, how theneighbourhood of Chancery Lane was yesterday, at about midnight,thrown into a state of the most intense agitation and excitement bythe following alarming and horrible discovery. Now do they setforth how it will doubtless be remembered that some time back apainful sensation was created in the public mind by a case ofmysterious death from opium occurring in the first floor of thehouse occupied as a rag, bottle, and general marine store shop, byan eccentric individual of intemperate habits, far advanced inlife, named Krook; and how, by a remarkable coincidence, Krook wasexamined at the inquest, which it may be recollected was held onthat occasion at the Sol's Arms, a well-conducted tavernimmediately adjoining the premises in question on the west side andlicensed to a highly respectable landlord, Mr. James George Bogsby.   Now do they show (in as many words as possible) how during somehours of yesterday evening a very peculiar smell was observed bythe inhabitants of the court, in which the tragical occurrencewhich forms the subject of that present account transpired; andwhich odour was at one time so powerful that Mr. Swills, a comicvocalist professionally engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby, has himselfstated to our reporter that he mentioned to Miss M. Melvilleson, alady of some pretensions to musical ability, likewise engaged byMr. J. G. Bogsby to sing at a series of concerts called HarmonicAssemblies, or Meetings, which it would appear are held at theSol's Arms under Mr. Bogsby's direction pursuant to the Act ofGeorge the Second, that he (Mr. Swills) found his voice seriouslyaffected by the impure state of the atmosphere, his jocoseexpression 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. Swillsis entirely corroborated by two intelligent married femalesresiding in the same court and known respectively by the names ofMrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins, both of whom observed the foetideffluvia and regarded them as being emitted from the premises inthe occupation of Krook, the unfortunate deceased. All this and agreat deal more the two gentlemen who have formed an amicablepartnership in the melancholy catastrophe write down on the spot;and the boy population of the court (out of bed in a moment) swarmup the shutters of the Sol's Arms parlour, to behold the tops oftheir heads while they are about it.   The whole court, adult as well as boy, is sleepless for that night,and can do nothing but wrap up its many heads, and talk of the ill-fated house, and look at it. Miss Flite has been bravely rescuedfrom her chamber, as if it were in flames, and accommodated with abed at the Sol's Arms. The Sol neither turns off its gas nor shutsits door all night, for any kind of public excitement makes goodfor the Sol and causes the court to stand in need of comfort. Thehouse has not done so much in the stomachic article of cloves or inbrandy-and-water warm since the inquest. The moment the pot-boyheard what had happened, he rolled up his shirt-sleeves tight tohis shoulders and said, "There'll be a run upon us!" In the firstoutcry, young Piper dashed off for the fire-engines and returned intriumph at a jolting gallop perched up aloft on the Phoenix andholding on to that fabulous creature with all his might in themidst of helmets and torches. One helmet remains behind aftercareful investigation of all chinks and crannies and slowly pacesup and down before the house in company with one of the twopolicemen who have likewise been left in charge thereof. To thistrio everybody in the court possessed of sixpence has an insatiatedesire to exhibit hospitality in a liquid form.   Mr. Weevle and his friend Mr. Guppy are within the bar at the Soland are worth anything to the Sol that the bar contains if theywill only stay there. "This is not a time, says Mr. Bogsby, "tohaggle about money," though he looks something sharply after it,over the counter; "give your orders, you two gentlemen, and you'rewelcome to whatever you put a name to."Thus entreated, the two gentlemen (Mr. Weevle especially) put namesto so many things that in course of time they find it difficult toput a name to anything quite distinctly, though they still relateto all new-comers some version of the night they have had of it,and of what they said, and what they thought, and what they saw.   Meanwhile, one or other of the policemen often flits about thedoor, and pushing it open a little way at the full length of hisarm, looks 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 course, finding the court still outof bed through the unwonted hours, still treating and beingtreated, still conducting itself similarly to a court that has hada little money left it unexpectedly. Thus night at length withslow-retreating steps departs, and the lamp-lighter going hisrounds, like an executioner to a despotic king, strikes off thelittle heads of fire that have aspired to lessen the darkness.   Thus the day cometh, whether or no.   And the day may discern, even with its dim London eye, that thecourt has been up all night. Over and above the faces that havefallen drowsily on tables and the heels that lie prone on hardfloors instead of beds, the brick and mortar physiognomy of thevery court itself looks worn and jaded. And now the neighbourhood,waking up and beginning to hear of what has happened, comesstreaming in, half dressed, to ask questions; and the two policemenand the helmet (who are far less impressible externally than thecourt) have enough to do to keep the door.   "Good gracious, gentlemen!" says Mr. Snagsby, coming up. "What'sthis I hear!""Why, it's true," returns one of the policemen. "That's what itis. Now move on here, come!""Why, good gracious, gentlemen," says Mr. Snagsby, somewhatpromptly backed away, "I was at this door last night betwixt tenand eleven o'clock in conversation with the young man who lodgeshere.""Indeed?" returns the policeman. "You will find the young man nextdoor then. Now move on here, some of you,""Not hurt, I hope?" says Mr. Snagsby.   "Hurt? No. What's to hurt him!"Mr. Snagsby, wholly unable to answer this or any question in histroubled mind, repairs to the Sol's Arms and finds Mr. Weevlelanguishing over tea and toast with a considerable expression onhim of exhausted excitement and exhausted tobacco-smoke.   "And Mr. Guppy likewise!" quoth Mr. Snagsby. "Dear, dear, dear!   What a fate there seems in all this! And my lit--"Mr. Snagsby's power of speech deserts him in the formation of thewords "my little woman." For to see that injured female walk intothe Sol's Arms at that hour of the morning and stand before thebeer-engine, with her eyes fixed upon him like an accusing spirit,strikes him dumb.   "My dear," says Mr. Snagsby when his tongue is loosened, "will youtake anything? A little--not to put too fine a point upon it--dropof shrub?""No," says Mrs. Snagsby.   "My love, you know these two gentlemen?""Yes!" says Mrs. Snagsby, and in a rigid manner acknowledges theirpresence, still 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 doit.""I can't help my looks," says Mrs. Snagsby, "and if I could Iwouldn't."Mr. Snagsby, with his cough of meekness, rejoins, "Wouldn't youreally, my dear?" and meditates. Then coughs his cough of troubleand says, "This is a dreadful mystery, my love!" still fearfullydisconcerted by Mrs. Snagsby's eye.   "It IS," returns Mrs. Snagsby, shaking her head, "a dreadfulmystery.""My little woman," urges Mr. Snagsby in a piteous manner, "don'tfor goodness' sake speak to me with that bitter expression and lookat me in that searching way! I beg and entreat of you not to doit. Good Lord, you don't suppose that I would go spontaneouslycombusting any person, my dear?""I can't say," returns Mrs. Snagsby.   On a hasty review of his unfortunate position, Mr. Snagsby "can'tsay" either. He is not prepared positively to deny that he mayhave had something to do with it. He has had something--he don'tknow what--to do with so much in this connexion that is mysteriousthat it is possible he may even be implicated, without knowing it,in the present transaction. He faintly wipes his forehead with hishandkerchief and gasps.   "My life," says the unhappy stationer, "would you have anyobjections to mention why, being in general so delicatelycircumspect in your conduct, you come into a wine-vaults beforebreakfast?""Why do YOU come here?" inquires Mrs. Snagsby.   "My dear, merely to know the rights of the fatal accident which hashappened to the venerable party who has been--combusted." Mr.   Snagsby has made a pause to suppress a groan. "I should then haverelated them to you, my love, over 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 hisincreased confusion with a severe and sinister smile, "if you wouldcome 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 togo."Mr. Snagsby casts his eye forlornly round the bar, gives Messrs.   Weevle and Guppy good morning, assures them of the satisfactionwith which he sees them uninjured, and accompanies Mrs. Snagsbyfrom the Sol's Arms. Before night his doubt whether he may not beresponsible for some inconceivable part in the catastrophe which isthe talk of the whole neighbourhood is almost resolved intocertainty by Mrs. Snagsby's pertinacity in that fixed gaze. Hismental sufferings are so great that he entertains wandering ideasof delivering himself up to justice and requiring to be cleared ifinnocent and punished with the utmost rigour of the law if guilty.   Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, having taken their breakfast, step intoLincoln's Inn to take a little walk about the square and clear asmany of the dark cobwebs out of their brains as a little walk may.   "There can be no more favourable time than the present, Tony," saysMr. Guppy after they have broodingly made out the four sides of thesquare, "for a word or two between us upon a point on which wemust, with very little delay, come to an understanding.""Now, I tell you what, William G.!" returns the other, eyeing hiscompanion with a bloodshot eye. "If it's a point of conspiracy,you needn't take the trouble to mention it. I have had enough ofthat, and I ain't going to have any more. We shall have YOU takingfire next or blowing up with a bang."This supposititious phenomenon is so very disagreeable to Mr. Guppythat his voice quakes as he says in a moral way, "Tony, I shouldhave thought that what we went through last night would have been alesson to you never to be personal any more as long as you lived."To which Mr. Weevle returns, "William, I should have thought itwould have been a lesson to YOU never to conspire any more as longas you lived." To which Mr. Guppy says, "Who's conspiring?" Towhich Mr. Jobling replies, "Why, YOU are!" To which Mr. Guppyretorts, "No, I am not." To which Mr. Jobling retorts again, "Yes,you are!" To which Mr. Guppy retorts, "Who says so?" To which Mr.   Jobling retorts, "I say so!" To which Mr. Guppy retorts, "Oh,indeed?" To which Mr. Jobling retorts, "Yes, indeed!" And bothbeing now in a heated state, they walk on silently for a while tocool down again.   "Tony," says Mr. Guppy then, "if you heard your friend out insteadof flying at him, you wouldn't fall into mistakes. But your temperis hasty and you are not considerate. Possessing in yourself,Tony, all that is calculated to charm the eye--""Oh! Blow the eye!" cries Mr. Weevle, cutting him short. "Say whatyou have got to say!"Finding his friend in this morose and material condition, Mr. Guppyonly expresses the finer feelings of his soul through the tone ofinjury in which he recommences, "Tony, when I say there is a pointon which we must come to an understanding pretty soon, I say soquite apart from any kind of conspiring, however innocent. Youknow it is professionally arranged beforehand in all cases that aretried what facts the witnesses are to prove. Is it or is it notdesirable that we should know what facts we are to prove on theinquiry into the death of this unfortunate old mo--gentleman?"(Mr. Guppy was going to say "mogul," but thinks "gentleman" bettersuited to the circumstances.)"What facts? THE facts.""The facts bearing on that inquiry. Those are"--Mr. Guppy tellsthem off on his fingers--"what we knew of his habits, when you sawhim last, what his condition was then, the 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 hiseccentric way, an appointment with you at twelve o'clock at night,when you were to explain some writing to him as you had often donebefore on account of his not being able to read. I, spending theevening with you, was called down--and so forth. The inquiry beingonly into the circumstances touching the death of the deceased,it's not necessary to go beyond these facts, I suppose you'llagree?""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 this, Iwithdraw the observation.""Now, Tony," says Mr. Guppy, taking his arm again and walking himslowly on, "I should like to know, in a friendly way, whether youhave yet thought over the many advantages of your continuing tolive at that place?""What do you mean?" says Tony, stopping.   "Whether you have yet thought over the many advantages of yourcontinuing to live at that place?" repeats Mr. Guppy, walking himon again.   "At what place? THAT place?" pointing in the direction of the ragand bottle shop.   Mr. Guppy nods.   "Why, I wouldn't pass another night there for any considerationthat you could offer me," says Mr. Weevle, haggardly staring.   "Do you mean it though, Tony?""Mean it! Do I look as if I mean it? I feel as if I do; I knowthat," says Mr. Weevle with a very genuine shudder.   "Then the possibility or probability--for such it must beconsidered--of your never being disturbed in possession of thoseeffects lately belonging to a lone old man who seemed to have norelation in the world, and the certainty of your being able to findout what he really had got stored up there, don't weigh with you atall 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. Guppy, soothing him. "I have never livedthere and couldn't get a lodging there now, whereas you have gotone.""You are welcome to it," rejoins his friend, "and--ugh!--you maymake yourself at home in it.""Then you really and truly at this point," says Mr. Guppy, "give upthe 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 conversing, a hackney-coach drives into thesquare, on the box of which vehicle a very tall hat makes itselfmanifest to the public. Inside the coach, and consequently not somanifest to the multitude, though sufficiently so to the twofriends, for the coach stops almost at their feet, are thevenerable Mr. Smallweed and Mrs. Smallweed, accompanied by theirgranddaughter Judy.   An air of haste and excitement pervades the party, and as the tallhat (surmounting Mr. Smallweed the younger) alights, Mr. Smallweedthe elder pokes his head out of window and bawls to Mr. Guppy, "Howde do, sir! How de do!""What do Chick and his family want here at this time of themorning, I wonder!" says Mr. Guppy, nodding to his familiar.   "My dear sir," cries Grandfather Smallweed, "would you do me afavour? Would you and your friend be so very obleeging as to carryme into the public-house in the court, while Bart and his sisterbring their grandmother along? Would you do an old man that goodturn, sir?"Mr. Guppy looks at his friend, repeating inquiringly, "The public-house in the court?" And they prepare to bear the venerable burdento the Sol's Arms.   "There's your fare!" says the patriarch to the coachman with afierce grin and shaking his incapable fist at him. "Ask me for apenny more, and I'll have my lawful revenge upon you. My dearyoung men, be easy with me, if you please. Allow me to catch youround the neck. I won't squeeze you tighter than I can help. Oh,Lord! Oh, dear me! Oh, my bones!"It is well that the Sol is not far off, for Mr. Weevle presents anapoplectic appearance before half the distance is accomplished.   With no worse aggravation of his symptoms, however, than theutterance of divers croaking sounds expressive of obstructedrespiration, he fulils his share of the porterage and thebenevolent old gentleman is deposited by his own desire in theparlour of the Sol's Arms.   "Oh, Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed, looking about him, breathless,from an arm-chair. "Oh, dear me! Oh, my bones and back! Oh, myaches and pains! Sit down, you dancing, prancing, shambling,scrambling poll-parrot! Sit down!"This little apostrophe to Mrs. Smallweed is occasioned by apropensity on the part of that unlucky old lady whenever she findsherself on her feet to amble about and "set" to inanimate objects,accompanying herself with a chattering noise, as in a witch dance.   A nervous affection has probably as much to do with thesedemonstrations as any imbecile intention in the poor old woman, buton the present occasion they are so particularly lively inconnexion with the Windsor arm-chair, fellow to that in which Mr.   Smallweed is seated, that she only quite desists when hergrandchildren have held her down in it, her lord in the meanwhilebestowing upon her, with great volubility, the endearing epithet of"a pig-headed jackdaw," repeated a surprising number of times.   "My dear sir," Grandfather Smallweed then proceeds, addressing Mr.   Guppy, "there 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 discoveredit!"The two discoverers stare at the Smallweeds, who return thecompliment.   "My dear friends," whines Grandfather Smallweed, putting out bothhis hands, "I owe you a thousand thanks for discharging themelancholy office of discovering the ashes of Mrs. Smallweed'sbrother.""Eh?" says Mr. Guppy.   "Mrs. Smallweed's brother, my dear friend--her only relation. Wewere not on terms, which is to be deplored now, but he never WOULDbe on terms. He was not fond of us. He was eccentric--he was veryeccentric. Unless he has left a will (which is not at all likely)I shall take out letters of administration. I have come down tolook after the property; it must be sealed up, it must beprotected. I have come down," repeats Grandfather Smallweed,hooking the air towards him with all his ten fingers at once, "tolook after the property.""I think, Small," says the disconsolate Mr. Guppy, "you might havementioned that the old man was your uncle.""You two were so close about him that I thought you would like meto be the same," returns that old bird with a secretly glisteningeye. "Besides, I wasn't proud of him.""Besides which, it was nothing to you, you know, whether he was ornot," says Judy. Also with a secretly glistening eye.   "He never saw me in his life to know me," observed Small; "I don'tknow why I should introduce HIM, I am sure!""No, he never communicated with us, which is to be deplored," theold gentleman strikes in, "but I have come to look after theproperty--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 sogood as to act as my solicitor; and grass don't grow under HISfeet, I can tell ye. Krook was Mrs. Smallweed's only brother; shehad 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 bagsof money! Seventy-six hundred thousand million of parcels of bank-notes!""Will somebody give me a quart pot?" exclaims her exasperatedhusband, looking helplessly about him and finding no missile withinhis reach. "Will somebody obleege me with a spittoon? Willsomebody hand me anything hard and bruising to pelt at her? Youhag, you cat, you dog, you brimstone barker!" Here Mr. Smallweed,wrought up to the highest pitch by his own eloquence, actuallythrows Judy at her grandmother in default of anything else, bybutting that young virgin at the old lady with such force as he canmuster and then dropping into his chair in a heap.   "Shake me up, somebody, if you'll he so good," says the voice fromwithin the faintly struggling bundle into which he has collapsed.   "I have come to look after the property. Shake me up, and call inthe police on duty at the next house to be explained to about theproperty. My solicitor will be here presently to protect theproperty. Transportation or the gallows for anybody who shalltouch the property!" As his dutiful grandchildren set him up,panting, and putting him through the usual restorative process ofshaking and punching, he still repeats like an echo, "The--theproperty! The property! Property!"Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy look at each other, the former as havingrelinquished the whole affair, the latter with a discomfitedcountenance as having entertained some lingering expectations yet.   But there is nothing to be done in opposition to the Smallweedinterest. Mr. Tulkinghorn's clerk comes down from his official pewin the chambers to mention to the police that Mr. Tulkinghorn isanswerable for its being all correct about the next of kin and thatthe papers and effects will be formally taken possession of in duetime and course. Mr. Smallweed is at once permitted so far toassert his supremacy as to be carried on a visit of sentiment intothe next house and upstairs into Miss Flite's deserted room, wherehe looks like a hideous bird of prey newly added to her aviary.   The arrival of this unexpected heir soon taking wind in the courtstill makes good for the Sol and keeps the court upon its mettle.   Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins think it hard upon the young man ifthere really is no will, and consider that a handsome present oughtto be made him out of the estate. Young Piper and young Perkins,as members of that restless juvenile circle which is the terror ofthe foot-passengers in Chancery Lane, crumble into ashes behind thepump and under the archway all day long, where wild yells andhootings 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 betweenprofessionals and non-professionals. Mr. Bogsby puts up "Thepopular song of King Death, with chorus by the whole strength ofthe company," as the great Harmonic feature of the week andannounces in the bill that "J. G. B. is induced to do so at aconsiderable extra expense in consequence of a wish which has beenvery generally expressed at the bar by a large body of respectableindividuals and in homage to a late melancholy event which hasaroused so much sensation." There is one point connected with thedeceased upon which the court is particularly anxious, namely, thatthe fiction of a full-sized coffin should be preserved, thoughthere is so little to put in it. Upon the undertaker's stating inthe Sol's bar in the course of the day that he has received ordersto construct "a six-footer," the general solicitude is muchrelieved, and it is considered that Mr. Smallweed's conduct doeshim great honour.   Out of the court, and a long way out of it, there is considerableexcitement too, for men of science and philosophy come to look, andcarriages set down doctors at the corner who arrive with the sameintent, and there is more learned talk about inflammable gases andphosphuretted hydrogen than the court has ever imagined. Some ofthese authorities (of course the wisest) hold with indignation thatthe deceased had no business to die in the alleged manner; andbeing reminded by other authorities of a certain inquiry into theevidence for such deaths reprinted in the sixth volume of thePhilosophical Transactions; and also of a book not quite unknown onEnglish medical jurisprudence; and likewise of the Italian case ofthe Countess Cornelia Baudi as set forth in detail by oneBianchini, prebendary of Verona, who wrote a scholarly work or soand was occasionally heard of in his time as having gleams ofreason in him; and also of the testimony of Messrs. Fodere andMere, two pestilent Frenchmen who WOULD investigate the subject;and further, of the corroborative testimony of Monsieur Le Cat, arather celebrated French surgeon once upon a time, who had theunpoliteness to live in a house where such a case occurred and evento write an account of it--still they regard the late Mr. Krook'sobstinacy in going out of the world by any such by-way as whollyunjustifiable and personally offensive. The less the courtunderstands of all this, the more the court likes it, and thegreater enjoyment it has in the stock in trade of the Sol's Arms.   Then there comes the artist of a picture newspaper, with aforeground and figures ready drawn for anything from a wreck on theCornish coast to a review in Hyde Park or a meeting in Manchester,and in Mrs. Perkins' own room, memorable evermore, he then andthere 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 fatalchamber, he depicts that apartment as three-quarters of a mile longby fifty yards high, at which the court is particularly charmed.   All this time the two gentlemen before mentioned pop in and out ofevery house and assist at the philosophical disputations--goeverywhere and listen to everybody--and yet are always diving intothe Sol's parlour and writing with the ravenous little pens on thetissue-paper.   At last come the coroner and his inquiry, like as before, exceptthat the coroner cherishes this case as being out of the common wayand tells the gentlemen of the jury, in his private capacity, that"that would seem to be an unlucky house next door, gentlemen, adestined house; but so we sometimes find it, and these aremysteries we can't account for!" After which the six-footer comesinto action and is much admired.   In all these proceedings Mr. Guppy has so slight a part, exceptwhen he gives his evidence, that he is moved on like a privateindividual and can only haunt the secret house on the outside,where he has the mortification of seeing Mr. Smallweed padlockingthe door, and of bitterly knowing himself to be shut out. Butbefore these proceedings draw to a close, that is to say, on thenight next after the catastrophe, Mr. Guppy has a thing to say thatmust be said to Lady Dedlock.   For which reason, with a sinking heart and with that hang-dog senseof guilt upon him which dread and watching enfolded in the Sol'sArms have produced, the young man of the name of Guppy presentshimself at the town mansion at about seven o'clock in the eveningand requests to see her ladyship. Mercury replies that she isgoing 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 Ladytoo.   Mercury is disposed, as he will presently declare to a fellow-gentleman in waiting, "to pitch into the young man"; but hisinstructions are positive. Therefore he sulkily supposes that theyoung man must come up into the library. There he leaves the youngman in a large room, not over-light, while he makes report of him.   Mr. Guppy looks into the shade in all directions, discoveringeverywhere a certain charred and whitened little heap of coal orwood. Presently he hears a rustling. Is it--? No, it's no ghost,but fair flesh and blood, most brilliantly dressed.   "I have to beg your ladyship's pardon," Mr. Guppy stammers, verydowncast. "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 downand detaining you, for I--I have not got the letters that Imentioned 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 beingdepressed, disappointed, and uneasy, is put at a furtherdisadvantage by the splendour and beauty of her appearance.   She knows its influence perfectly, has studied it too well to missa grain of its effect on any one. As she looks at him so steadilyand coldly, he not only feels conscious that he has no guide in theleast perception of what is really the complexion of her thoughts,but also that he is being every moment, as it were, removed furtherand further from her.   She will not speak, it is plain. So he must.   "In short, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy like a meanly penitentthief, "the person I was to have had the letters of, has come to asudden end, and--" He stops. Lady Dedlock calmly finishes thesentence.   "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 thing, even if that brave outside did notutterly put him away, and he were not looking beyond it and aboutit.   He falters an awkward excuse or two for his failure.   "Is this all you have to say?" inquires Lady Dedlock, having heardhim 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 atpresent, by any means.   "That is enough. I will dispense with excuses. Good evening toyou!" And she rings for Mercury to show the young man of the nameof Guppy out.   But in that house, in that same moment, there happens to be an oldman of the name of Tulkinghorn. And that old man, coming with hisquiet footstep to the library, has his hand at that moment on thehandle of the door--comes in--and comes face to face with the youngman as he is leaving the room.   One glance between the old man and the lady, and for an instant theblind that is always down flies up. Suspicion, eager and sharp,looks out. Another instant, close again.   "I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. I beg your pardon a thousandtimes. It is so very unusual to find you here at this hour. Isupposed the room was empty. I beg your pardon!""Stay!" She negligently calls him back. "Remain here, I beg. Iam going out to dinner. I have nothing more to say to this youngman!"The disconcerted young man bows, as he goes out, and cringinglyhopes that Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields is well.   "Aye, aye?" says the lawyer, looking at him from under his bentbrows, though he has no need to look again--not he. "From Kengeand Carboy's, surely?""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 creditof the profession.""Thank you, Mr. Guppy!"Mr. Guppy sneaks away. Mr. Tulkinghorn, such a foil in his old-fashioned rusty black to Lady Dedlock's brightness, hands her downthe staircase to her carriage. He returns rubbing his chin, andrubs it a good deal in the course of the evening. Chapter 34 A Turn of the Screw "Now, what," says Mr. George, "may this be? Is it blank cartridgeor ball? A flash in the pan or a shot?"An open letter is the subject of the trooper's speculations, and itseems to perplex him mightily. He looks at it at arm's length,brings it close to him, holds it in his right hand, holds it in hisleft hand, reads it with his head on this side, with his head onthat side, contracts his eyebrows, elevates them, still cannotsatisfy himself. He smooths it out upon the table with his heavypalm, and thoughtfully walking up and down the gallery, makes ahalt 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, "blankcartridge or ball?"Phil Squod, with the aid of a brush and paint-pot, is employed inthe distance whitening the targets, softly whistling in quick-marchtime and in drum-and-fife manner that he must and will go backagain to the girl he left behind him.   "Phil!" The trooper beckons as he calls him.   Phil approaches in his usual way, sidling off at first as if hewere going anywhere else and then bearing down upon his commanderlike a bayonet-charge. Certain splashes of white show in highrelief upon his dirty face, and he scrapes his one eyebrow with thehandle of the brush.   "Attention, Phil! Listen to this.""Steady, commander, steady.""'Sir. Allow me to remind you (though there is no legal necessityfor 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 takeup the same on presentation. Yours, Joshua Smallweed.' What doyou make of that, Phil?""Mischief, guv'ner.""Why?""I think," replies Phil after pensively tracing out a cross-wrinklein his forehead with the brush-handle, "that mischeeviousconsequences is always meant when money's asked for.""Lookye, Phil," says the trooper, sitting on the table. "First andlast, I have paid, I may say, half as much again as this principalin interest and one thing and another."Phil intimates by sidling back a pace or two, with a veryunaccountable wrench of his wry face, that he does not regard thetransaction as being made more promising by this incident.   "And lookye further, Phil," says the trooper, staying his prematureconclusions with a wave of his hand. "There has always been anunderstanding that this bill was to be what they call renewed. Andit 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 gravity, "he's a leech in hisdispositions, he's a screw and a wice in his actions, a snake inhis twistings, and a lobster in his claws."Having thus expressively uttered his sentiments, Mr. Squod, afterwaiting a little to ascertain if any further remark be expected ofhim, gets back by his usual series of movements to the target hehas in hand and vigorously signifies through his former musicalmedium that he must and he will return to that ideal young lady.   George, having folded the letter, walks in that direction.   "There IS a way, commander," says Phil, looking cunningly at him,"of settling this.""Paying the money, I suppose? I wish I could."Phil shakes his head. "No, guv'ner, no; not so bad as that. ThereIS 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 theBagnets in that case? Do you know they would be ruined to pay offmy old scores? YOU'RE a moral character," says the trooper, eyeinghim in his large way with no small indignation; "upon my life youare, Phil!"Phil, on one knee at the target, is in course of protestingearnestly, though not without many allegorical scoops of his brushand smoothings of the white surface round the rim with his thumb,that he had forgotten the Bagnet responsibility and would not somuch as injure a hair of the head of any member of that worthyfamily when steps are audible in the long passage without, and acheerful voice is heard to wonder whether George is at home. Phil,with a look at his master, hobbles up, saying, "Here's the guv'ner,Mrs. Bagnet! Here he is!" and the old girl herself, accompanied byMr. Bagnet, appears.   The old girl never appears in walking trim, in any season of theyear, without a grey cloth cloak, coarse and much worn but veryclean, which is, undoubtedly, the identical garment rendered sointeresting to Mr. Bagnet by having made its way home to Europefrom another quarter of the globe in company with Mrs. Bagnet andan umbrella. The latter faithful appendage is also invariably apart of the old girl's presence out of doors. It is of no colourknown in this life and has a corrugated wooden crook for a handle,with a metallic object let into its prow, or beak, resembling alittle model of a fanlight over a street door or one of the ovalglasses out of a pair of spectacles, which ornamental object hasnot that tenacious capacity of sticking to its post that might bedesired in an article long associated with the British army. Theold girl's umbrella is of a flabby habit of waist and seems to bein need of stays--an appearance that is possibly referable to itshaving served through a series of years at home as a cupboard andon journeys as a carpet bag. She never puts it up, having thegreatest reliance on her well-proved cloak with its capacious hood,but generally uses the instrument as a wand with which to point outjoints of meat or bunches of greens in marketing or to arrest theattention of tradesmen by a friendly poke. Without her market-basket, which is a sort of wicker well with two flapping lids, shenever stirs abroad. Attended by these her trusty companions,therefore, her honest sunburnt face looking cheerily out of a roughstraw bonnet, Mrs. Bagnet now arrives, fresh-coloured and bright,in George's Shooting Gallery.   "Well, George, old fellow," says she, "and how do YOU do, thissunshiny morning?"Giving him a friendly shake of the hand, Mrs. Bagnet draws a longbreath after her walk and sits down to enjoy a rest. Having afaculty, matured on the tops of baggage-waggons and in other suchpositions, of resting easily anywhere, she perches on a roughbench, unties her bonnet-strings, pushes back her bonnet, crossesher arms, and looks perfectly comfortable.   Mr. Bagnet in the meantime has shaken hands with his old comradeand with Phil, on whom Mrs. Bagnet likewise bestows a good-humourednod and smile.   "Now, George," said Mrs. Bagnet briskly, "here we are, Lignum andmyself"--she often speaks of her husband by this appellation, onaccount, as it is supposed, of Lignum Vitae having been his oldregimental nickname when they first became acquainted, incompliment to the extreme hardness and toughness of hisphysiognomy--"just looked in, we have, to make it all correct asusual about that security. Give him the new bill to sign, George,and he'll sign it like a man.""I was coming to you this morning," observes the trooperreluctantly.   "Yes, we thought you'd come to us this morning, but we turned outearly and left Woolwich, the best of boys, to mind his sisters andcame to you instead--as you see! For Lignum, he's tied so closenow, and gets so little exercise, that a walk does him good. Butwhat's the matter, George?" asks Mrs. Bagnet, stopping in hercheerful talk. "You don't look yourself.""I am not quite myself," returns the trooper; "I have been a littleput out, Mrs. Bagnet."Her bright quick eye catches the truth directly. "George!" holdingup her forefinger. "Don't tell me there's anything wrong aboutthat security of Lignum's! Don't do it, George, on account of thechildren!"The trooper looks at her with a troubled visage.   "George," says Mrs. Bagnet, using both her arms for emphasis andoccasionally bringing down her open hands upon her knees. "If youhave allowed anything wrong to come to that security of Lignum's,and if you have let him in for it, and if you have put us in dangerof being sold up--and I see sold up in your face, George, as plainas print--you have done a shameful action and have deceived uscruelly. I tell you, cruelly, George. There!"Mr. Bagnet, otherwise as immovable as a pump or a lamp-post, putshis large right hand on the top of his bald head as if to defend itfrom a shower-bath and looks with great uneasiness at Mrs. Bagnet.   "George," says that old girl, "I wonder at you! George, I amashamed of you! George, I couldn't have believed you would havedone it! I always knew you to be a rolling sone that gathered nomoss, but I never thought you would have taken away what littlemoss there was for Bagnet and the children to lie upon. You knowwhat a hard-working, steady-going chap he is. You know what Quebecand Malta and Woolwich are, and I never did think you would, orcould, have had the heart to serve us so. Oh, George!" Mrs.   Bagnet gathers up her cloak to wipe her eyes on in a very genuinemanner, "How could you do it?"Mrs. Bagnet ceasing, Mr. Bagnet removes his hand from his head asif the shower-bath were over and looks disconsolately at Mr.   George, who has turned quite white and looks distressfully at thegrey cloak and straw bonnet.   "Mat," says the trooper in a subdued voice, addressing him butstill looking at his wife, "I am sorry you take it so much toheart, because I do hope it's not so bad as that comes to. Icertainly have, this morning, received this letter"--which he readsaloud--"but I hope it may be set right yet. As to a rolling stone,why, what you say is true. I AM a rolling stone, and I neverrolled in anybody's way, I fully believe, that I rolled the leastgood to. But it's impossible for an old vagabond comrade to likeyour wife and family better than I like 'em, Mat, and I trustyou'll look upon me as forgivingly as you can. Don't think I'vekept anything from you. I haven't had the letter more than aquarter of an hour.""Old girl," murmurs Mr. Bagnet after a short silence, "will youtell him my opinion?""Oh! Why didn't he marry," Mrs. Bagnet answers, half laughing andhalf crying, "Joe Pouch's widder in North America? Then hewouldn't have got himself into these troubles.""The old girl," says Mr. Baguet, "puts it correct--why didn't you?""Well, she has a better husband by this time, I hope," returns thetrooper. "Anyhow, here I stand, this present day, NOT married toJoe Pouch's widder. What shall I do? You see all I have got aboutme. It's not mine; it's yours. Give the word, and I'll sell offevery morsel. If I could have hoped it would have brought innearly the sum wanted, I'd have sold all long ago. Don't believethat I'll leave you or yours in the lurch, Mat. I'd sell myselffirst. I only wish," says the trooper, giving himself adisparaging blow in the chest, "that I knew of any one who'd buysuch a second-hand piece of old stores.""Old girl," murmurs Mr. Bagnet, "give him another bit of my mind.""George," says the old girl, "you are not so much to be blamed, onfull consideration, except for ever taking this business withoutthe means.""And that was like me!" observes the penitent trooper, shaking hishead. "Like me, I know.""Silence! The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "is correct--in her wayof 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 thingsconsidered. But what's done can't be undone. You are always anhonourable and straightforward fellow, as far as lays in yourpower, though a little flighty. On the other hand, you can't admitbut what it's natural in us to be anxious with such a thing hangingover our heads. So forget and forgive all round, George. Come!   Forget and forgive all round!"Mrs. Bagnet, giving him one of her honest hands and giving herhusband the other, Mr. George gives each of them one of his andholds them while he speaks.   "I do assure you both, there's nothing I wouldn't do to dischargethis obligation. But whatever I have been able to scrape togetherhas gone every two months in keeping it up. We have lived plainlyenough here, Phil and I. But the gallery don't quite do what wasexpected of it, and it's not--in short, it's not the mint. It waswrong in me to take it? Well, so it was. But I was in a mannerdrawn into that step, and I thought it might steady me, and set meup, and you'll try to overlook my having such expectations, andupon my soul, I am very much obliged to you, and very much ashamedof myself." With these concluding words, Mr. George gives a shaketo each of the hands he holds, and relinquishing them, backs a paceor two in a broad-chested, upright attitude, as if he had made afinal confession and were immediately going to be shot with allmilitary honours.   "George, hear me out!" says Mr. Bagnet, glancing at his wife. "Oldgirl, go on!"Mr. Bagnet, being in this singular manner heard out, has merely toobserve that the letter must be attended to without any delay, thatit is advisable that George and he should immediately wait on Mr.   Smallweed in person, and that the primary object is to save andhold harmless Mr. Bagnet, who had none of the money. Mr. George,entirely assenting, puts 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 you, and Iam sure you'll bring him through it."The trooper returns that this is kindly said and that he WILL bringLignum through it somehow. Upon which Mrs. Bagnet, with her cloak,basket, and umbrella, goes home, bright-eyed again, to the rest ofher family, and the comrades sally forth on the hopeful errand ofmollifying Mr. Smallweed.   Whether there are two people in England less likely to comesatisfactorily out of any negotiation with Mr. Smallweed than Mr.   George and Mr. Matthew Bagnet may be very reasonably questioned.   Also, notwithstanding their martial appearance, broad squareshoulders, and heavy tread, whether there are within the samelimits two more simple and unaccustomed children in all theSmallweedy affairs of life. As they proceed with great gravitythrough the streets towards the region of Mount Pleasant, Mr.   Bagnet, observing his companion to be thoughtful, considers it afriendly 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 likegunpowder.""It does her credit, Mat!""George," says Mr. Bagnet, looking straight before him, "the oldgirl--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'sweight--is twelve stone six. Would I take that weight--in anymetal--for the old girl? No. Why not? Because the old girl'smetal is far more precious---than the preciousest metal. And she'sALL metal!""You are right, Mat!""When she took me--and accepted of the ring--she 'listed under meand the children--heart and head, for life. She's that earnest,"says Mr. Bagnet, "and true to her colours--that, touch us with afinger--and she turns out--and stands to her arms. If the old girlfires wide--once in a way--at the call of duty--look over it,George. For she's loyal!""Why, bless her, Mat," returns the trooper, "I think the higher ofher for it!""You are right!" says Mr. Bagnet with the warmest enthusiasm,though without relaxing the rigidity of a single muscle. "Think ashigh of the old girl--as the rock of Gibraltar--and still you'll bethinking 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 GrandfatherSmallweed's house. The door is opened by the perennial Judy, who,having surveyed them from top to toe with no particular favour, butindeed with a malignant sneer, leaves them standing there while sheconsults the oracle as to their admission. The oracle may beinferred to give consent from the circumstance of her returningwith the words on her honey lips that they can come in if they wantto it. Thus privileged, they come in and find Mr. Smallweed withhis feet in the drawer of his chair as if it were a paper foot-bathand Mrs. Smallweed obscured with the cushion like a bird that isnot to sing.   "My dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed with those two leanaffectionate arms of his stretched forth. "How de do? How de do?   Who is our friend, my dear friend?""Why this," returns George, not able to be very conciliatory atfirst, "is Matthew Bagnet, who has obliged me in that matter ofours, you know.""Oh! Mr. Bagnet? Surely!" The old man looks at him under hishand.   "Hope you're well, Mr. Bagnet? Fine man, Mr. George! Militaryair, sir!"No chairs being offered, Mr. George brings one forward for Bagnetand one for himself. They sit down, Mr. Bagnet as if he had nopower of bending himself, except at the hips, for that purpose.   "Judy," says Mr. Smallweed, "bring the pipe.""Why, I don't know," Mr. George interposes, "that the young womanneed give herself that trouble, for to tell you the truth, I am notinclined to smoke it to-day.""Ain't you?" returns the old man. "Judy, bring the pipe.""The fact is, Mr. Smallweed," proceeds George, "that I find myselfin rather an unpleasant state of mind. It appears to me, sir, thatyour 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 mightbe HIS doing. This, you know, I am speaking of. This letter."Grandfather Smallweed smiles in a very ugly way in recognition ofthe 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 mean, my good friend?""Aye! Now, come, come, you know, Mr. Smallweed," urges thetrooper, constraining himself to speak as smoothly andconfidentially as he can, holding the open letter in one hand andresting the broad knuckles of the other on his thigh, "a good lotof money has passed between us, and we are face to face at thepresent moment, and are both well aware of the understanding therehas always been. I am prepared to do the usual thing which I havedone regularly and to keep this matter going. I never got a letterlike this from you before, and I have been a little put about by itthis morning, because here's my friend Matthew Bagnet, who, youknow, 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 Idon't know it.""Well!" says the trooper, swallowing his fire. "I know it."Mr. Smallweed replies with excellent temper, "Ah! That's quiteanother thing!" And adds, "But it don't matter. Mr. Bagnet'ssituation is all one, whether or no."The unfortunate George makes a great effort to arrange the affaircomfortably and to propitiate Mr. Smallweed by taking him upon hisown terms.   "That's just what I mean. As you say, Mr. Smallweed, here'sMatthew Bagnet liable to be fixed whether or no. Now, you see,that makes his good lady very uneasy in her mind, and me too, forwhereas I'm a harurn-scarum sort of a good-for-nought that morekicks than halfpence come natural to, why he's a steady family man,don't you see? Now, Mr. Smallweed," says the trooper, gainingconfidence as he proceeds in his soldierly mode of doing business,"although you and I are good friends enough in a certain sort of away, I am well aware that I can't ask you to let my friend Bagnetoff entirely.""Oh, dear, you are too modest. You can ASK me anything, Mr.   George." (There is an ogreish kind of jocularity in GrandfatherSmallweed to-day.)"And you can refuse, you mean, eh? Or not you so much, perhaps, asyour friend in the city? Ha ha ha!""Ha ha ha!" echoes Grandfather Smallweed. In such a very hardmanner and with eyes so particularly green that Mr. Bagnet'snatural gravity is much deepened by the contemplation of thatvenerable man.   "Come!" says the sanguine George. "I am glad to find we can bepleasant, because I want to arrange this pleasantly. Here's myfriend Bagnet, and here am I. We'll settle the matter on the spot,if you please, Mr. Smallweed, in the usual way. And you'll ease myfriend Bagnet's mind, and his family's mind, a good deal if you'lljust mention to him what our understanding is."Here some shrill spectre cries out in a mocking manner, "Oh, goodgracious! Oh!" Unless, indeed, it be the sportive Judy, who isfound to be silent when the startled visitors look round, but whosechin has received a recent toss, expressive of derision andcontempt. Mr. Bagnet's gravity becomes yet more profound.   "But I think you asked me, Mr. George"--old Smallweed, who all thistime has had the pipe in his hand, is the speaker now--"I think youasked me, what did the letter mean?""Why, yes, I did," returns the trooper in his off-hand way, "but Idon't care to know particularly, if it's all correct and pleasant."Mr. Smallweed, purposely balking himself in an aim at the trooper'shead, throws the pipe on the ground and breaks it to pieces.   "That's what it means, my dear friend. I'll smash you. I'llcrumble you. I'll powder you. Go to the devil!"The two friends rise and look at one another. Mr. Bagnet's gravityhas now attained its profoundest point.   "Go to the devil!" repeats the old man. "I'll have no more of yourpipe-smokings and swaggerings. What? You're an independentdragoon, too! Go to my lawyer (you remember where; you have beenthere before) and show your independeuce now, will you? Come, mydear friend, there's a chance for you. Open the street door, Judy;put these blusterers out! Call in help if they don't go. Put 'emout!"He vociferates this so loudly that Mr. Bagnet, laying his hands onthe shoulders of his comrade before the latter can recover from hisamazement, gets him on the outside of the street door, which isinstantly slammed by the triumphant Judy. Utterly confounded, Mr.   George awhile stands looking at the knocker. Mr. Bagnet, in aperfect abyss of gravity, walks up and down before the littleparlour 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 himself, "wemust try the lawyer. Now, what do you think of this rascal?"Mr. Bagnet, stopping to take a farewell look into the parlour,replies with one shake of his head directed at the interior, "If myold girl had been here--I'd have told him!" Having so dischargedhimself of the subject of his cogitations, he falls into step andmarches off with the trooper, shoulder to shoulder.   When they present themselves in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Mr.   Tulkinghorn is engaged and not to be seen. He is not at allwilling to see them, for when they have waited a full hour, and theclerk, on his bell being rung, takes the opportunity of mentioningas much, he brings forth no more encouraging message than that Mr.   Tulkinghorn has nothing to say to them and they had better notwait. They do wait, however, with the perseverance of militarytactics, and at last the bell rings again and the client inpossession comes out of Mr. Tulkinghorn's room.   The client is a handsome old lady, no other than Mrs. Rouncewell,housekeeper at Chesney Wold. She comes out of the sanctuary with afair old-fashioned curtsy and softly shuts the door. She istreated with some distinction there, for the clerk steps out of hispew to show her through the outer office and to let her out. Theold lady is thanking him for his attention when she observes thecomrades in waiting.   "I beg your pardon, sir, but I think those gentlemen are military?"The clerk referring the question to them with his eye, and Mr.   George not turning round from the almanac over the fire-place. Mr.   Bagnet takes upon himself to reply, "Yes, ma'am. Formerly.""I thought so. I was sure of it. My heart warms, gentlemen, atthe sight of you. It always does at the sight of such. God blessyou, gentlemen! You'll excuse an old woman, but I had a son oncewho went for a soldier. A fine handsome youth he was, and good inhis bold way, though some people did disparage him to his poormother. 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 oldlady's voice and in the tremble that goes through her quaint oldfigure. But Mr. George is so occupied with the almanac over thefireplace (calculating the coming months by it perhaps) that hedoes not look round until she has gone away and the door is closedupon her.   "George," Mr. Bagnet gruffly whispers when he does turn from thealmanac at last. "Don't be cast down! 'Why, soldiers, why--shouldwe be melancholy, boys?' Cheer up, my hearty!"The clerk having now again gone in to say that they are still thereand Mr. Tulkinghorn being heard to return with some irascibility,"Let 'em come in then!" they pass into the great room with thepainted ceiling and find him standing before the fire.   "Now, you men, what do you want? Sergeant, I told you the lasttime I saw you that I don't desire your company here."Sergeant replies--dashed within the last few minutes as to hisusual manner of speech, and even as to his usual carriage--that hehas received this letter, has been to Mr. Smallweed about it, andhas been referred there.   "I have nothing to say to you," rejoins Mr. Tulkinghorn. "If youget into debt, you must pay your debts or take the consequences.   You have no occasion to come here to learn that, I 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 payit for you."Sergeant is sorry to add that the other man is not prepared withthe money either.   "Very well! Then you must pay it between you or you must both besued for it and both suffer. You have had the money and mustrefund 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 likeyour associates and don't want you here. This matter is not at allin my course of practice and is not in my office. Mr. Smallweed isgood enough to offer these affairs to me, but they are not in myway. You must go to Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn.""I must make an apology to you, sir," says Mr. George, "forpressing myself upon you with so little encouragement--which isalmost as unpleasant to me as it can be to you--but would you letme say a private word to you?"Mr. Tulkinghorn rises with his hands in his pockets and walks intoone of the window recesses. "Now! I have no time to waste." Inthe midst of his perfect assumption of indifference, he directs asharp look at the trooper, taking care to stand with his own backto the light and to have the other with his face towards it.   "Well, sir," says Mr. George, "this man with me is the other partyimplicated in this unfortunate affair--nominally, only nominally--and my sole object is to prevent his getting into trouble on myaccount. 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 RoyalArtillery establishment--officers, men, tumbrils, waggons, horses,guns, and ammunition.""'Tis likely, sir. But I care a good deal for Bagnet and his wifeand family being injured on my account. And if I could bring themthrough this matter, I should have no help for it but to give upwithout any other consideration what you wanted of me the otherday.""Have you got it here?""I have got it here, sir.""Sergeant," the lawyer proceeds in his dry passionless manner, farmore hopeless in the dealing with than any amount of vehemence,"make up your mind while I speak to you, for this is final. AfterI have finished speaking I have closed the subject, and I won't re-open it. Understand that. You can leave here, for a few days,what you say you have brought here if you choose; you can take itaway at once if you choose. In case you choose to leave it here, Ican 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 undertakingthat this man Bagnet shall never be troubled in any way until youhave been proceeded against to the utmost, that your means shall beexhausted before the creditor looks to his. This is in fact allbut freeing him. Have you decided?"The trooper puts his hand into his breast and answers with a longbreath, "I must do it, sir."So Mr. Tulkinghorn, putting on his spectacles, sits down and writesthe undertaking, which he slowly reads and explains to Bagnet, whohas all this time been staring at the ceiling and who puts his handon his bald head again, under this new verbal shower-bath, andseems exceedingly in need of the old girl through whom to expresshis sentiments. The trooper then takes from his breast-pocket afolded paper, which he lays with an unwilling hand at the lawyer'selbow. "'Tis ouly a letter of instructions, sir. The last I everhad from him."Look at a millstone, Mr. George, for 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 andlays 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 samefrigid and discourteous manner and to say briefly, "You can go.   Show these men out, there!" Being shown out, they repair to Mr.   Bagnet's residence to dine.   Boiled beef and greens constitute the day's variety on the formerrepast of boiled pork and greens, and Mrs. Bagnet serves out themeal in the same way and seasons it with the best of temper, beingthat rare sort of old girl that she receives Good to her armswithout a hint that it might be Better and catches light from anylittle spot of darkness near her. The spot on this occasion is thedarkened brow of Mr. George; he is unusually thoughtful anddepressed. At first Mrs. Bagnet trusts to the combined endearmentsof Quebec and Malta to restore him, but finding those young ladiessensible that their existing Bluffy is not the Bluffy of theirusual frolicsome acquaintance, she winks off the light infantry andleaves him to deploy at leisure on the open ground of the domestichearth.   But he does not. He remains in close order, clouded and depressed.   During the lengthy cleaning up and pattening process, when he andMr. Bagnet are supplied with their pipes, he is no better than hewas at dinner. He forgets to smoke, looks at the fire and ponders,lets his pipe out, fills the breast of Mr. Bagnet with perturbationand dismay by showing that he has no enjoyment of tobacco.   Therefore when Mrs. Bagnet at last appears, rosy from theinvigorating pail, and sits down to her work, Mr. Bagnet growls,"Old girl!" and winks monitions to her to find out what's thematter.   "Why, George!" says Mrs. Bagnet, quietly 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 thetrooper, kissing the young damsels. "But it's true," with a sigh,"true, I am afraid. These little ones are always right!""George," says Mrs. Bagnet, working busily, "if I thought you crossenough to think of anything that a shrill old soldier's wife--whocould have bitten her tongue off afterwards and ought to have doneit almost--said this morning, I don't know what I shouldn't say toyou now.""My kind soul of a darling," returns the trooper. "Not a morsel ofit.""Because really and truly, George, what I said and meant to say wasthat I trusted Lignum to you and was sure you'd bring him throughit. 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 hand, with her work in it, a friendlyshake--for she took her seat beside him--the trooper's attention isattracted to her face. After looking at it for a little while asshe plies her needle, he looks to young Woolwich, sitting on hisstool in the corner, and beckons that fifer to him.   "See there, my boy," says George, very gently smoothing themother's hair with his hand, "there's a good loving forehead foryou! All bright with love of you, my boy. A little touched by thesun and the weather through following your father about and takingcare of you, but as fresh and wholesome as a ripe apple on a tree."Mr. Bagnet's face expresses, so far as in its wooden material lies,the highest approbation and acquiescence.   "The time will come, my boy," pursues the trooper, "when this hairof your mother's will be grey, and this forehead all crossed andre-crossed with wrinkles, and a fine old lady she'll be then. Takecare, while you are young, that you can think in those days, 'Inever whitened a hair of her dear head--I never marked a sorrowfulline in her face!' For of all the many things that you can thinkof when you are a man, you had better have THAT by you, Woolwich!"Mr. George concludes by rising from his chair, seating the boybeside his mother in it, and saying, with something of a hurryabout him, that he'll smoke his pipe in the street a bit. Chapter 35 Esther's Narrative I lay ill through several weeks, and the usual tenor of my lifebecame like an old remembrance. But this was not the effect oftime so much as of the change in all my habits made by thehelplessness and inaction of a sick-room. Before I had beenconfined to it many days, everything else seemed to have retiredinto a remote distance where there was little or no separationbetween the various stages of my life which had been really dividedby years. In falling ill, I seemed to have crossed a dark lake andto have left all my experiences, mingled together by the greatdistance, on the healthy shore.   My housekeeping duties, though at first it caused me great anxietyto think that they were unperformed, were soon as far off as theoldest of the old duties at Greenleaf or the summer afternoons whenI went home from school with my portfolio under my arm, and mychildish shadow at my side, to my godmother's house. I had neverknown before how short life really was and into how small a spacethe mind could put it.   While I was very ill, the way in which these divisions of timebecame confused with one another distressed my mind exceedingly.   At once a child, an elder girl, and the little woman I had been sohappy as, I was not only oppressed by cares and difficultiesadapted to each station, but by the great perplexity of endlesslytrying to reconcile them. I suppose that few who have not been insuch a condition can quite understand what I mean or what painfulunrest arose from this source.   For the same reason I am almost afraid to hint at that time in mydisorder--it seemed one long night, but I believe there were bothnights and days in it--when I laboured up colossal staircases, everstriving to reach the top, and ever turned, as I have seen a wormin a garden path, by some obstruction, and labouring again. I knewperfectly at intervals, and I think vaguely at most times, that Iwas in my bed; and I talked with Charley, and felt her touch, andknew her very well; yet I would find myself complaining, "Oh, moreof these never-ending stairs, Charley--more and more--piled up tothe sky', I think!" and labouring on again.   Dare I hint at that worse time when, strung together somewhere ingreat black space, there was a flaming necklace, or ring, or starrycircle of some kind, of which I was one of the beads! And when myonly prayer was to be taken off from the rest and when it was suchinexplicable agony and misery to be a part of the dreadful thing?   Perhaps the less I say of these sick experiences, the less tediousand the more intelligible I shall be. I do not recall them to makeothers unhappy or because I am now the least unhappy in rememberingthem. It may be that if we knew more of such strange afflictionswe might be the better able to alleviate their intensity.   The repose that succeeded, the long delicious sleep, the blissfulrest, when in my weakness I was too calm to have any care formyself 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 leftbehind--this state can be perhaps more widely understood. I was inthis state when I first shrunk from the light as it twinkled on meonce more, and knew with a boundless joy for which no words arerapturous enough that I should see again.   I had heard my Ada crying at the door, day and night; I had heardher calling to me that I was cruel and did not love her; I hadheard her praying and imploring to be let in to nurse and comfortme and to leave my bedside no more; but I had only said, when Icould speak, "Never, my sweet girl, never!" and I had over and overagain reminded Charley that she was to keep my darling from theroom whether I lived or died. Charley had been true to me in thattime of need, and with her little hand and her great heart had keptthe door fast.   But now, my sight strengthening and the glorious light coming everyday more fully and brightly on me, I could read the letters that mydear wrote to me every morning and evening and could put them to mylips and lay my cheek upon them with no fear of hurting her. Icould see my little maid, so tender and so careful, going about thetwo rooms setting everything in order and speaking cheerfully toAda from the open window again. I could understand the stillnessin the house and the thoughtfulness it expressed on the part of allthose who had always been so good to me. I could weep in theexquisite felicity of my heart and be as happy in my weakness asever I had been in my strength.   By and by my strength began to be restored. Instead of lying, withso strange a calmness, watching what was done for me, as if it weredone for some one else whom I was quietly sorry for, I helped it alittle, and so on to a little more and much more, until I becameuseful to myself, and interested, and attached to life again.   How well I remember the pleasant afternoon when I was raised in bedwith pillows for the first time to enjoy a great tea-drinking withCharley! The little creature--sent into the world, surely, tominister to the weak and sick--was so happy, and so busy, andstopped so often in her preparations to lay her head upon my bosom,and fondle me, and cry with joyful tears she was so glad, she wasso glad, that I was obliged to say, "Charley, if you go on in thisway, I must lie down again, my darling, for I am weaker than Ithought I was!" So Charley became as quiet as a mouse and took herbright face here and there across and across the two rooms, out ofthe shade into the divine sunshine, and out of the sunshine intothe shade, while I watched her peacefully. When all herpreparations were concluded and the pretty tea-table with itslittle delicacies to tempt me, and its white cloth, and itsflowers, and everything so lovingly and beautifully arranged for meby Ada downstairs, was ready at the bedside, I felt sure I wassteady enough to say something to Charley that was not new to mythoughts.   First I complimented Charley on the room, and indeed it was sofresh and airy, so spotless and neat, that I could scarce believe Ihad been lying there so long. This delighted Charley, and her facewas brighter than before.   "Yet, Charley," said I, looking round, "I miss something, surely,that I am accustomed to?"Poor little Charley looked round too and pretended to shake herhead 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 I, "I miss some familiar object. Ah, I know whatit is, Charley! It's the looking-glass."Charley got up from the table, making as if she had forgottensomething, and went into the next room; and I heard her sob there.   I had thought of this very often. I was now certain of it. Icould thank God that it was not a shock to me now. I calledCharley back, and when she came--at first pretending to smile, butas she drew nearer to me, looking grieved--I took her in my armsand said, "It matters very little, Charley. I hope I can dowithout my old face very well."I was presently so far advanced as to be able to sit up in a greatchair and even giddily to walk into the adjoining room, leaning onCharley. The mirror was gone from its usual place in that roomtoo, but what I had to bear was none the harder to bear for that.   My guardian had throughout been earnest to visit me, and there wasnow no good reason why I should deny myself that happiness. Hecame one morning, and when he first came in, could only hold me inhis embrace and say, "My dear, dear girl!" I had long known--whocould know better?--what a deep fountain of affection andgenerosity his heart was; and was it not worth my trivial sufferingand change to fill such a place in it? "Oh, yes!" I thought. "Hehas seen me, and he loves me better than he did; he has seen me andis even fonder of me than he was before; and what have I to mournfor!"He sat down by me on the sofa, supporting me with his arm. For alittle while he sat with his hand over his face, but when heremoved it, fell into his usual manner. There never can have been,there never can be, a pleasanter manner.   "My little woman," said he, "what a sad time this has been. Suchan inflexible little woman, too, through all!""Only for the best, guardian," said I.   "For the best?" he repeated tenderly. "Of course, for the best.   But here have Ada and I been perfectly forlorn and miserable; herehas your friend Caddy been coming and going late and early; herehas every one about the house been utterly lost and dejected; herehas even poor Rick been writing--to ME too--in his anxiety foryou!"I had read of Caddy in Ada's letters, but not of Richard. I toldhim so.   "Why, no, my dear," he replied. "I have thought it better not tomention it to her.""And you speak of his writing to YOU," said I, repeating hisemphasis. "As if it were not natural for him to do so, guardian;as if he could write to a better friend!""He thinks he could, my love," returned my guardian, "and to many abetter. The truth is, he wrote to me under a sort of protest whileunable to write to you with any hope of an answer--wrote coldly,haughtily, distantly, resentfully. Well, dearest little woman, wemust look forbearingly on it. He is not to blame. Jarndyce andJarndyce has warped him out of himself and perverted me in hiseyes. I have known it do as bad deeds, and worse, many a time. Iftwo angels could be concerned in it, I believe it would changetheir nature.""It has not changed yours, guardian.""Oh, yes, it has, my dear," he said laughingly. "It has made thesouth wind easterly, I don't know how often. Rick mistrusts andsuspects me--goes to lawyers, and is taught to mistrust and suspectme. Hears I have conflicting interests, claims clashing againsthis and what not. Whereas, heaven knows that if I could get out ofthe mountains of wiglomeration on which my unfortunate name hasbeen so long bestowed (which I can't) or could level them by theextinction of my own original right (which I can't either, and nohuman power ever can, anyhow, I believe, to such a pass have wegot), I would do it this hour. I would rather restore to poor Rickhis proper nature than be endowed with all the money that deadsuitors, broken, heart and soul, upon the wheel of Chancery, haveleft unclaimed with the Accountant-General--and that's moneyenough, my dear, to be cast into a pyramid, in memory of Chancery'stranscendent wickedness.""IS it possible, guardian," I asked, amazed, "that Richard can besuspicious of you?""Ah, my love, my love," he said, "it is in the subtle poison ofsuch abuses to breed such diseases. His blood is infected, andobjects lose their natural aspects in his sight. It is not HISfault.""But it is a terrible misfortune, guardian.""It is a terrible misfortune, little woman, to be ever drawn withinthe influences of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. I know none greater. Bylittle and little he has been induced to trust in that rotten reed,and it communicates some portion of its rottenness to everythingaround him. But again I say with all my soul, we must be patientwith poor Rick and not blame him. What a troop of fine freshhearts like his have I seen in my time turned by the same means!"I could not help expressing something of my wonder and regret thathis benevolent, disinterested intentions had prospered so little.   "We must not say so, Dame Durden," he cheerfully rephed; "Ada isthe happier, I hope, and that is much. I did think that I and boththese young creatures might be friends instead of distrustful foesand that we might so far counter-act the suit and prove too strongfor it. But it was too much to expect. Jarndyce and Jarndyce wasthe curtain of Rick's cradle.""But, guardian, may we not hope that a little experience will teachhim what a false and wretched thing it is?""We WILL hope so, my Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce, "and that it maynot 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 assuitors would not be vitally changed and depreciated within threeyears--within two--within one. How can we stand amazed at poorRick? A young man so unfortunate," here he fell into a lower tone,as if he were thinking aloud, "cannot 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 somesettlement. It procrastinates, disappoints, tries, tortures him;wears out his sanguine hopes and patience, thread by thread; but hestill looks to it, and hankers after it, and finds his whole worldtreacherous and hollow. Well, well, well! Enough of this, mydear!"He had supported me, as at first, all this time, and his tendernesswas so precious to me that I leaned my head upon his shoulder andloved him as if he had been my father. I resolved in my own mindin this little pause, by some means, to see Richard when I grewstrong and try to set him right.   "There are better subjects than these," said my guardian, "for sucha joyful time as the time of our dear girl's recovery. And I had acommission 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 theabsent mirrors, but not much, for I knew my loving girl would bechanged by no change in my looks.   "Dear guardian," said I, "as I have shut her out so long--thoughindeed, indeed, she is like the light to me--""I know it well, Dame Durden, well."He was so good, his touch expressed such endearing compassion andaffection, and the tone of his voice carried such comfort into myheart that I stopped for a little while, quite unable to go on.   "Yes, yes, you are tired," said he, "Rest a little.""As I have kept Ada out so long," I began afresh after a shortwhile, "I 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 Ican move, and if I had a week there in which to grow stronger andto be revived by the sweet air and to look forward to the happinessof 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 moreused to my altered self before I met the eyes of the dear girl Ilonged so ardently to see, but it is the truth. I did. Heunderstood me, I was sure; but I was not afraid of that. If itwere a poor thing, I knew he would pass it over.   "Our spoilt little woman," said my guardian, "shall have her ownway even in her inflexibility, though at the price, I know, oftears downstairs. And see here! Here is Boythorn, heart ofchivalry, breathing such ferocious vows as never were breathed onpaper before, that if you don't go and occupy his whole house, hehaving already turned out of it expressly for that purpose, byheaven and by earth he'll pull it down and not leave one brickstanding on another!"And my guardian put a letter in my hand, without any ordinarybeginning such as "My dear Jarndyce," but rushing at once into thewords, "I swear if Miss Summerson do not come down and takepossession of my house, which I vacate for her this day at oneo'clock, P.M.," and then with the utmost seriousness, and in themost emphatic terms, going on to make the extraordinary declarationhe had quoted. We did not appreciate the writer the less forlaughing heartily over it, and we settled that I should send him aletter of thanks on the morrow and accept his offer. It was a mostagreeable one to me, for all the places I could have thought of, Ishould have liked to go to none so well as Chesney Wold.   "Now, little housewife," said my guardian, looking at his watch, "Iwas strictly timed before I came upstairs, for you must not betired too soon; and my time has waned away to the last minute. Ihave one other petition. Little Miss Flite, hearing a rumour thatyou were ill, made nothing of walking down here--twenty miles, poorsoul, in a pair of dancing shoes--to inquire. It was heaven'smercy we were at home, or she would have walked back again."The old conspiracy to make me happy! Everybody seemed to be in it!   "Now, pet," said my guardian, "if it would not be irksome to you toadmit the harmless little creature one afternoon before you saveBoythorn's otherwise devoted house from demolition, I believe youwould 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 simpleimage of the poor afflicted creature that would fall like a gentlelesson on my mind at that time. I felt it as he spoke to me. Icould not tell him heartily enough how ready I was to receive her.   I had always pitied her, never so much as now. I had always beenglad of my little power to soothe her under her calamity, butnever, never, half so glad before.   We arranged a time for Miss Flite to come out by the coach andshare my early dinner. When my guardian left me, I turned my faceaway upon my couch and prayed to be forgiven if I, surrounded bysuch blessings, had magnified to myself the little trial that I hadto undergo. The childish prayer of that old birthday when I hadaspired to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted and to dogood to some one and win some love to myself if I could came backinto my mind with a reproachful sense of all the happiness I hadsince enjoyed and all the affectionate hearts that had been turnedtowards me. If I were weak now, what had I profited by thosemercies? I repeated the old childish prayer in its old childishwords 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 walkabout our rooms and hold long talks with Ada from behind thewindow-curtain. Yet I never saw her, for I had not as yet thecourage to look at the dear face, though I could have done soeasily without her seeing me.   On the appointed day Miss Flite arrived. The poor little creatureran into my room quite forgetful of her usual dignity, and cryingfrom her very heart of hearts, "My dear Fitz Jarndyce!" fell uponmy neck and kissed me twenty times.   "Dear me!" said she, putting her hand into her reticule, "I havenothing here but documents, my dear Fitz Jarndyce; I must borrow apocket handkerchief."Charley gave her one, and the good creature certainly made use ofit, for 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 athaving the honour of being admitted to see you. I am so muchfonder of you, my love, than of the Chancellor. Though I DO attendcourt regularly. By the by, my dear, mentioning pockethandkerchiefs--"Miss Flite here looked at Charley, who had been to meet her at theplace where the coach stopped. Charley glanced at me and lookedunwilling to pursue the suggestion.   "Ve-ry right!" said Miss Flite, "Ve-ry correct. Truly! Highlyindiscreet of me to mention it; but my dear Miss Fitz Jarndyce, Iam afraid I am at times (between ourselves, you wouldn't think it)a little--rambling you know," said Miss Flite, touching herforehead. "Nothing more,""What were you going to tell me?" said I, smiling, for I saw shewanted to go on. "You have roused my curiosity, and now you mustgratify it."Miss Flite looked at Charley for advice in this important crisis,who said, "If you please, ma'am, you had better tell then," andtherein gratified Miss Flite beyond measure.   "So sagacious, our young friend," said she to me in her mysteriousway. "Diminutive. But ve-ry sagacious! Well, my dear, it's apretty anecdote. Nothing more. Still I think it charming. Whoshould follow us down the road from the coach, my dear, but a poorperson 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 thatthere has been a lady with a veil inquiring at her cottage after mydear Fitz Jarndyce's health and taking a handkerchief away with heras a little keepsake merely because it was my amiable FitzJarndyce's! Now, you know, so very prepossessing in the lady withthe veil!""If you please, miss," said Charley, to whom I looked in someastonishment, "Jenny says that when her baby died, you left ahandkerchief there, and that she put it away and kept it with thebaby's little things. I think, if you please, partly because itwas yours, miss, and partly because it had covered the baby.""Diminutive," whispered Miss Flite, making a variety of motionsabout her own forehead to express intellect in Charley. "But ex-ceedingly sagacious! And so dear! My love, she's clearer than anycounsel I ever heard!""Yes, Charley," I returned. "I remember it. Well?""Well, miss," said Charley, "and that's the handkerchief the ladytook. And Jenny wants you to know that she wouldn't have made awaywith it herself for a heap of money but that the lady took it andleft some money instead. Jenny don't know her at all, if youplease, miss!""Why, who can she be?" said I.   "My love," Miss Flite suggested, advancing her lips to my ear withher most mysterious look, "in MY opinion--don't mention this to ourdiminutive friend--she's the Lord Chancellor's wife. He's married,you know. And I understand she leads him a terrible life. Throwshis lordship's papers into the fire, my dear, if he won't pay thejeweller!"I did not think very much about this lady then, for I had animpression that it might be Caddy. Besides, my attention wasdiverted by my visitor, who was cold after her ride and lookedhungry and who, our dinner being brought in, required some littleassistance in arraying herself with great satisfaction in apitiable 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,too, over the entertainment, consisting of a dish of fish, a roastfowl, a sweetbread, vegetables, pudding, and Madeira; and it was sopleasant to see how she enjoyed it, and with what state andceremony she did honour to it, that I was soon thinking of nothingelse.   When we had finished and had our little dessert before us,embellished by the hands of my dear, who would yield thesuperintendence of everything prepared for me to no one, Miss Flitewas so very chatty and happy that I thought I would lead her to herown history, as she was always pleased to talk about herself. Ibegan by saying "You have attended on the Lord Chancellor manyyears, Miss 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 doubtfulif I had done right in approaching the subject. I thought I wouldsay no more about it.   "My father expected a judgment," said Miss Flite. "My brother. Mysister. 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 on, I thought it best to try to beserviceable to her by meeting the theme rather than avoiding it.   "Would it not be wiser," said I, "to expect this judgment no more?""Why, my dear," she answered promptly, "of course it would!""And to attend the court no more?""Equally of course," said she. "Very wearing to be always inexpectation of what never comes, my dear Fitz Jarndyce! Wearing, Iassure you, to the bone!"She slightly showed me her arm, and it was fearfully thin indeed.   "But, my dear," she went on in her mysterious way, "there's adreadful attraction in the place. Hush! Don't mention it to ourdiminutive friend when she comes in. Or it may frighten her. Withgood reason. There's a cruel attraction in the place. You CAN'Tleave it. And you MUST expect."I tried to assure her that this was not so. She heard me patientlyand smilingly, but was ready with her own answer.   "Aye, aye, aye! You think so because I am a little rambling. Ve-ry 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 theremany years, and I have noticed. It's the mace and seal upon thetable."What could they do, did she think? I mildly asked her.   "Draw," returned Miss Flite. "Draw people on, my dear. Draw peaceout of them. Sense out of them. Good looks out of them. Goodqualities out of them. I have felt them even drawing my rest awayin the night. Cold and glittering devils!"She tapped me several times upon the arm and nodded good-humouredlyas if she were anxious I should understand that I had no cause tofear her, though she spoke so gloomily, and confided these awfulsecrets to me.   "Let me see," said she. "I'll tell you my own case. Before theyever drew me--before I had ever seen them--what was it I used todo? Tambourine playing? No. Tambour work. I and my sisterworked at tambour work. Our father and our brother had a builder'sbusiness. We all lived together. Ve-ry respectably, my dear!   First, our father was drawn--slowly. Home was drawn with him. Ina few years he was a fierce, sour, angry bankrupt without a kindword or a kind look for any one. He had been so different, FitzJarndyce. He was drawn to a debtors' prison. There he died. Thenour brother was drawn--swiftly--to drunkenness. And rags. Anddeath. Then my sister was drawn. Hush! Never ask to what! ThenI was ill and in misery, and heard, as I had often heard before,that this was all the work of Chancery. When I got better, I wentto look at the monster. And then I found out how it was, and I wasdrawn to stay there."Having got over her own short narrative, in the delivery of whichshe had spoken in a low, strained voice, as if the shock were freshupon her, she gradually resumed her usual air of amiableimportance.   "You don't quite credit me, my dear! Well, well! You will, someday. I am a little rambling. But I have noticed. I have seenmany new faces come, unsuspicious, within the influence of the maceand seal in these many years. As my father's came there. As mybrother's. As my sister's. As my own. I hear Conversation Kengeand the rest of them say to the new faces, 'Here's little MissFlite. Oh, you are new here; and you must come and be presented tolittle Miss Flite!' Ve-ry good. Proud I am sure to have thehonour! And we all laugh. But, Fitz Jarndyce, I know what willhappen. I know, far better than they do, when the attraction hasbegun. 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 someone hold him back. Or he'll be drawn to ruin.   She looked at me in silence for some moments, with her facegradually softening into a smile. Seeming to fear that she hadbeen too gloomy, and seeming also to lose the connexion in hermind, she said politely as she sipped her glass of wine, "Yes, mydear, as I was saying, I expect a judgment shortly. Then I shallrelease my birds, you know, and confer estates."I was much impressed by her allusion to Richard and by the sadmeaning, so sadly illustrated in her poor pinched form, that madeits way through all her incoherence. But happily for her, she wasquite complacent again now and beamed with nods and smiles.   "But, my dear," she said, gaily, reaching another hand to put itupon mine. "You have not congratulated me on my physician.   Positively not once, yet!"I was obliged to confess that I did not quite know what she meant.   "My physician, Mr. Woodcourt, my dear, who was so exceedinglyattentive to me. Though his services were rendered quitegratuitously. Until the Day of Judgment. I mean THE judgment thatwill dissolve the spell upon me of the mace and seal.""Mr. Woodcourt is so far away, now," said I, "that I thought thetime for such congratulation was past, Miss Flite.""But, my child," she returned, "is it possible that you don't knowwhat 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 mymemory has been drawn out of me, with everything else, by what Imentioned. Ve-ry strong influence, is it not? Well, my dear,there has been a terrible shipwreck over in those East Indianseas.""Mr. Woodcourt shipwrecked!""Don't be agitated, my dear. He is safe. An awful scene. Deathin all shapes. Hundreds of dead and dying. Fire, storm, anddarkness. Numbers of the drowning thrown upon a rock. There, andthrough it all, my dear physician was a hero. Calm and bravethrough everything. Saved many lives, never complained in hungerand thirst, wrapped naked people in his spare clothes, took thelead, 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. Theyfell down at his feet when they got to the land and blessed him.   The whole country rings with it. Stay! Where's my bag ofdocuments? I have got it there, and you shall read it, you shallread it!"And I DID read all the noble history, though very slowly andimperfectly then, for my eyes were so dimmed that I could not seethe words, and I cried so much that I was many times obliged to laydown the long account she had cut out of the newspaper. I felt sotriumphant ever to have known the man who had done such generousand gallant deeds, I felt such glowing exultation in his renown, Iso admired and loved what he had done, that I envied the storm-wornpeople who had fallen at his feet and blessed him as theirpreserver. I could myself have kneeled down then, so far away, andblessed him in my rapture that he should be so truly good andbrave. I felt that no one--mother, sister, wife--could honour himmore than I. I did, indeed!   My poor little visitor made me a present of the account, and whenas the evening began to close in she rose to take her leave, lestshe should miss the coach by which she was to return, she was stillfull of the shipwreck, which I had not yet sufflciently composedmyself to understand in all its details.   "My dear," said she as she carefully folded up her scarf andgloves, "my brave physician ought to have a title bestowed uponhim. And no doubt he will. You are of that opinlon?"That he well deserved one, yes. That he would ever have one, no.   "Why not, Fitz Jarndyce?" she asked rather sharply.   I said it was not the custom in England to confer titles on mendistinguished by peaceful services, however good and great, unlessoccasionally when they consisted of the accumulation of some verylarge amount of money.   "Why, good gracious," said Miss Flite, "how can you say that?   Surely you know, my dear, that all the greatest ornaments ofEngland in knowledge, imagination, active humanity, and improvementof every sort are added to its nobility! Look round you, my dear,and consider. YOU must be rambling a little now, I think, if youdon't know that this is the great reason why titles will alwayslast in the land!"I am afraid she believed what she said, for there were moments whenshe was very mad indeed.   And now I must part with the little secret I have thus far tried tokeep. I had thought, sometimes, that Mr. Woodcourt loved me andthat if he had been richer he would perhaps have told me that heloved me before he went away. I had thought, sometimes, that if hehad done so, I should have been glad of it. But how much better itwas now that this had never happened! What should I have sufferedif I had had to write to him and tell him that the poor face he hadknown as mine was quite gone from me and that I freely released himfrom his bondage to one whom he had never seen!   Oh, it was so much better as it was! With a great pang mercifullyspared me, I could take back to my heart my childish prayer to beall he had so brightly shown himself; and there was nothing to beundone: no chain for me to break or for him to drag; and I couldgo, please God, my lowly way along the path of duty, and he couldgo his nobler way upon its broader road; and though we were apartupon the journey, I might aspire to meet him, unselfishly,innocently, better far than he had thought me when I found somefavour in his eyes, at the journey's end. Chapter 36 Chesney Wold Charley and I did not set off alone upon our expedition intoLincolnshire. My guardian had made up his mind not to lose sightof me until I was safe in Mr. Boythorn's house, so he accompaniedus, and we were two days upon the road. I found every breath ofair, and every scent, and every flower and leaf and blade of grass,and every passing cloud, and everything in nature, more beautifuland wonderful to me than I had ever found it yet. This was myfirst gain from my illness. How little I had lost, when the wideworld was so full of delight for me.   My guardian intending to go back immediately, we appointed, on ourway down, a day when my dear girl should come. I wrote her aletter, of which he took charge, and he left us within half an hourof our arrival at our destination, on a delightful evening in theearly 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-child, I could nothave been more considered in it. So many preparations were madefor me and such an endearing remembrance was shown of all my littletastes and likings that I could have sat down, overcome, a dozentimes before I had revisited half the rooms. I did better thanthat, however, by showing them all to Charley instead. Charley'sdelight calmed mine; and after we had had a walk in the garden, andCharley had exhausted her whole vocabulary of admiring expressions,I was as tranquilly happy as I ought to have been. It was a greatcomfort to be able to say to myself after tea, "Esther, my dear, Ithink you are quite sensible enough to sit down now and write anote of thanks to your host." He had left a note of welcome forme, as sunny as his own face, and had confided his bird to my care,which I knew to be his highest mark of confidence. Accordingly Iwrote a little note to him in London, telling him how all hisfavourite plants and trees were looking, and how the mostastonishing of birds had chirped the honours of the house to me inthe most hospitable manner, and how, after singing on my shoulder,to the inconceivable rapture of my little maid, he was then atroost in the usual corner of his cage, but whether dreaming or no Icould not report. My note finished and sent off to the post, Imade myself very busy in unpacking and arranging; and I sentCharley to bed in good time and told her I should want her no morethat night.   For I had not yet looked in the glass and had never asked to havemy own restored to me. I knew this to be a weakness which must beovercome, but I had always said to myself that I would begin afreshwhen I got to where I now was. Therefore I had wanted to be alone,and therefore I said, now alone, in my own room, "Esther, if youare to be happy, if you are to have any right to pray to be true-hearted, you must keep your word, my dear." I was quite resolvedto keep it, but I sat down for a little while first to reflect uponall my blessings. And then I said my prayers and thought a littlemore.   My hair had not been cut off, though it had been in danger morethan once. It was long and thick. I let it down, and shook itout, and went up to the glass upon the dressing-table. There was alittle muslin curtain drawn across it. I drew it back and stoodfor a moment looking through such a veil of my own hair that Icould see nothing else. Then I put my hair aside and looked at thereflection in the mirror, encouraged by seeing how placidly itlooked at me. I was very much changed--oh, very, very much. Atfirst my face was so strange to me that I think I should have putmy hands before it and started back but for the encouragement Ihave mentioned. Very soon it became more familiar, and then I knewthe extent of the alteration in it better than I had done at first.   It was not like what I had expected, but I had expected nothingdefinite, and I dare say anything definite would have surprised me.   I had never been a beauty and had never thought myself one, but Ihad been very different from this. It was all gone now. Heavenwas so good to me that I could let it go with a few not bittertears and could stand there arranging my hair for the night quitethankfully.   One thing troubled me, and I considered it for a long time before Iwent to sleep. I had kept Mr. Woodcourt's flowers. When they werewithered I had dried them and put them in a book that I was fondof. Nobody knew this, not even Ada. I was doubtful whether I hada right to preserve what he had sent to one so different--whetherit was generous towards him to do it. I wished to be generous tohim, even in the secret depths of my heart, which he would neverknow, because I could have loved him--could have been devoted tohim. At last I came to the conclusion that I might keep them if Itreasured them only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably pastand gone, never to be looked back on any more, in 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 theglass when Charley came in on tiptoe.   "Dear, dear, miss!" cried Charley, starting. "Is that you?""Yes, Charley," said I, quietly putting up my hair. "And I am verywell indeed, and very happy."I saw it was a weight off Charley's mind, but it was a greaterweight off mine. I knew the worst now and was composed to it. Ishall not conceal, as I go on, the weaknesses I could not quiteconquer, but they always passed from me soon and the happier frameof mind stayed by me faithfully.   Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and my goodspirits before Ada came, I now laid down a little series of planswith Charley for being in the fresh air all day long. We were tobe out before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be outagain before and after dinner, and were to talk in the garden aftertea, and were to go to rest betimes, and were to climb every hilland explore every road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood. Asto restoratives and strengthening delicacies, Mr. Boythorn's goodhousekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to eat ordrink in her hand; I could not even be heard of as resting in thepark but she would come trotting after me with a basket, hercheerful face shining with a lecture on the importance of frequentnourishment. Then there was a pony expressly for my riding, achubby pony with a short neck and a mane all over his eyes whocould canter--when he would--so easily and quietly that he was atreasure. In a very few days he would come to me in the paddockwhen I called him, and eat out of my hand, and follow me about. Wearrived at such a capital understanding that when he was joggingwith me lazily, and rather obstinately, down some shady lane, if Ipatted his neck and said, "Stubbs, I am surprised you don't canterwhen 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 givehis head a comical shake or two and set off directly, while Charleywould stand still and laugh with such enjoyment that her laughterwas like music. I don't know who had given Stubbs his name, but itseemed to belong to him as naturally as his rough coat. Once weput him in a little chaise and drove him triumphantly through thegreen lanes for five miles; but all at once, as we were extollinghim to the skies, he seemed to take it ill that he should have beenaccompanied so far by the circle of tantalizing little gnats thathad been hovering round and round his ears the whole way withoutappearing to advance an inch, and stopped to think about it. Isuppose he came to the decision that it was not to be borne, for hesteadily refused to move until I gave the reins to Charley and gotout and walked, when he followed me with a sturdy sort of goodhumour, putting his head under my arm and rubbing his ear againstmy sleeve. It was in vain for me to say, "Now, Stubbs, I feelquite sure from what I know of you that you will go on if I ride alittle while," for the moment I left him, he stood stock stillagain. Consequently I was obliged to lead the way, as before; andin this order we returned home, to the great delight of thevillage.   Charley and I had reason to call it the most friendly of villages,I am sure, for in a week's time the people were so glad to see usgo by, though ever so frequently in the course of a day, that therewere faces of greeting in every cottage. I had known many of thegrown people before and almost all the children, but now the verysteeple began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. Among mynew friends was an old old woman who lived in such a littlethatched and whitewashed dwelling that when the outside shutter wasturned up on its hinges, it shut up the whole house-front. Thisold lady had a grandson who was a sailor, and I wrote a letter tohim for her and drew at the top of it the chimney-corner in whichshe had brought him up and where his old stool yet occupied its oldplace. This was considered by the whole village the most wonderfulachievement in the world, but when an answer came back all the wayfrom Plymouth, in which he mentioned that he was going to take thepicture all the way to America, and 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.   Thus, what with being so much in the air, playing with so manychildren, gossiping with so many people, sitting on invitation inso many cottages, going on with Charley's education, and writinglong letters to Ada every day, I had scarcely any time to thinkabout that little loss of mine and was almost always cheerful. IfI did think of it at odd moments now and then, I had only to bebusy and forget it. I felt it more than I had hoped I should oncewhen a child said, "Mother, why is the lady not a pretty lady nowlike she used to be?" But when I found the child was not less fondof me, and drew its soft hand over my face with a kind of pityingprotection in its touch, that soon set me up again. There weremany little occurrences which suggested to me, with greatconsolation, how natural it is to gentle hearts to be considerateand delicate towards any inferiority. One of these particularlytouched me. I happened to stroll into the little church when amarriage was just concluded, and the young couple had to sign theregister.   The bridegroom, to whom the pen was handed first, made a rude crossfor his mark; the bride, who came next, did the same. Now, I hadknown the bride when I was last there, not only as the prettiestgirl in the place, but as having quite distinguished herself in theschool, and I could not help looking at her with some surprise.   She came aside and whispered to me, while tears of honest love andadmiration stood in her bright eyes, "He's a dear good fellow,miss; but he can't write yet--he's going to learn of me--and Iwouldn't shame him for the world!" Why, what had I to fear, Ithought, when there was this nobility in the soul of a labouringman's daughter!   The air blew as freshly and revivingly upon me as it had everblown, and the healthy colour came into my new face as it had comeinto my old one. Charley was wonderful to see, she was so radiantand so rosy; and we both enjoyed the whole day and slept soundlythe whole night.   There was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of ChesneyWold where a seat had been erected commanding a lovely view. Thewood had been cleared and opened to improve this point of sight,and the bright sunny landscape beyond was so beautiful that Irested there at least once every day. A picturesque part of theHall, called the Ghost's Walk, was seen to advantage from thishigher ground; and the startling name, and the old legend in theDedlock family which I had heard from Mr. Boythorn accounting forit, mingled with the view and gave it something of a mysteriousinterest in addition to its real charms. There was a bank here,too, which was a famous one for violets; and as it was a dailydelight of Charley's to gather wild flowers, she took as much tothe spot as I did.   It would be idle to inquire now why I never went close to the houseor never went inside it. The family were not there, I had heard onmy arrival, and were not expected. I was far from being incuriousor uninterested about the building; on the contrary, I often sat inthis place wondering how the rooms ranged and whether any echo likea footstep really did resound at times, as the story said, upon thelonely Ghost's Walk. The indefinable feeling with which LadyDedlock had impressed me may have had some influence in keeping mefrom the house even when she was absent. I am not sure. Her faceand figure were associated with it, naturally; but I cannot saythat they repelled me from it, though something did. For whateverreason or no reason, I had never once gone near it, down to the dayat which my story now arrives.   I was resting at my favourite point after a long ramble, andCharley was gathering violets at a little distance from me. I hadbeen looking at the Ghost's Walk lying in a deep shade of masonryafar off and picturing to myself the female shape that was said tohaunt it when I became aware of a figure approaching through thewood. The perspective was so long and so darkened by leaves, andthe shadows of the branches on the ground made it so much moreintricate to the eye, that at first I could not discern what figureit was. By little and little it revealed itself to be a woman's--alady's--Lady Dedlock's. She was alone and coming to where I satwith a much quicker step, I observed to my surprise, than was usualwith her.   I was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was almostwithin speaking distance before I knew her) and would have risen tocontinue my walk. But I could not. I was rendered motionless.   Not so much by her hurried gesture of entreaty, not so much by herquick advance and outstretched hands, not so much by the greatchange 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 ofwhen I was a little child, something I had never seen in any face,something I had never seen in hers before.   A dread and faintness fell upon me, and I called to Charley. LadyDedlock stopped upon the instant and changed back almost to what Ihad known her.   "Miss Summerson, I am afraid I have startled you," she said, nowadvancing slowly. "You can scarcely be strong yet. You have beenvery ill, I know. I have been much concerned to hear it."I could no more have removed my eyes from her pale face than Icould have stirred from the bench on which I sat. She gave me herhand, and its deadly coldness, so at variance with the enforcedcomposure of her features, deepened the fascination thatoverpowered 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 I, "take your flowers home, and I will follow youdirectly."Charley, with her best curtsy, blushingly tied on her bonnet andwent her way. When she was gone, Lady Dedlock sat down on the seatbeside me.   I cannot tell in any words what the state of my mind was when I sawin her hand my handkerchief with which I had covered the dead baby.   I looked at her, but I could not see her, I could not hear her, Icould not draw my breath. The beating of my heart was so violentand wild that I felt as if my life were breaking from me. But whenshe caught me to her breast, kissed me, wept over me,compassionated me, and called me back to myself; when she fell downon her knees and cried to me, "Oh, my child, my child, I am yourwicked and unhappy mother! Oh, try to forgive me!"--when I saw herat my feet on the bare earth in her great agony of mind, I felt,through all my tumult of emotion, a burst of gratitude to theprovidence of God that I was so changed as that I never coulddisgrace her by any trace of likeness, as that nobody could evernow look at me and look at her and remotely think of any near tiebetween us.   I raised my mother up, praying and beseeching her not to stoopbefore me in such affliction and humiliation. I did so in broken,incoherent words, for besides the trouble I was in, it frightenedme to see her at MY feet. I told her--or I tried to tell her--thatif it were for me, her child, under any circumstances to take uponme to forgive her, I did it, and had done it, many, many years. Itold her that my heart overflowed with love for her, that it wasnatural love which nothing in the past had changed or could change.   That it was not for me, then resting for the first time on mymother's bosom, to take her to account for having given me life,but that my duty was to bless her and receive her, though the wholeworld turned from her, and that I only asked her leave to do it. Iheld my mother in my embrace, and she held me in hers, and amongthe still woods in the silence of the summer day there seemed to benothing but our two troubled minds that was not at peace.   "To bless and receive me," groaned my mother, "it is far too late.   I must travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me where itwill. From day to day, sometimes from hour to hour, I do not seethe way before my guilty feet. This is the earthly punishment Ihave brought upon myself. I bear it, and I hide it."Even in the thinking of her endurance, she drew her habitual air ofproud indifference about her like a veil, though she soon cast itoff again.   "I must keep this secret, if by any means it can be kept, notwholly for myself. I have a husband, wretched and dishonouringcreature that I am!"These words she uttered with a suppressed cry of despair, moreterrible in its sound than any shriek. Covering her face with herhands, she shrank down in my embrace as if she were unwilling thatI should touch her; nor could I, by my utmost persuasions or by anyendearments I could use, prevail upon her to rise. She said, no,no, no, she could only speak to me so; she must be proud anddisdainful 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 nearlyfrantic. She had but then known that her child was living. Shecould not have suspected me to be that child before. She hadfollowed me down here to speak to me but once in all her life. Wenever could associate, never could communicate, never probably fromthat time forth could interchange another word on earth. She putinto my hands a letter she had written for my reading only and saidwhen I had read it and destroyed it--but not so much for her sake,since she asked nothing, as for her husband's and my own--I mustevermore consider her as dead. If I could believe that she lovedme, in this agony in which I saw her, with a mother's love, sheasked me to do that, for then I might think of her with a greaterpity, imagining what she suffered. She had put herself beyond allhope and beyond all help. Whether she preserved her secret untildeath or it came to be discovered and she brought dishonour anddisgrace upon the name she had taken, it was her solitary strugglealways; and no affection could come near her, and no human creaturecould render her any aid.   "But is the secret safe so far?" I asked. "Is it safe now, dearestmother?""No," replied my mother. "It has been very near discovery. It wassaved by an accident. It may be lost by another accident--to-morrow, any day.""Do you dread a particular person?""Hush! Do not tremble and cry so much for me. I am not worthy ofthese tears," said my mother, kissing my hands. "I dread oneperson very much.""An enemy?""Not a friend. One who is too passionless to be either. He is SirLeicester Dedlock's lawyer, mechanically faithful withoutattachment, and very jealous of the profit, privilege, andreputation 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 ata 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 buthis calling. His calling is the acquisition of secrets and theholding possession of such power as they give him, with no shareror opponent in it.""Could you trust in him?""I shall never try. The dark road I have trodden for so many yearswill end where it will. I follow it alone to the end, whatever theend 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 withpride, scorn with scorn, insolence with insolence, and haveoutlived many vanities with many more. I will outlive this danger,and outdie it, if I can. It has closed around me almost as awfullyas if these woods of Chesney Wold had closed around the house, butmy course through it is the same. I have but one; I can have butone.""Mr. Jarndyce--" I was beginning when my mother hurriedlyinquired, "Does HE suspect?""No," said I. "No, indeed! Be assured that he does not!" And Itold her what he had related to me as his knowledge of my story.   "But he is so good and sensible," said I, "that perhaps if he knew--"My mother, who 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 havemy free consent--a small gift from such a mother to her injuredchild!- -but do not tell me of it. Some pride is left in me evenyet."I explained, as nearly as I could then, or can recall now--for myagitation and distress throughout were so great that I scarcelyunderstood myself, though every word that was uttered in themother's voice, so unfamiliar and so melancholy to me, which in mychildhood I had never learned to love and recognize, had never beensung to sleep with, had never heard a blessing from, had never hada hope inspired by, made an enduring impression on my memory--I sayI explained, or tried to do it, how I had only hoped that Mr.   Jarndyce, who had been the best of fathers to me, might be able toafford some counsel and support to her. But my mother answered no,it was impossible; no one could help her. Through the desert thatlay before her, she must go alone.   "My child, my child!" she said. "For the last time! These kissesfor the last time! These arms upon my neck for the last time! Weshall meet no more. To hope to do what I seek to do, I must bewhat I have been so long. Such is my reward and doom. If you hearof Lady Dedlock, brilliant, prosperous, and flattered, think ofyour wretched mother, conscience-stricken, underneath that mask!   Think that the reality is in her suffering, in her useless remorse,in her murdering within her breast the only love and truth of whichit is capable! And then forgive her if you can, and cry to heavento forgive her, which it never can!"We held one another for a little space yet, but she was so firmthat she took my hands away, and put them back against my breast,and with a last kiss as she held them there, released them, andwent from me into the wood. I was alone, and calm and quiet belowme in the sun and shade lay the old house, with its terraces andturrets, on which there had seemed to me to be such complete reposewhen I first saw it, but which now looked like the obdurate andunpitying watcher of my mother's misery.   Stunned as I was, as weak and helpless at first as I had ever beenin my sick chamber, the necessity of guarding against the danger ofdiscovery, or even of the remotest suspicion, did me service. Itook such precautions as I could to hide from Charley that I hadbeen crying, and I constrained myself to think of every sacredobligation that there was upon me to be careful and collected. Itwas not a little while before I could succeed or could evenrestrain bursts of grief, but after an hour or so I was better andfelt that I might return. I went home very slowly and toldCharley, whom I found at the gate looking for me, that I had beentempted to extend my walk after Lady Dedlock had left me and that Iwas over-tired and would lie down. Safe in my own room, I read theletter. I clearly derived from it--and that was much then--that Ihad not been abandoned by my mother. Her elder and only sister,the godmother of my childhood, discovering signs of life in me whenI had been laid aside as dead, had in her stern sense of duty, withno desire or willingness that I should live, reared me in rigidsecrecy and had never again beheld my mother's face from within afew hours of my birth. So strangely did I hold my place in thisworld that until within a short time back I had never, to my ownmother's knowledge, breathed--had been buried--had never beenendowed with life--had never borne a name. When she had first seenme in the church she had been startled and had thought of whatwould have been like me if it had ever lived, and had lived on, butthat was all then.   What more the letter told me needs not to be repeated here. It hasits own times and places in my story.   My first care was to burn what my mother had written and to consumeeven its ashes. I hope it may not appear very unnatural or bad inme that I then became heavily sorrowful to think I had ever beenreared. That I felt as if I knew it would have been better andhappier for many people if indeed I had never breathed. That I hada terror of myself as the danger and the possible disgrace of myown mother and of a proud family name. That I was so confused andshaken as to be possessed by a belief that it was right and hadbeen intended that I should die in my birth, and that it was wrongand 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 theworld with my load of trouble for others. I was more than everfrightened of myself, thinking anew of her against whom I was awitness, of the owner of Chesney Wold, of the new and terriblemeaning of the old words now moaning in my ear like a surge uponthe shore, "Your mother, Esther, was your disgrace, and you arehers. The time will come--and soon enough--when you willunderstand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save awoman can." With them, those other words returned, "Pray dailythat the sins of others be not visited upon your head." I couldnot disentangle all that was about me, and I felt as if the blameand the shame were all in me, and the visitation had come down.   The day waned into a gloomy evening, overcast and sad, and I stillcontended with the same distress. I went out alone, and afterwalking a little in the park, watching the dark shades falling onthe trees and the fitful flight of the bats, which sometimes almosttouched me, was attracted to the house for the first time. PerhapsI might not have gone near it if I had been in a stronger frame ofmind. As it was, I took the path that led close by it.   I did not dare to linger or to look up, but I passed before theterrace garden with its fragrant odours, and its broad walks, andits well-kept beds and smooth turf; and I saw how beautiful andgrave it was, and how the old stone balustrades and parapets, andwide flights of shallow steps, were seamed by time and weather; andhow the trained moss and ivy grew about them, and around the oldstone pedestal of the sun-dial; and I heard the fountain falling.   Then the way went by long lines of dark windows diversified byturreted towers and porches of eccentric shapes, where old stonelions and grotesque monsters bristled outside dens of shadow andsnarled at the evening gloom over the escutcheons they held intheir grip. Thence the path wound underneath a gateway, andthrough a court-yard where the principal entrance was (I hurriedquickly on), and by the stables where none but deep voices seemedto be, whether in the murmuring of the wind through the strong massof ivy holding to a high red wall, or in the low complaining of theweathercock, or in the barking of the dogs, or in the slow strikingof a clock. So, encountering presently a sweet smell of limes,whose rustling I could hear, I turned with the turning of the pathto the south front, and there above me were the balustrades of theGhost's Walk and one lighted window that might be my mother's.   The way was paved here, like the terrace overhead, and my footstepsfrom being noiseless made an echoing sound upon the flags.   Stopping to look at nothing, but seeing all I did see as I went, Iwas passing quickly on, and in a few moments should have passed thelighted window, when my echoing footsteps brought it suddenly intomy mind that there was a dreadful truth in the legend of theGhost's Walk, that it was I who was to bring calamity upon thestately house and that my warning feet were haunting it even then.   Seized with an augmented terror of myself which turned me cold, Iran from myself and everything, retraced the way by which I hadcome, and never paused until I had gained the lodge-gate, and thepark lay sullen and black behind me.   Not before I was alone in my own room for the night and had againbeen dejected and unhappy there did I begin to know how wrong andthankless this state was. But from my darling who was coming onthe morrow, I found a joyful letter, full of such lovinganticipation that I must have been of marble if it had not movedme; from my guardian, too, I found another letter, asking me totell Dame Durden, if I should see that little woman anywhere, thatthey had moped most pitiably without her, that the housekeeping wasgoing to rack and ruin, that nobody else could manage the keys, andthat everybody in and about the house declared it was not the samehouse and was becoming rebellious for her return. Two such letterstogether made me think how far beyond my deserts I was beloved andhow happy I ought to be. That made me think of all my past life;and that brought me, as it ought to have done before, into a bettercondition.   For I saw very well that I could not have been intended to die, orI should never have lived; not to say should never have beenreserved for such a happy life. I saw very well how many thingshad worked together for my welfare, and that if the sins of thefathers were sometimes visited upon the children, the phrase didnot mean what I had in the morning feared it meant. I knew I wasas innocent of my birth as a queen of hers and that before myHeavenly Father I should not be punished for birth nor a queenrewarded for it. I had had experience, in the shock of that veryday, that I could, even thus soon, find comforting reconcilementsto the change that had fallen on me. I renewed my resolutions andprayed to be strengthened in them, pouring out my heart for myselfand for my unhappy mother and feeling that the darkness of themorning was passing away. It was not upon my sleep; and when thenext day's light awoke me, it was gone.   My dear girl was to arrive at five o'clock in the afternoon. Howto help myself through the intermediate time better than by takinga long walk along the road by which she was to come, I did notknow; so Charley and I and Stubbs--Stubbs saddled, for we neverdrove him after the one great occasion--made a long expeditionalong that road and back. On our return, we held a great review ofthe house and garden and saw that everything was in its prettiestcondition, and had the bird out ready as an important part of theestablishment.   There were more than two full hours yet to elapse before she couldcome, and in that interval, which seemed a long one, I must confessI was nervously anxious about my altered looks. I loved my darlingso well that I was more concerned for their effect on her than onany one. I was not in this slight distress because I at allrepined--I am quite certain I did not, that day--but, I thought,would she be wholly prepared? When she first saw me, might she notbe a little shocked and disappointed? Might it not prove a littleworse than she expected? Might she not look for her old Esther andnot find her? Might she not have to grow used to me and to beginall over again?   I knew the various expressions of my sweet girl's face so well, andit was such an honest face in its loveliness, that I was surebeforehand she could not hide that first look from me. And Iconsidered whether, if it should signify any one of these meanings,which was so very likely, could I quite answer for myself?   Well, I thought I could. After last night, I thought I could. Butto wait and wait, and expect and expect, and think and think, wassuch bad preparation that I resolved to go along the road again andmeet her.   So I said to Charley, '"Charley, I will go by myself and walk alongthe road until she comes." Charley highly approving of anythingthat pleased me, I went and left her at home.   But before I got to the second milestone, I had been in so manypalpitations from seeing dust in the distance (though I knew it wasnot, and could not, be the coach yet) that I resolved to turn backand go home again. And when I had turned, I was in such fear ofthe coach coming up behind me (though I still knew that it neitherwould, nor could, do any such thing) that I ran the greater part ofthe way to avoid being overtaken.   Then, I considered, when I had got safe back again, this was a nicething to have done! Now I was hot and had made the worst of itinstead of the best.   At last, when I believed there was at least a quarter of an hourmore yet, Charley all at once cried out to me as I was trembling inthe garden, "Here she comes, miss! Here she is!"I did not mean to do it, but I ran upstairs into my room and hidmyself behind the door. There I stood trembling, even when I heardmy darling calling as she came upstairs, "Esther, my dear, my love,where are you? Little woman, dear Dame Durden!"She ran in, and was running out again when she saw me. Ah, myangel girl! The old dear look, all love, all fondness, allaffection. Nothing else in it--no, nothing, nothing!   Oh, how happy I was, down upon the floor, with my sweet beautifulgirl down upon the floor too, holding my scarred face to her lovelycheek, bathing it with tears and kisses, rocking me to and fro likea child, calling me by every tender name that she could think of,and pressing me to her faithful heart. Chapter 37 Jarndyce and Jarndyce If the secret I had to keep had been mine, I must have confided itto Ada before we had been long together. But it was not mine, andI did not feel that I had a right to tell it, even to my guardian,unless some great emergency arose. It was a weight to bear alone;still my present duty appeared to be plain, and blest in theattachment of my dear, I did not want an impulse and encouragementto do it. Though often when she was asleep and all was quiet, theremembrance of my mother kept me waking and made the nightsorrowful, I did not yield to it at another time; and Ada found mewhat I used to be--except, of course, in that particular of which Ihave said enough and which I have no intention of mentioning anymore just now, if I can help it.   The difficulty that I felt in being quite composed that firstevening when Ada asked me, over our work, if the family were at thehouse, and when I was obliged to answer yes, I believed so, forLady Dedlock had spoken to me in the woods the day beforeyesterday, was great. Greater still when Ada asked me what she hadsaid, and when I replied that she had been kind and interested, andwhen Ada, while admitting her beauty and elegance, remarked uponher proud manner and her imperious chilling air. But Charleyhelped me through, unconsciously, by telling us that Lady Dedlockhad only stayed at the house two nights on her way from London tovisit at some other great house in the next county and that she hadleft early on the morning after we had seen her at our view, as wecalled it. Charley verified the adage about little pitchers, I amsure, for she heard of more sayings and doings in a day than wouldhave come to my ears in a month.   We were to stay a month at Mr. Boythorn's. My pet had scarcelybeen there a bright week, as I recollect the time, when one eveningafter we had finished helping the gardener in watering his flowers,and just as the candles were lighted, Charley, appearing with avery important air behind Ada's chair, beckoned me mysteriously outof the room.   "Oh! If you please, miss," said Charley in a whisper, with her eyesat their roundest and largest. "You're wanted at the DedlockArms.""Why, Charley," said I, "who can possibly want me at the public-house?""I don't know, miss," returned Charley, putting her head forwardand folding her hands tight upon the band of her little apron,which she always did in the enjoyment of anything mysterious orconfidential, "but it's a gentleman, miss, and his compliments, andwill you please to come without saying anything about it.""Whose compliments, Charley?""His'n, miss," returned Charley, whose grammatical education wasadvancing, but not very rapidly.   "And how do you come to be the messenger, Charley?""I am not the messenger, if you please, miss," returned my littlemaid. "It was W. Grubble, miss.""And who is W. Grubble, Charley?""Mister Grubble, miss," returned Charley. "Don't you know, miss?   The Dedlock Arms, by W. Grubble," which Charley delivered as if shewere slowly spelling out the sign.   "Aye? The landlord, Charley?""Yes, miss. If you please, miss, his wife is a beautiful woman,but she broke her ankle, and it never joined. And her brother'sthe sawyer that was put in the cage, miss, and they expect he'lldrink himself to death entirely on beer," said Charley.   Not knowing what might be the matter, and being easily apprehensivenow, I thought it best to go to this place by myself. I badeCharley be quick with my bonnet and veil and my shawl, and havingput them on, went away down the little hilly street, where I was asmuch at home as in Mr. Boythorn's garden.   Mr. Grubble was standing in his shirt-sleeves at the door of hisvery clean little tavern waiting for me. He lifted off his hatwith both hands when he saw me coming, and carrying it so, as if itwere an iron vessel (it looked as heavy), preceded me along thesanded passage to his best parlour, a neat carpeted room with moreplants in it than were quite convenient, a coloured print of QueenCaroline, several shells, a good many tea-trays, two stuffed anddried fish in glass cases, and either a curious egg or a curiouspumpkin (but I don't know which, and 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-looking, stoutish,middle-aged man who never seemed to consider himself cozily dressedfor his own fire-side without his hat and top-boots, but who neverwore a coat except at church.   He snuffed the candle, and backing away a little to see how itlooked, backed out of the room--unexpectedly to me, for I was goingto ask him by whom he had been sent. The door of the oppositeparlour being then opened, I heard some voices, familiar in my earsI thought, which stopped. A quick light step approached the roomin which I was, and who should stand before me but Richard!   "My dear Esther!" he said. "My best friend!" And he really was sowarm-hearted and earnest that in the first surprise and pleasure ofhis brotherly greeting I could scarcely find breath to tell himthat Ada was well.   "Answering my very thoughts--always the same dear girl!" saidRichard, leading me to a chair and seating himself beside me.   I put my veil up, but not quite.   "Always the same dear girl!" said Richard just as heartily asbefore.   I put up my veil altogether, and laying my hand on Richard's sleeveand looking in his face, told him how much I thanked him for hiskind welcome and how greatly I rejoiced to see him, the more sobecause of the determination I had made in my illness, which I nowconveyed to him.   "My love," said Richard, "there is no one with whom I have agreater wish to talk than you, for I want you to understand me.""And I want you, Richard," said I, shaking my head, "to understandsome 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 thatsubject that I am anxious to be understood. By you, mind--you, mydear! I am not accountable to Mr. Jarndyce or Mr. Anybody."I was pained to find him taking this tone, and he observed it.   "Well, well, my dear," said Richard, "we won't go into that now. Iwant to appear quietly in your country-house here, with you undermy arm, and give my charming cousin a surprise. I suppose yourloyalty to John Jarndyce will allow that?""My dear Richard," I returned, "you know you would be heartilywelcome 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. Itdoes as well as anything else, for a time. I don't know that Ishall care about it when I come to be settled, but I can sell outthen and--however, never mind all that botheration at present."So young and handsome, and in all respects so perfectly theopposite of Miss Flite! And yet, in the clouded, eager, seekinglook that passed over him, so 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 interestsbefore the long vacation," said Richard, forcing a careless laugh.   "We are beginning to spin along with that old suit at last, Ipromise you."No wonder that I shook my head!   "As you say, it's not a pleasant subject." Richard spoke with thesame shade crossing his face as before. "Let it go to the fourwinds 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 afascinating child it is!"I asked Richard if any one knew of their coming down together. Heanswered, no, nobody. He had been to call upon the dear oldinfant--so he called Mr. Skimpole--and the dear old infant had toldhim where we were, and he had told the dear old infant he was benton coming to see us, and the dear old infant had directly wanted tocome too; and so he had brought him. "And he is worth--not to sayhis sordid expenses--but thrice his weight in gold," said Richard.   "He is such a cheery fellow. No worldliness about him. Fresh andgreen-hearted!"I certainly did not see the proof of Mr. Skimpole's worldliness inhis having his expenses paid by Richard, but I made no remark aboutthat. Indeed, he came in and turned our conversation. He wascharmed to see me, said he had been shedding delicious tears of joyand sympathy at intervals for six weeks on my account, had neverbeen so happy as in hearing of my progress, began to understand themixture of good and evil in the world now, felt that he appreciatedhealth the more when somebody else was ill, didn't know but what itmight be in the scheme of things that A should squint to make Bhappier in looking straight or that C should carry a wooden leg tomake D better satisfied with his flesh and blood in a silkstocking.   "My dear Miss Summerson, here is our friend Richard," said Mr.   Skimpole, "full of the brightest visions of the future, which heevokes out of the darkness of Chancery. Now that's delightful,that's inspiriting, that's full of poetry! In old times the woodsand solitudes were made joyous to the shepherd by the imaginarypiping and dancing of Pan and the nymphs. This present shepherd,our pastoral Richard, brightens the dull Inns of Court by makingFortune and her train sport through them to the melodious notes ofa judgment from the bench. That's very pleasant, you know! Someill-conditioned growling fellow may say to me, 'What's the use ofthese legal and equitable abuses? How do you defend them?' Ireply, 'My growling friend, I DON'T defend them, but they are veryagreeable to me. There is a shepherd--youth, a friend of mine, whotransmutes them into something highly fascinating to my simplicity.   I don't say it is for this that they exist--for I am a child amongyou worldly grumblers, and not called upon to account to you ormyself for anything--but it may be so.'"I began seriously to think that Richard could scarcely have found aworse friend than this. It made me uneasy that at such a time whenhe most required some right principle and purpose he should havethis captivating looseness and putting-off of everything, this airydispensing with all principle and purpose, at his elbow. I thoughtI could understand how such a nature as my guardian's, experiencedin the world and forced to contemplate the miserable evasions andcontentions of the family misfortune, found an immense relief inMr. Skimpole's avowal of his weaknesses and display of guilelesscandour; but I could not satisfy myself that it was as artless asit seemed or that it did not serve Mr. Skimpole's idle turn quiteas well as any other part, and with less trouble.   They both walked back with me, and Mr. Skimpole leaving us at thegate, I walked softly in with Richard and said, "Ada, my love, Ihave brought a gentleman to visit you." It was not difficult toread the blushing, startled face. She loved him dearly, and heknew it, and I knew it. It was a very transparent business, thatmeeting as cousins only.   I almost mistrusted myself as growing quite wicked in mysuspicions, but I was not so sure that Richard loved her dearly.   He admired her very much--any one must have done that--and I daresay would have renewed their youthful engagement with great prideand ardour but that he knew how she would respect her promise to myguardian. Still I had a tormenting idea that the influence uponhim extended even here, that he was postponing his best truth andearnestness in this as in all things until Jarndyce and Jarndyceshould be off his mind. Ah me! What Richard would have beenwithout that blight, I never shall know now!   He told Ada, in his most ingenuous way, that he had not come tomake any secret inroad on the terms she had accepted (rather tooimplicitly and confidingly, he thought) from Mr. Jarndyce, that hehad come openly to see her and to see me and to justify himself forthe present terms on which he stood with Mr. Jarndyce. As the dearold infant would be with us directly, he begged that I would makean appointment for the morning, when he might set himself rightthrough the means of an unreserved conversation with me. Iproposed to walk with him in the park at seven o'clock, and thiswas arranged. Mr. Skimpole soon afterwards appeared and made usmerry for an hour. He particularly requested to see littleCoavinses (meaning Charley) and told her, with a patriarchal air,that he had given her late father all the business in his power andthat if one of her little brothers would make haste to get set upin the same profession, he hoped he should still be able to put agood 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-water, "and amconstantly being bailed out--like a boat. Or paid off--like aship'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 getout by somebody's means; I am not like the starling; I get out. Ifyou were to ask me who somebody is, upon my word I couldn't tellyou. Let us drink to somebody. God bless him!"Richard was a little late in the morning, but I had not to wait forhim long, and we turned into the park. The air was bright and dewyand the sky without a cloud. The birds sang delightfully; thesparkles in the fern, the grass, and trees, were exquisite to see;the richness of the woods seemed to have increased twenty-foldsince yesterday, as if, in the still night when they had looked somassively hushed in sleep, Nature, through all the minute detailsof every wonderful leaf, had been more wakeful than usual for theglory of that day.   "This is a lovely place," said Richard, looking round. "None ofthe jar and discord of law-suits here!"But there was other trouble.   "I tell you what, my dear girl," said Richard, "when I get affairsin 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 Richard, "or as to doing anythingvery definite NOW, that's not easy. In short, it can't be done; Ican't do it at least.""Why not?" said I.   "You know why not, Esther. If you were living in an unfinishedhouse, liable to have the roof put on or taken off--to be from topto 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 poorlittle wandering friend had expatiated when I saw again thedarkened look of last night. Terrible to think it bad in it also ashade of that unfortunate man who had died.   "My dear Richard," said I, "this is a bad beginning of ourconversation.""I knew you would tell me so, Dame Durden.""And not I alone, dear Richard. It was not I who cautioned youonce 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 stapleof 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 interestedparty and that it may be very well for him to wish me to knownothing of the suit, and care nothing about it, but that it may notbe quite so well for me?""Oh, Richard," I remonstrated, "is it possible that you can everhave seen him and heard him, that you can ever have lived under hisroof and known him, and can yet breathe, even to me in thissolitary place where there is no one to hear us, such unworthysuspicions?"He reddened deeply, as if his natural generosity felt a pang ofreproach. He was silent for a little while before he replied in asubdued voice, "Esther, I am sure you know that I am not a meanfellow and that I have some sense of suspicion and distrust beingpoor 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 Richard, "and like you, because itgives me comfort. I had need to get some scrap of comfort out ofall this business, for it's a bad one at the best, as I have nooccasion to tell you.""I know perfectly," said I. "I know as well, Richard--what shall Isay? as well as you do--that such misconstructions are foreign toyour nature. And I know, as well as you know, what so changes it.""Come, sister, come," said Richard a little more gaily, "you willbe fair with me at all events. If I have the misfortune to beunder that influence, so has he. If it has a little twisted me, itmay have a little twisted him too. I don't say that he is not anhonourable man, out of all this complication and uncertainty; I amsure he is. But it taints everybody. You know it taintseverybody. You have heard him say so fifty times. Then why shouldHE escape?""Because," said I, "his is an uncommon character, and he hasresolutely 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 speciousto preserve that outward indifference. It may cause other partiesinterested to become lax about their interests; and people may dieoff, and points may drag themselves out of memory, and many thingsmay smoothly happen that are convenient enough."I was so touched with pity for Richard that I could not reproachhim any more, even by a look. I remembered my guardian'sgentleness towards his errors and with what perfect freedom fromresentment he had spoken of them.   "Esther," Richard resumed, "you are not to suppose that I have comehere to make underhanded charges against John Jarndyce. I haveonly come to justify myself. What I say is, it was all very welland we got on very well while I was a boy, utterly regardless ofthis same suit; but as soon as I began to take an interest in itand to look into it, then it was quite another thing. Then JohnJarndyce discovers that Ada and I must break off and that if Idon'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 ofcompromise, which he has no right to dictate. Whether it pleaseshim or displeases him, I must maintain my rights and Ada's. I havebeen thinking about it a good deal, and this is the conclusion Ihave come to."Poor dear Richard! He had indeed been thinking about it a gooddeal. His face, his voice, his manner, all showed that tooplainly.   "So I tell him honourably (you are to know I have written to himabout all this) that we are at issue and that we had better be atissue openly than covertly. I thank him for his goodwill and hisprotection, and he goes his road, and I go mine. The fact is, ourroads are not the same. Under one of the wills in dispute, Ishould take much more than he. I don't mean to say that it is theone to be established, but there it is, and it has its chance.""I have not to learn from you, my dear Richard," said I, "of yourletter. I had heard of it already without an offended or angryword.""Indeed?" replied Richard, softening. "I am glad I said he was anhonourable man, out of all this wretched affair. But I always saythat and have never doubted it. Now, my dear Esther, I know theseviews of mine appear extremely harsh to you, and will to Ada whenyou tell her what has passed between us. But if you had gone intothe case as I have, if you had only applied yourself to the papersas I did when I was at Kenge's, if you only knew what anaccumulation of charges and counter-charges, and suspicions andcross-suspicions, they involve, you would think me moderate incomparison.""Perhaps so," said I. "But do you think that, among those manypapers, there is much truth and justice, Richard?""There is truth and justice somewhere in the case, Esther--""Or was once, long ago," said I.   "Is--is--must be somewhere," pursued Richard impetuously, "and mustbe brought out. To allow Ada to be made a bribe and hush-money ofis not the way to bring it out. You say the suit is changing me;John Jarndyce says it changes, has changed, and will changeeverybody who has any share in it. Then the greater right I haveon 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 noothers have done all they could? Has the difficulty grown easierbecause of so many failures?""It can't last for ever," returned Richard with a fiercenesskindling in him which again presented to me that last sad reminder.   "I am young and earnest, and energy and determination have donewonders many a time. Others have only half thrown themselves intoit. 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 returnedaffectionately. "You're a dear, good, wise, quiet, blessed girl;but you have your prepossessions. So I come round to JohnJarndyce. I tell you, my good Esther, when he and I were on thoseterms which he found so convenient, we 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 onunnatural terms, with which natural relations are incompatible.   See another reason for urging it on! I may find out when it's overthat I have been mistaken in John Jarndyce. My head may be clearerwhen I am free of it, and I may then agree with what you say to-day. Very well. Then I shall acknowledge it and make himreparation."Everything postponed to that imaginary time! Everything held inconfusion and indecision until then!   "Now, my best of confidantes," said Richard, "I want my cousin Adato understand that I am not captious, fickle, and wilful about JohnJarndyce, but that I have this purpose and reason at my back. Iwish to represent myself to her through you, because she has agreat esteem and respect for her cousin John; and I know you willsoften the course I take, even though you disapprove of it; and--and in short," said Richard, who had been hesitating through thesewords, "I--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 thanin anything he had said yet.   "Why," acknowledged Richard, "that may be true enough, my love. Irather 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 beafraid."I asked him if this were all he wished me to tell Ada.   "Not quite," said Richard. "I am bound not to withhold from herthat John Jarndyce answered my letter in his usual manner,addressing me as 'My dear Rick,' trying to argue me out of myopinions, and telling me that they should make no difference inhim. (All very well of course, but not altering the case.) I alsowant Ada to know that if I see her seldom just now, I am lookingafter her interests as well as my own--we two being in the sameboat exactly--and that I hope she will not suppose from any flyingrumours she may hear that I am at all light-headed or imprudent; onthe contrary, I am always looking forward to the termination of thesuit, and always planning in that direction. Being of age now andhaving taken the step I have taken, I consider myself free from anyaccountability to John Jarndyce; but Ada being still a ward of thecourt, I don't yet ask her to renew our engagement. When she isfree to act for herself, I shall be myself once more and we shallboth be in very different worldly circumstances, I believe. If youtell her all this with the advantage of your considerate way, youwill do me a very great and a very kind service, my dear Esther;and I shall knock Jarndyce and Jarndyce on the head with greatervigour. Of course I ask for no secrecy at Bleak House.""Richard," said I, "you place great confidence in me, but I fearyou will not take advice from me?""It's impossible that I can on this subject, my dear girl. On anyother, readily."As if there were any other in his life! As if his whole career andcharacter were not being dyed one colour!   "But I may ask you a question, Richard?""I think so," said he, laughing. "I don't know who may not, if youmay 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 Richard, astonished at my simplicity.   "Is it of course?""My dear child, certainly. I can't throw myself into an object socompletely without expense. You forget, or perhaps you don't know,that under either of the wills Ada and I take something. It's onlya question between the larger sum and the smaller. I shall bewithin the mark any way. Bless your heart, my excellent girl,"said Richard, quite amused with me, "I shall be all right! I shallpull through, my dear!"I felt so deeply sensible of the danger in which he stood that Itried, in Ada's name, in my guardian's, in my own, by every ferventmeans that I could think of, to warn him of it and to show him someof his mistakes. He received everything I said with patience andgentleness, but it all rebounded from him without taking the leasteffect. I could not wonder at this after the reception hispreoccupied mind had given to my guardian's letter, but Idetermined to try Ada's influence yet.   So when our walk brought us round to the village again, and I wenthome to breakfast, I prepared Ada for the account I was going togive her and told her exactly what reason we had to dread thatRichard was losing himself and scattering his whole life to thewinds. It made her very unhappy, of course, though she had a far,far greater reliance on his correcting his errors than I couldhave--which was so natural and loving in my dear!--and shepresently wrote him this little letter:   My dearest cousin,Esther has told me all you said to her this morning. I write thisto repeat most earnestly for myself all that she said to you and tolet you know how sure I am that you will sooner or later find ourcousin John a pattern of truth, sincerity, and goodness, when youwill deeply, deeply grieve to have done him (without intending it)so much wrong.   I do not quite know how to write what I wish to say next, but Itrust you will understand it as I mean it. I have some fears, mydearest cousin, that it may be partly for my sake you are nowlaying up so much unhappiness for yourself--and if for yourself,for me. In case this should be so, or in case you should entertainmuch thought of me in what you are doing, I most earnestly entreatand beg you to desist. You can do nothing for my sake that willmake me half so happy as for ever turning your back upon the shadowin which we both were born. Do not be angry with me for sayingthis. Pray, pray, dear Richard, for my sake, and for your own, andin a natural repugnance for that source of trouble which had itsshare in making us both orphans when we were very young, pray,pray, let it go for ever. We have reason to know by this time thatthere is no good in it and no hope, that there is nothing to be gotfrom it but sorrow.   My dearest cousin, it is needless for me to say that you are quitefree and that it is very likely you may find some one whom you willlove much better than your first fancy. I am quite sure, if youwill let me say so, that the object of your choice would greatlyprefer to follow your fortunes far and wide, however moderate orpoor, and see you happy, doing your duty and pursuing your chosenway, than to have the hope of being, or even to be, very rich withyou (if such a thing were possible) at the cost of dragging yearsof procrastination and anxiety and of your indifference to otheraims. You may wonder at my saying this so confidently with solittle knowledge or experience, but I know it for a certainty frommy own heart.   Ever, my dearest cousin, your most affectionateAdaThis note brought Richard to us very soon, but it made littlechange in him if any. We would fairly try, he said, who was rightand who was wrong--he would show us--we should see! He wasanimated and glowing, as if Ada's tenderness had gratified him; butI could only hope, with a sigh, that the letter might have somestronger effect upon his mind on re-perusal than it assuredly hadthen.   As they were to remain with us that day and had taken their placesto return by the coach next morning, I sought an opportunity ofspeaking to Mr. Skimpole. Our out-of-door life easily threw one inmy way, and I delicately said that there was a responsibility inencouraging Richard.   "Responsibility, my dear Miss Summerson?" he repeated, catching atthe word with the pleasantest smile. "I am the last man in theworld for such a thing. I never was responsible in my life--Ican't be.""I am afraid everybody is obliged to be," said I timidly enough, hebeing so much older and more clever than I.   "No, really?" said Mr. Skimpole, receiving this new light with amost agreeable jocularity of surprise. "But every man's notobliged to be solvent? I am not. I never was. See, my dear MissSummerson," he took a handful of loose silver and halfpence fromhis 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--callit four pound nine. They tell me I owe more than that. I dare sayI do. I dare say I owe as much as good-natured people will let meowe. If they don't stop, why should I? There you have HaroldSkimpole in little. If that's responsibility, I am responsible."The perfect ease of manner with which he put the money up again andlooked at me with a smile on his refined face, as if he had beenmentioning a curious little fact about somebody else, almost mademe feel as if he really had nothing to do with it.   "Now, when you mention responsibility," he resumed, "I am disposedto say that I never had the happiness of knowing any one whom Ishould consider so refreshingly responsible as yourself. Youappear to me to be the very touchstone of responsibility. When Isee you, my dear Miss Summerson, intent upon the perfect working ofthe whole little orderly system of which you are the centre, I feelinclined to say to myself--in fact I do say to myself very often--THAT'S responsibility!"It was difficult, after this, to explain what I meant; but Ipersisted so far as to say that we all hoped he would check and notconfirm Richard in the sanguine views he entertained just then.   "Most willingly," he retorted, "if I could. But, my dear MissSummerson, I have no art, no disguise. If he takes me by the handand leads me through Westminster Hall in an airy procession afterfortune, I must go. If he says, 'Skimpole, join the dance!' Imust join it. Common sense wouldn't, I know, but I have NO commonsense."It was very unfortunate for Richard, I said.   "Do you think so!" returned Mr. Skimpole. "Don't say that, don'tsay that. Let us suppose him keeping company with Common Sense--anexcellent man--a good deal wrinkled--dreadfully practical--changefor a ten-pound note in every pocket--ruled account-book in hishand--say, upon the whole, resembling a tax-gatherer. Our dearRichard, sanguine, ardent, overleaping obstacles, bursting withpoetry like a young bud, says to this highly respectable companion,'I see a golden prospect before me; it's very bright, it's verybeautiful, it's very joyous; here I go, bounding over the landscapeto come at it!' The respectable companion instantly knocks himdown with the ruled account-book; tells him in a literal, prosaicway that he sees no such thing; shows him it's nothing but fees,fraud, horsehair wigs, and black gowns. Now you know that's apainful change--sensible in the last degree, I have no doubt, butdisagreeable. I can't do it. I haven't got the ruled account-book, I have none of the tax-gatherlng elements in my composition,I am not at all respectable, and I don't want to be. Odd perhaps,but so it is!"It was idle to say more, so I proposed that we should join Ada andRichard, who were a little in advance, and I gave up Mr. Skimpolein despair. He had been over the Hall in the course of the morningand whimsically described the family pictures as we walked. Therewere such portentous shepherdesses among the Ladies Dedlock deadand gone, he told us, that peaceful crooks became weapons ofassault in their hands. They tended their flocks severely inbuckram and powder and put their sticking-plaster patches on toterrify commoners as the chiefs of some other tribes put on theirwar-paint. There was a Sir Somebody Dedlock, with a battle, asprung-mine, volumes of smoke, flashes of lightning, a town onfire, and a stormed fort, all in full action between his horse'stwo hind legs, showing, he supposed, how little a Dedlock made ofsuch trifles. The whole race he represented as having evidentlybeen, in life, what he called "stuffed people"--a large collection,glassy eyed, set up in the most approved manner on their varioustwigs and perches, very correct, perfectly free from animation, andalways in glass cases.   I was not so easy now during any reference to the name but that Ifelt it a relief when Richard, with an exclamation of surprise,hurried away to meet a stranger whom he first descried comingslowly 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. "Now, my dear MissSummerson, if you want common sense, responsibility, andrespectability, all united--if you want an exemplary man--Vholes isTHE man."We had not known, we said, that Richard was assisted by anygentleman of that name.   "When he emerged from legal infancy," returned Mr. Skimpole, "heparted from our conversational friend Kenge and took up, I believe,with Vholes. Indeed, I know he did, because I introduced him toVholes.""Had you known him long?" asked Ada.   "Vholes? My dear Miss Clare, I had had that kind of acquaintancewith 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 theproceeding of his taking ME. Somebody was so good as to step inand pay the money--something and fourpence was the amount; I forgetthe pounds and shillings, but I know it ended with fourpence,because it struck me at the time as being so odd that I could oweanybody fourpence--and after that I brought them together. Vholesasked me for the introduction, and I gave it. Now I come to thinkof it," he looked inquiringly at us with his frankest smile as hemade the discovery, "Vholes bribed me, perhaps? He gave mesomething and called it commission. Was it a five-pound note? Doyou know, I think it MUST have been a five-pound note!"His further consideration of the point was prevented by Richard'scoming back to us in an excited state and hastily representing Mr.   Vholes--a sallow man with pinched lips that looked as if they werecold, a red eruption here and there upon his face, tall and thin,about fifty years of age, high-shouldered, and stooping. Dressedin black, black-gloved, and buttoned to the chin, there was nothingso remarkable in him as a lifeless manner and a slow, fixed way hehad of looking at Richard.   "I hope I don't disturb you, ladies," said Mr. Vholes, and now Iobserved that he was further remarkable for an inward manner ofspeaking. "I arranged with Mr. Carstone that he should always knowwhen his cause was in the Chancelor's paper, and being informed byone of my clerks last night after post time that it stood, ratherunexpectedly, in the paper for to-morrow, I put myself into thecoach early this morning and came down to confer with him.""Yes," said Richard, flushed, and looking triumphantly at Ada andme, "we don't do these things in the old slow way now. We spinalong now! Mr. Vholes, we must hire something to get over to thepost town in, and catch the mail to-night, and go up by it!""Anything you please, sir," returned Mr. Vholes. "I am quite atyour service.""Let me see," said Richard, looking at his watch. "If I run downto the Dedlock, and get my portmanteau fastened up, and order agig, or a chaise, or whatever's to be got, we shall have an hourthen before starting. I'll come back to tea. Cousin Ada, will youand Esther take care of Mr. Vholes when I am gone?"He was away directly, in his heat and hurry, and was soon lost inthe 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 go, then, onlyto be disappointed.   "Mr. Carstone has laid down the principle of watching his owninterests," said Mr. Vholes, "and when a client lays down his ownprinciple, and it is not immoral, it devolves upon me to carry itout. I wish in business to be exact and open. I am a widower withthree daughters--Emma, Jane, and Caroline--and my desire is so todischarge the duties of life as to leave them a good name. Thisappears to be a pleasant spot, miss."The remark being made to me in consequence of my being next him aswe walked, I assented and enumerated its chief attractions.   "Indeed?" said Mr. Vholes. "I have the privilege of supporting anaged father in the Vale of Taunton--his native place--and I admirethat country very much. I had no idea there was anything soattractive here."To keep up the conversation, I asked Mr. Vholes if he would like tolive altogether in the country.   "There, miss," said he, "you touch me on a tender string. Myhealth is not good (my digestion being much impaired), and if I hadonly myself to consider, I should take refuge in rural habits,especially as the cares of business have prevented me from evercoming much into contact with general society, and particularlywith ladies' society, which I have most wished to mix in. But withmy three daughters, Emma, Jane, and Caroline--and my aged father--Icannot afford to be selfish. It is true I have no longer tomaintain a dear grandmother who died in her hundred and secondyear, but enough remains to render it indispensable that the millshould be always going."It required some attention to hear him on account of his inwardspeaking and his lifeless manner.   "You will excuse my having mentioned my daughters," he said. "Theyare my weak point. I wish to leave the poor girls some littleindependence, as well as a good name."We now arrived at Mr. Boythorn's house, where the tea-table, allprepared, was awaiting us. Richard came in restless and hurriedshortly afterwards, and leaning over Mr. Vholes's chair, whisperedsomething in his ear. Mr. Vholes replied aloud--or as nearly aloudI suppose as he had ever replied to anything--"You will drive me,will you, sir? It is all the same to me, sir. Anything youplease. I am quite at your service."We understood from what followed that Mr. Skimpole was to be leftuntil the morning to occupy the two places which had been alreadypaid for. As Ada and I were both in low spirits concerning Richardand very sorry so to part with him, we made it as plain as wepolitely could that we should leave Mr. Skimpole to the DedlockArms and retire when the night-travellers were gone.   Richard's high spirits carrying everything before them, we all wentout together to the top of the hill above the village, where he hadordered a gig to wait and where we found a man with a lanternstanding at the head of the gaunt pale horse that had beenharnessed to it.   I never shall forget those two seated side by side in the lantern'slight, Richard all flush and fire and laughter, with the reins inhis hand; Mr. Vholes quite still, black-gloved, and 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 night, thesummer lightning, the dusty track of road closed in by hedgerowsand high trees, the gaunt pale horse with his ears pricked up, andthe driving away at speed to Jarndyce and Jarndyce.   My dear girl told me that night how Richard's being thereafterprosperous or ruined, befriended or deserted, could only make thisdifference to her, that the more he needed love from one unchangingheart, the more love that unchanging heart would have to give him;how he thought of her through his present errors, and she wouldthink of him at all times--never of herself if she could devoteherself to him, never of her own delights if she could minister tohis.   And she kept her word?   I look along the road before me, where the distance alreadyshortens and the journey's end is growing visible; and true andgood above the dead sea of the Chancery suit and all the ashy fruitit cast ashore, I think I see my darling. Chapter 38 A Struggle When our time came for returning to Bleak House again, we werepunctual to the day and were received with an overpowering welcome.   I was perfectly restored to health and strength, and finding myhousekeeping keys laid ready for me in my room, rang myself in asif I had been a new year, with a merry little peal. "Once more,duty, duty, Esther," said I; "and if you are not overjoyed to doit, more than cheerfully and contentedly, through anything andeverything, you ought to be. That's all I have to say to you, mydear!"The first few mornings were mornings of so much bustle andbusiness, devoted to such settlements of accounts, such repeatedjourneys to and fro between the growlery and all other parts of thehouse, so many rearrangements of drawers and presses, and such ageneral new beginning altogether, that I had not a moment'sleisure. But when these arrangements were completed and everythingwas in order, I paid a visit of a few hours to London, whichsomething in the letter I had destroyed at Chesney Wold had inducedme to decide upon in my own mind.   I made Caddy Jellyby--her maiden name was so natural to me that Ialways called her by it--the pretext for this visit and wrote her anote previously asking the favour of her company on a littlebusiness expedition. Leaving home very early in the morning, I gotto London by stage-coach in such good time that I got to NewmanStreet with the day before me.   Caddy, who had not seen me since her wedding-day, was so glad andso affectionate that I was half inclined to fear I should make herhusband jealous. But he was, in his way, just as bad--I mean asgood; and in short it was the old story, and nobody would leave meany possibility of doing anything meritorious.   The elder Mr. Turveydrop was in bed, I found, and Caddy was millinghis chocolate, which a melancholy little boy who was an apprentice--it seemed such a curious thing to be apprenticed to the trade ofdancing--was waiting to carry upstairs. Her father-in-law wasextremely kind and considerate, Caddy told me, and they lived mosthappily together. (When she spoke of their living together, shemeant that the old gentleman had all the good things and all thegood lodging, while 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 Caddy, "through Pa, but I seevery little of her. We are good friends, I am glad to say, but Mathinks 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 naturalduties and obligations before she swept the horizon with atelescope in search of others, she would have taken the bestprecautions against becoming absurd, but I need scarcely observethat I kept this to myself.   "And your papa, Caddy?""He comes here every evening," returned Caddy, "and is so fond ofsitting in the corner there that it's a treat to see him."Looking at the corner, I plainly perceived the mark of Mr.   Jellyby's head against the wall. It was consolatory to know thathe had found such a resting-place for it.   "And you, Caddy," said I, "you are always busy, I'll be bound?""Well, my dear," returned Caddy, "I am indeed, for to tell you agrand secret, I am qualifying myself to give lessons. Prince'shealth is not strong, and I want to be able to assist him. Whatwith schools, and classes here, and private pupils, AND theapprentices, he really has too much to do, poor fellow!"The notion of the apprentices was still so odd to me that I askedCaddy if there were many of them.   "Four," said Caddy. "One in-door, and three out. They are verygood children; only when they get together they WILL play--children-like--instead of attending to their work. So the littleboy you saw just now waltzes by himself in the empty kitchen, andwe 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 practise, somany hours at a time, whatever steps they happen to be upon. Theydance in the academy, and at this time of year we do figures atfive every morning.""Why, what a laborious life!" I exclaimed.   "I assure you, my dear," returned Caddy, smiling, "when the out-door apprentices ring us up in the morning (the bell rings into ourroom, not to disturb old Mr. Turveydrop), and when I put up thewindow and see them standing on the door-step with their littlepumps under their arms, I am actually reminded of the Sweeps."All this presented the art to me in a singular light, to be sure.   Caddy enjoyed the effect of her communication and cheerfullyrecounted the particulars of her own studies.   "You see, my dear, to save expense I ought to know something of thepiano, and I ought to know something of the kit too, andconsequently I have to practise those two instruments as well asthe details of our profession. If Ma had been like anybody else, Imight have had some little musical knowledge to begin upon.   However, I hadn't any; and that part of the work is, at first, alittle discouraging, I must allow. But I have a very good ear, andI 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 worldover." Saying these words, Caddy laughingly sat down at a littlejingling square piano and really rattled off a quadrille with greatspirit. Then she good-humouredly and blushingly got up again, andwhile she still laughed herself, said, "Don't laugh at me, please;that's a dear girl!"I would sooner have cried, but I did neither. I encouraged her andpraised her with all my heart. For I conscientiously believed,dancing-master's wife though she was, and dancing-mistress thoughin her limited ambition she aspired to be, she had struck out anatural, wholesome, loving course of industry and perseverance thatwas quite as good as a mission.   "My dear," said Caddy, delighted, "you can't think how you cheerme. 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, ofmy ever teaching people to dance, of all other possibilities andimpossibilities!"Her husband, who had left us while we had this chat, now comingback, preparatory to exercising the apprentices in the ball-room,Caddy informed me she was quite at my disposal. But it was not mytime yet, I was glad to tell her, for I should have been vexed totake her away then. Therefore we three adjourned to theapprentices together, and I made one in the dance.   The apprentices were the queerest little people. Besides themelancholy boy, who, I hoped, had not been made so by waltzingalone in the empty kitchen, there were two other boys and one dirtylittle limp girl in a gauzy dress. Such a precocious little girl,with such a dowdy bonnet on (that, too, of a gauzy texture), whobrought her sandalled shoes in an old threadbare velvet reticule.   Such mean little boys, when they were not dancing, with string, andmarbles, and cramp-bones in their pockets, and the most untidy legsand feet--and heels particularly.   I asked Caddy what had made their parents choose this professionfor them. Caddy said she didn't know; perhaps they were designedfor teachers, perhaps for the stage. They were all people inhumble circumstances, and the melancholy boy's mother kept aginger-beer shop.   We danced for an hour with great gravity, the melancholy childdoing wonders with his lower extremities, in which there appearedto be some sense of enjoyment though it never rose above his waist.   Caddy, while she was observant of her husband and was evidentlyfounded upon him, had acquired a grace and self-possession of herown, which, united to her pretty face and figure, was uncommonlyagreeable. She already relieved him of much of the instruction ofthese young people, and he seldom interfered except to walk hispart in the figure if he had anything to do in it. He alwaysplayed the tune. The affectation of the gauzy child, and hercondescension to the boys, was a sight. And thus we danced an hourby the clock.   When the practice was concluded, Caddy's husband made himself readyto go out of town to a school, and Caddy ran away to get ready togo out with me. I sat in the ball-room in the interval,contemplating the apprentices. The two out-door boys went upon thestaircase to put on their half-boots and pull the in-door boy'shair, as I judged from the nature of his objections. Returningwith their jackets buttoned and their pumps stuck in them, theythen produced packets of cold bread and meat and bivouacked under apainted lyre on the wall. The little gauzy child, having whiskedher sandals into the reticule and put on a trodden-down pair ofshoes, shook her head into the dowdy bonnet at one shake, andanswering my inquiry whether she liked dancing by replying, "Notwith boys," tied it across her chin, and went home contemptuous.   "Old Mr. Turveydrop is so sorry," said Caddy, "that he has notfinished dressing yet and cannot have the pleasure of seeing youbefore you go. You are such a favourite of his, Esther."I expressed myself much obliged to him, but did not think itnecessary to add that I readily dispensed with this attention.   "It takes him a long time to dress," said Caddy, "because he isvery much looked up to in such things, you know, and has areputation to support. You can't think how kind he is to Pa. Hetalks to Pa of an evening about the Prince Regent, and I never sawPa so interested."There was something in the picture of Mr. Turveydrop bestowing hisdeportment on Mr. Jellyby that quite took my fancy. I asked Caddyif he brought her papa out much.   "No," said Caddy, "I don't know that he does that, but he talks toPa, and Pa greatly admires him, and listens, and likes it. Ofcourse I am aware that Pa has hardly any claims to deportment, butthey get on together delightfully. You can't think what goodcompanions they make. I never saw Pa take snuff before in my life,but he takes one pinch out of Mr. Turveydrop's box regularly andkeeps putting it to his nose and taking it away again all theevening."That old Mr. Turveydrop should ever, in the chances and changes oflife, have come to the rescue of Mr. Jellyby from Borrioboola-Ghaappeared to me to be one of the pleasantest of oddities.   "As to Peepy," said Caddy with a little hesitation, "whom I wasmost afraid of--next to having any family of my own, Esther--as aninconvenience to Mr. Turveydrop, the kindness of the old gentlemanto 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 thecrusts of his toast to eat; he sends him on little errands aboutthe house; he tells him to come to me for sixpences. In short,"said Caddy cheerily, "and not to prose, I am a very fortunate girland ought to be very grateful. Where are we going, Esther?""To the Old Street Road," said I, "where I have a few words to sayto 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, mydear. Now I think of it, the gentleman who brought us to yourhouse.""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'sresidence for Mrs. Guppy. Mrs. Guppy, occupying the parlours andhaving indeed been visibly in danger of cracking herself like a nutin the front-parlour door by peeping out before she was asked for,immediately presented herself and requested us to walk in. She wasan old lady in a large cap, with rather a red nose and rather anunsteady eye, but smiling all over. Her close little sitting-roomwas prepared for a visit, and there was a portrait of her son in itwhich, I had almost written here, was more like than life: itinsisted upon him with such obstinacy, and was so determined not tolet him off.   Not only was the portrait there, but we found the original theretoo. He was dressed in a great many colours and was discovered ata table reading law-papers with his forefinger to his forehead.   "Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, rising, "this is indeed an oasis.   Mother, will you be so good as to put a chair for the other ladyand get out of the gangway."Mrs. Guppy, whose incessant smiling gave her quite a waggishappearance, did as her son requested and then sat down in a corner,holding her pocket handkerchief to her chest, like a fomentation,with both hands.   I presented Caddy, and Mr. Guppy said that any friend of mine wasmore 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-pocket, putting it to his lips, and returning it to his pocket witha bow. Mr. Guppy's mother was so diverted that she rolled her headas 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 now, Ithink I never saw. She made no sound of laughter, but she rolledher head, and shook it, and put her handkerchief to her mouth, andappealed to Caddy with her elbow, and her hand, and her shoulder,and was so unspeakably entertained altogether that it was with somedifficulty she could marshal Caddy through the little folding-doorinto her bedroom adjoining.   "Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, "you will excuse the waywardnessof a parent ever mindful of a son's appiness. My mother, thoughhighly exasperating to the feelings, is actuated by maternaldictates."I could hardly have believed that anybody could in a moment haveturned so red or changed so much as Mr. Guppy did when I now put upmy 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 whatyou said on an occasion when you spoke to me in confidence, Ifeared I might otherwise cause you some embarrassment, Mr. Guppy."I caused him embarrassment enough as it was, I am sure. I neversaw such faltering, such confusion, such amazement andapprehension.   "Miss Summerson," stammered Mr. Guppy, "I--I--beg your pardon, butin our profession--we--we--find it necessary to be explicit. Youhave referred to an occasion, miss, when I--when I did myself thehonour of making a declaration which--"Something seemed to rise in his throat that he could not possiblyswallow. He put his hand there, coughed, made faces, tried againto swallow it, coughed again, made faces again, looked all roundthe room, and 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 sortof thing--er--by George!"I gave him a little time to recover. He consumed it in putting hishand to his forehead and taking it away again, and in backing hischair into the corner behind him.   "My intention was to remark, miss," said Mr. Guppy, "dear me--something bronchial, I think--hem!--to remark that you was so goodon that occasion as to repel and repudiate that declaration. You--you wouldn't perhaps object to admit that? Though no witnesses arepresent, it might be a satisfaction to--to your mind--if you was toput in that admission.""There can be no doubt," said I, "that I declined your proposalwithout any reservation or qualification whatever, Mr. Guppy.""Thank you, miss," he returned, measuring the table with histroubled hands. "So far that's satisfactory, and it does youcredit. Er--this is certainly bronchial!--must be in the tubes--er--you wouldn't perhaps be offended if I was to mention--not thatit's necessary, for your own good sense or any person's sense mustshow 'em that--if I was to mention that such declaration on my partwas final, and there terminated?""I quite understand that," said I.   "Perhaps--er--it may not be worth the form, but it might be asatisfaction to your mind--perhaps you wouldn't object to admitthat, miss?" said Mr. Guppy.   "I admit it most fully and freely," said I.   "Thank you," returned Mr. Guppy. "Very honourable, I am sure. Iregret that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstancesover which I have no control, will put it out of my power ever tofall back upon that offer or to renew it in any shape or formwhatever, but it will ever be a retrospect entwined--er--withfriendship's bowers." Mr. Guppy's bronchitis came to his reliefand 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 sopersuaded that your own good sense and right feeling, miss, will--will keep you as square as possible--that I can have nothing butpleasure, I am sure, in hearing any observations you may wish tooffer.""You were so good as to imply, on that occasion--""Excuse me, miss," said Mr. Guppy, "but we had better not travelout of the record into implication. I cannot admit that I impliedanything.""You said on that occasion," I recommenced, "that you mightpossibly have the means of advancing my interests and promoting myfortunes by making discoveries of which I should be the subject. Ipresume that you founded that belief upon your general knowledge ofmy being an orphan girl, indebted for everything to the benevolenceof Mr. Jarndyce. Now, the beginning and the end of what I havecome to beg of you is, Mr. Guppy, that you will have the kindnessto relinquish all idea of so serving me. I have thought of thissometimes, and I have thought of it most lately--since I have beenill. At length I have decided, in case you should at any timerecall that purpose and act upon it in any way, to come to you andassure you that you are altogether mistaken. You could make nodiscovery in reference to me that would do me the least service orgive me the least pleasure. I am acquainted with my personalhistory, and I have it in my power to assure you that you never canadvance my welfare by such means. You may, perhaps, have abandonedthis project a long time. If so, excuse my giving you unnecessarytrouble. 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. Guppy, "that you expressyourself, miss, with that good sense and right feeling for which Igave you credit. Nothing can be more satisfactory than such rightfeeling, and if I mistook any intentions on your part just now, Iam prepared to tender a full apology. I should wish to beunderstood, miss, as hereby offering that apology--limiting it, asyour own good sense and right feeling will point out the necessityof, to the present proceedings."I must say for Mr. Guppy that the snuffling manner he had had uponhim improved very much. He seemed truly glad to be able to dosomething I asked, and he looked ashamed.   "If you will allow me to finish what I have to say at once so thatI may have no occasion to resume," I went on, seeing him about tospeak, "you will do me a kindness, sir. I come to you as privatelyas possible because you announced this impression of yours to me ina confidence which I have really wished to respect--and which Ialways have respected, as you remember. I have mentioned myillness. There really is no reason why I should hesitate to saythat I know very well that any little delicacy I might have had inmaking a request to you is quite removed. Therefore I make theentreaty I have now preferred, and I hope you will have sufficientconsideration for me to accede to it."I must do Mr. Guppy the further justice of saying that he hadlooked more and more ashamed and that he looked most ashamed andvery earnest when he now replied with a burning face, "Upon my wordand honour, upon my life, upon my soul, Miss Summerson, as I am aliving man, I'll act according to your wish! I'll never go anotherstep in opposition to it. I'll take my oath to it if it will beany satisfaction to you. In what I promise at this present timetouching the matters now in question," continued Mr. Guppy rapidly,as if he were repeating a familiar form of words, "I speak thetruth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so--""I am quite satisfied," said I, rising at this point, "and I thankyou very much. Caddy, my dear, I am ready!"Mr. Guppy's mother returned with Caddy (now making me the recipientof 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 eitherimperfectly 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 about, and stopped us, sayingfervently, "Miss Summerson, upon my honour and soul, you may dependupon me!""I do," said I, "quite confidently.""I beg your pardon, miss," said Mr. Guppy, going with one leg andstaying with the other, "but this lady being present--your ownwitness--it might be a satisfaction to your mind (which I shouldwish to set at rest) if you was to repeat those admissions.""Well, Caddy," said I, turning to her, "perhaps you will not besurprised when I tell you, my dear, that there never has been anyengagement--""No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever," suggested Mr.   Guppy.   "No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever," said I, "betweenthis gentleman--""William Guppy, of Penton Place, Pentonville, in the county ofMiddlesex," 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 name, Christian and surname both?"I gave them.   "Married woman, I believe?" said Mr. Guppy. "Married woman. Thankyou. Formerly Caroline Jellyby, spinster, then of Thavies Inn,within the city of London, but extra-parochial; now of NewmanStreet, Oxford Street. Much obliged."He ran home and came running back again.   "Touching that matter, you know, I really and truly am very sorrythat my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances overwhich I have no control, should prevent a renewal of what waswholly terminated some time back," said Mr. Guppy to me forlornlyand despondently, "but it couldn't be. Now COULD it, you know! Ionly put it to you."I replied it certainly could not. The subject did not admit of adoubt. He thanked me and ran to his mother's again--and backagain.   "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 exceptthe tender passion only!"The struggle in Mr. Guppy's breast and the numerous oscillations itoccasioned him between his mother's door and us were sufficientlyconspicuous in the windy street (particularly as his hair wantedcutting) to make us hurry away. I did so with a lightened heart;but when we last looked back, Mr. Guppy was still oscillating inthe same troubled state of mind. Chapter 39 Attorney and Client The name of Mr. Vholes, preceded by the legend Ground-Floor, isinscribed upon a door-post in Symond's Inn, Chancery Lane--alittle, pale, wall-eyed, woebegone inn like a large dust-binn oftwo compartments and a sifter. It looks as if Symond were asparing man in his way and constructed his inn of old buildingmaterials which took kindly to the dry rot and to dirt and allthings decaying and dismal, and perpetuated Symond's memory withcongenial shabbiness. Quartered in this dingy hatchmentcommemorative of Symond are the legal bearings of Mr. Vholes.   Mr. Vholes's office, in disposition retiring and in situationretired, is 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 door, in an angle profoundly dark on thebrightest midsummer morning and encumbered by a black bulk-head ofcellarage staircase against which belated civilians generallystrike their brows. Mr. Vholes's chambers are on so small a scalethat one clerk can open the door without getting off his stool,while the other who elbows him at the same desk has equalfacilities for poking the fire. A smell as of unwholesome sheepblending with the smell of must and dust is referable to thenightly (and often daily) consumption of mutton fat in candles andto the fretting of parchment forms and skins in greasy drawers.   The atmosphere is otherwise stale and close. The place was lastpainted or whitewashed beyond the memory of man, and the twochimneys smoke, and there is a loose outer surface of sootevervwhere, and the dull cracked windows in their heavy frames havebut one piece of character in them, which is a determination to bealways dirty and always shut unless coerced. This accounts for thephenomenon of the weaker of the two usually having a bundle offirewood 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 greaterattorneys who have made good fortunes or are making them to be amost 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 andserious, which is another mark of respectability. His digestion isimpaired, which is highly respectable. And he is making hay of thegrass which is flesh, for his three daughters. And his father isdependent on him in the Vale of Taunton.   The one great principle of the English law is to make business foritself. There is no other principle distinctly, certainly, andconsistently maintained through all its narrow turnings. Viewed bythis light it becomes a coherent scheme and not the monstrous mazethe laity are apt to think it. Let them but once clearly perceivethat its grand principle is to make business for itself at theirexpense, and surely they will cease to grumble.   But not perceiving this quite plainly--only seeing it by halves ina confused way--the laity sometimes suffer in peace and pocket,with a bad grace, and DO grumble very much. Then thisrespectability of Mr. Vholes is brought into powerful play againstthem. "Repeal this statute, my good sir?" says Mr. Kenge to asmarting client. "Repeal it, my dear sir? Never, with my consent.   Alter this law, sir, and what will be the effect of your rashproceeding on a class of practitioners very worthily represented,allow me to say to you, by the opposite attorney in the case, Mr.   Vholes? Sir, that class of practitioners would be swept from theface of the earth. Now you cannot afford--I will say, the socialsystem cannot afford--to lose an order of men like Mr. Vholes.   Diligent, persevering, steady, acute in business. My dear sir, Iunderstand your present feelings against the existing state ofthings, which I grant to be a little hard in your case; but I cannever raise my voice for the demolition of a class of men like Mr.   Vholes." The respectability of Mr. Vholes has even been cited withcrushing effect before Parliamentary committees, as in thefollowing blue minutes of a distinguished attorney's evidence.   "Question (number five hundred and seventeen thousand eight hundredand sixty-nine): If I understand you, these forms of practiceindisputably occasion delay? Answer: Yes, some delay. Question:   And great expense? Answer: Most assuredly they cannot be gonethrough for nothing. Question: And unspeakable vexation? Answer:   I am not prepared to say that. They have never given ME anyvexation; quite the contrary. Question: But you think that theirabolition would damage a class of practitioners? Answer: I have nodoubt of it. Question: Can you instance any type of that class?   Answer: Yes. I would unhesitatingly mention Mr. Vholes. He wouldbe ruined. Question: Mr. Vholes is considered, in the profession,a respectable man? Answer: "--which proved fatal to the inquiryfor ten years--"Mr. Vholes is considered, in the profession, a MOSTrespectable man."So in familiar conversation, private authorities no lessdisinterested will remark that they don't know what this age iscoming to, that we are plunging down precipices, that now here issomething else gone, that these changes are death to people likeVholes--a man of undoubted respectability, with a father in theVale of Taunton, and three daughters at home. Take a few stepsmore in this direction, say they, and what is to become of Vholes'sfather? Is he to perish? And of Vholes's daughters? Are they tobe shirt-makers, or governesses? As though, Mr. Vholes and hisrelations being minor cannibal chiefs and it being proposed toabolish cannibalism, indignant champions were to put the case thus:   Make man-eating unlawful, and you starve the Vholeses!   In a word, Mr. Vholes, with his three daughters and his father inthe Vale of Taunton, is continually doing duty, like a piece oftimber, to shore up some decayed foundation that has become apitfall and a nuisance. And with a great many people in a greatmany instances, the question is never one of a change from wrong toright (which is quite an extraneous consideration), but is alwaysone of injury or advantage to that eminently respectable legion,Vholes.   The Chancellor is, within these ten minutes, "up" for the longvacation. Mr. Vholes, and his young client, and several blue bagshastily stuffed out of all regularity of form, as the larger sortof serpents are in their first gorged state, have returned to theofficial den. Mr. Vholes, quiet and unmoved, as a man of so muchrespectability ought to be, takes off his close black gloves as ifhe were skinning his hands, lifts off his tight hat as if he werescalping himself, and sits down at his desk. The client throws hishat and gloves upon the ground--tosses them anywhere, withoutlooking after them or caring where they go; flings himself into achair, half sighing and half groaning; rests his aching head uponhis hand and looks the portrait of young despair.   "Again nothing done!" says Richard. "Nothing, nothing done!""Don't say nothing done, sir," returns the placid Vholes. "That isscarcely fair, sir, scarcely fair!""Why, what IS done?" says Richard, turning gloomily upon him.   "That may not be the whole question," returns Vholes, "The questionmay branch off into what is doing, what is doing?""And what is doing?" asks the moody client.   Vholes, sitting with his arms on the desk, quietly bringing thetips of his five right fingers to meet the tips of his five leftfingers, and quietly separating them again, and fixedly and slowlylooking at his client, replies, "A good deal is doing, sir. Wehave put our shoulders to the wheel, Mr. Carstone, and the wheel isgoing round.""Yes, with Ixion on it. How am I to get through the next four orfive accursed months?" exclaims the young man, rising from hischair and walking about the room.   "Mr. C.," returns Vholes, following him close with his eyeswherever he goes, "your spirits are hasty, and I am sorry for it onyour account. Excuse me if I recommend you not to chafe so much,not to be so impetuous, not to wear yourself out so. You shouldhave 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'stattoo with his boot on the patternless carpet.   "Sir," returns Vholes, always looking at the client as if he weremaking a lingering meal of him with his eyes as well as with hisprofessional appetite. "Sir," returns Vholes with his inwardmanner of speech and his bloodless quietude, "I should not have hadthe presumption to propose myself as a model for your imitation orany 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 youmention me so pointedly, I will acknowledge that I should like toimpart to you a little of my--come, sir, you are disposed to callit insensibility, and I am sure I have no objection--sayinsensibility--a little of my insensibility.""Mr. Vholes," explains the client, somewhat abashed, "I had nointention to accuse you of insensibility.""I think you had, sir, without knowing it," returns the equableVholes. "Very naturally. It is my duty to attend to yourinterests with a cool head, and I can quite understand that to yourexcited feelings I may appear, at such times as the present,insensible. My daughters may know me better; my aged father mayknow me better. But they have known me much longer than you have,and the confiding eye of affection is not the distrustful eye ofbusiness. Not that I complain, sir, of the eye of business beingdistrustful; quite the contrary. In attending to your interests, Iwish to have all possible checks upon me; it is right that I shouldhave them; I court inquiry. But your interests demand that Ishould be cool and methodical, Mr. Carstone; and I cannot beotherwise--no, sir, not even to please you."Mr. Vholes, after glancing at the official cat who is patientlywatching a mouse's hole, fixes his charmed gaze again on his youngclient and proceeds in his buttoned-up, half-audible voice as ifthere were an unclean spirit in him that will neither come out norspeak out, "What are you to do, sir, you inquire, during thevacation. I should hope you gentlemen of the army may find manymeans of amusing yourselves if you give your minds to it. If youhad asked me what I was to do during the vacation, I could haveanswered you more readily. I am to attend to your interests. I amto be found here, day by day, attending to your interests. That ismy duty, Mr. C., and term-time or vacation makes no difference tome. If you wish to consult me as to your interests, you will findme 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 rap, and it sounds as hollow as a coffin.   Not to Richard, though. There is encouragement in the sound tohim. Perhaps Mr. Vholes knows there is.   "I am perfectly aware, Mr. Vholes," says Richard, more familiarlyand good-humouredly, "that you are the most reliable fellow in theworld and that to have to do with you is to have to do with a manof business who is not to be hoodwinked. But put yourself in mycase, dragging on this dislocated life, sinking deeper and deeperinto difficulty every day, continually hoping and continuallydisappointed, conscious of change upon change for the worse inmyself, and of no change for the better in anything else, and youwill find it a dark-looking case sometimes, as I do.""You know," says Mr. Vholes, "that I never give hopes, sir. I toldyou from the first, Mr. C., that I never give hopes. Particularlyin a case like this, where the greater part of the costs comes outof the estate, I should not be considerate of my good name if Igave hopes. It might seem as if costs were my object. Still, whenyou say there is no change for the better, I must, as a bare matterof fact, deny that.""Aye?" returns Richard, brightening. "But how do you make it out?""Mr. Carstone, you are represented by--""You said just now--a rock.""Yes, sir," says Mr. Vholes, gently shaking his head and rappingthe hollow desk, with a sound as if ashes were falling on ashes,and dust on dust, "a rock. That's something. You are separatelyrepresented, and no longer hidden and lost in the interests ofothers. 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 allJarndyce, in fact as well as in name. THAT'S something. Nobodyhas it all his own way now, sir. And THAT'S something, surely."Richard, his face flushing suddenly, strikes the desk with hisclenched hand.   "Mr. Vholes! If any man had told me when I first went to JohnJarndyce's house that he was anything but the disinterested friendhe seemed--that he was what he has gradually turned out to be--Icould have found no words strong enough to repel the slander; Icould not have defended him too ardently. So little did I know ofthe world! Whereas now I do declare to you that he becomes to methe embodiment of the suit; that in place of its being anabstraction, it is John Jarndyce; that the more I suffer, the moreindignant I am with him; that every new delay and every newdisappointment 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. Besides, I never disparage, sir. I never disparage.""Mr. Vholes," returns the angry client. "You know as well as Ithat he would have strangled the suit if he could.""He was not active in it," Mr. Vholes admits with an appearance ofreluctance. "He certainly was not active in it. But however, buthowever, he might have had amiable intentions. Who can read theheart, Mr. C.!""You can," returns Richard.   "I, Mr. C.?""Well enough to know what his intentions were. Are or are not ourinterests conflicting? Tell--me--that!" says Richard, accompanyinghis last three words with three raps on his rock of trust.   "Mr. C.," returns Vholes, immovable in attitude and never winkinghis hungry eyes, "I should be wanting in my duty as yourprofessional adviser, I should be departing from my fidelity toyour interests, if I represented those interests as identical withthe interests of Mr. Jarndyce. They are no such thing, sir. Inever impute motives; I both have and am a father, and I neverimpute motives. But I must not shrink from a professional duty,even if it sows dissensions in families. I understand you to benow 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 longago.""Mr. C.," returns Vholes, "I wish to say no more of any third partythan is necessary. I wish to leave my good name unsullied,together with any little property of which I may become possessedthrough industry and perseverance, to my daughters Emma, Jane, andCaroline. I also desire to live in amity with my professionalbrethren. When Mr. Skimpole did me the honour, sir--I will not saythe very high honour, for I never stoop to flattery--of bringing ustogether in this room, I mentioned to you that I could offer noopinion or advice as to your interests while those interests wereentrusted to another member of the profession. And I spoke in suchterms as I was bound to speak of Kenge and Carboy's office, whichstands high. You, sir, thought fit to withdraw your interests fromthat keeping nevertheless and to offer them to me. You broughtthem with clean hands, sir, and I accepted them with clean hands.   Those interests are now paramount in this office. My digestivefunctions, as you may have heard me mention, are not in a goodstate, and rest might improve them; but I shall not rest, sir,while I am your representative. Whenever you want me, you willfind me here. Summon me anywhere, and I will come. During thelong vacation, sir, I shall devote my leisure to studying yourinterests more and more closely and to making arrangements formoving 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 man, "whenI ultimately congratulate you, sir, with all my heart, on youraccession to fortune--which, but that I never give hopes, I mightsay something further about--you will owe me nothing beyondwhatever little balance may be then outstanding of the costs asbetween solicitor and client not included in the taxed costsallowed out of the estate. I pretend to no claim upon you, Mr. C.,but for the zealous and active discharge--not the languid androutine discharge, sir: that much credit I stipulate for--of myprofessional duty. My duty prosperously ended, all between us isended."Vholes finally adds, by way of rider to this declaration of hisprinciples, that as Mr. Carstone is about to rejoin his regiment,perhaps Mr. C. will favour him with an order on his agent fortwenty pounds on account.   "For there have been many little consultations and attendances oflate, sir," observes Vholes, turning over the leaves of his diary,"and these things mount up, and I don't profess to be a man ofcapital. When we first entered on our present relations I statedto you openly--it is a principle of mine that there never can betoo much openness between solicitor and client--that I was not aman of capital and that if capital was your object you had betterleave your papers in Kenge's office. No, Mr. C., you will findnone of the advantages or disadvantages of capital here, sir.   This," Vholes gives the desk one hollow blow again, "is your rock;it pretends to be nothing more."The client, with his dejection insensibly relieved and his vaguehopes rekindled, takes pen and ink and writes the draft, notwithout perplexed consideration and calculation of the date it maybear, implying scant effects in the agent's hands. All the while,Vholes, buttoned up in body and mind, looks at him attentively.   All the while, Vholes's official cat watches the mouse's hole.   Lastly, the client, shaking hands, beseeches Mr. Vholes, forheaven's sake and earth's sake, to do his utmost to "pull himthrough" the Court of Chancery. Mr. Vholes, who 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 findme here, sir, with my shoulder to the wheel." Thus they part, andVholes, left alone, employs himself in carrying sundry littlematters out of his diary into his draft bill book for the ultimatebehoof of his three daughters. So might an industrious fox or bearmake up his account of chickens or stray travellers with an eye tohis cubs, not to disparage by that word the three raw-visaged,lank, and buttoned-up maidens who dwell with the parent Vholes inan earthy cottage situated in a damp garden at Kennington.   Richard, emerging from the heavy shade of Symond's Inn into thesunshine of Chancery Lane--for there happens to be sunshine thereto-day--walks thoughtfully on, and turns into Lincoln's Inn, andpasses under the shadow of the Lincoln's Inn trees. On many suchloungers have the speckled shadows of those trees often fallen; onthe like bent head, the bitten nail, the lowering eye, thelingering step, the purposeless and dreamy air, the good consumingand consumed, the life turned sour. This lounger is not shabbyyet, but that may come. Chancery, which knows no wisdom but inprecedent, is very rich in such precedents; and why should one bedifferent from ten thousand?   Yet the time is so short since his depreciation began that as hesaunters away, reluctant to leave the spot for some long monthstogether, though he hates it, Richard himself may feel his own caseas if it were a startling one. While his heart is heavy withcorroding care, suspense, distrust, and doubt, it may have room forsome sorrowful wonder when he recalls how different his first visitthere, how different he, how different all the colours of his mind.   But injustice breeds injustice; the fighting with shadows and beingdefeated by them necessitates the setting up of substances tocombat; from the impalpable suit which no man alive can understand,the time for that being long gone by, it has become a gloomy reliefto turn to the palpable figure of the friend who would have savedhim from this ruin and make HIM his enemy. Richard has told Vholesthe truth. Is he in a hardened or a softened mood, he still layshis injuries equally at that door; he was thwarted, in thatquarter, of a set purpose, and that purpose could only originate inthe one subject that is resolving his existence into itself;besides, it is a justification to him in his own eyes to have anembodied antagonist and oppressor.   Is Richard a monster in all this, or would Chancery be found richin such precedents too if they could be got for citation from theRecording Angel?   Two pairs of eyes not unused to such people look after him, as,biting his nails and brooding, he crosses the square and isswallowed up by the shadow of the southern gateway. Mr. Guppy andMr. Weevle are the possessors of those eyes, and they have beenleaning in conversation against the low stone parapet under thetrees. He passes close by them, seeing nothing but the ground.   "William," says Mr. Weevle, adjusting his whiskers, "there'scombustion going on there! It's not a case of spontaneous, butit's smouldering combustion it is.""Ah!" says Mr. Guppy. "He wouldn't keep out of Jarndyce, and Isuppose 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 me, whether as clerk or client! Well, Tony,that as I was mentioning is what they're up to."Mr. Guppy, refolding his arms, resettles himself against theparapet, as resuming a conversation of interest.   "They are still up to it, sir," says Mr. Guppy, "still takingstock, still examining papers, still going over the heaps and heapsof 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'sbusiness was too much for the old gentleman and he could betterhimself by undertaking it. There had been a coolness betweenmyself and Small on account of his being so close. But he said youand I began it, and as he had me there--for we did--I put ouracquaintance on the old footing. That's how I come to know whatthey're up to.""You haven't looked in at all?""Tony," says Mr. Guppy, a little disconcerted, "to be unreservedwith you, I don't greatly relish the house, except in your company,and therefore I have not; and therefore I proposed this littleappointment for our fetching away your things. There goes the hourby the clock! Tony"--Mr. Guppy becomes mysteriously and tenderlyeloquent--"it is necessary that I should impress upon your mindonce more that circumstances over which I have no control have madea melancholy alteration in my most cherished plans and in thatunrequited image which I formerly mentioned to you as a friend.   That image is shattered, and that idol is laid low. My only wishnow in connexion with the objects which I had an idea of carryingout in the court with your aid as a friend is to let 'em alone andbury 'em in oblivion. Do you think it possible, do you think it atall likely (I put it to you, Tony, as a friend), from yourknowledge of that capricious and deep old character who fell a preyto the--spontaneous element, do you, Tony, think it at all likelythat on second thoughts he put those letters away anywhere, afteryou saw him alive, and that they were not destroyed that night?"Mr. Weevle reflects for some time. Shakes his head. Decidedlythinks not.   "Tony," says Mr. Guppy as they walk towards the court, "once againunderstand me, as a friend. Without entering into furtherexplanations, I may repeat that the idol is down. I have nopurpose to serve now but burial in oblivion. To that I havepledged myself. I owe it to myself, and I owe it to the shatteredimage, 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 sawlying anywhere in your late lodgings any papers that so much aslooked like the papers in question, I would pitch them into thefire, sir, on my own responsibility."Mr. Weevle nods. Mr. Guppy, much elevated in his own opinion byhaving delivered these observations, with an air in part forensicand in part romantic--this gentleman having a passion forconducting anything in the form of an examination, or deliveringanything in the form of a summing up or a speech--accompanies hisfriend with dignity to the court.   Never since it has been a court has it had such a Fortunatus' purseof gossip as in the proceedings at the rag and bottle shop.   Regularly, every morning at eight, is the elder Mr. Smallweedbrought down to the corner and carried in, accompanied by Mrs.   Smallweed, Judy, and Bart; and regularly, all day, do they allremain there until nine at night, solaced by gipsy dinners, notabundant in quantity, from the cook's shop, rummaging andsearching, digging, delving, and diving among the treasures of thelate lamented. What those treasures are they keep so secret thatthe court is maddened. In its delirium it imagines guineas pouringout of tea-pots, crown-pieces overflowing punch-bowls, old chairsand mattresses stuffed with Bank of England notes. It possessesitself of the sixpenny history (with highly coloured foldingfrontispiece) of Mr. Daniel Dancer and his sister, and also of Mr.   Elwes, of Suffolk, and transfers all the facts from those authenticnarratives to Mr. Krook. Twice when the dustman is called in tocarry off a cartload of old paper, ashes, and broken bottles, thewhole court assembles and pries into the baskets as they comeforth. Many times the two gentlemen who write with the ravenouslittle pens on the tissue-paper are seen prowling in theneighbourhood--shy of each other, their late partnership beingdissolved. The Sol skilfully carries a vein of the prevailinginterest through the Harmonic nights. Little Swills, in what areprofessionally known as "patter" allusions to the subject, isreceived with loud applause; and the same vocalist "gags" in theregular business like a man inspired. Even Miss M. Melvilleson, inthe revived Caledonian melody of "We're a-Nodding," points thesentiment that "the dogs love broo" (whatever the nature of thatrefreshment may be) with such archness and such a turn of the headtowards next door that she is immediately understood to mean Mr.   Smallweed loves to find money, and is nightly honoured with adouble encore. For all this, the court discovers nothing; and asMrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins now communicate to the late lodger whoseappearance is the signal for a general rally, it is in onecontinual ferment to discover everything, and more.   Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, with every eye in the court's head uponthem, knock at the closed door of the late lamented's house, in ahigh state of popularity. But being contrary to the court'sexpectation admitted, they immediately become unpopular and areconsidered to mean no good.   The shutters are more or less closed all over the house, and theground-floor is sufficiently dark to require candles. Introducedinto the back shop by Mr. Smallweed the younger, they, fresh fromthe sunlight, can at first see nothing save darkness and shadows;but they gradually discern the elder Mr. Smallweed seated in hischair upon the brink of a well or grave of waste-paper, thevirtuous Judy groping therein like a female sexton, and Mrs.   Smallweed on the level ground in the vicinity snowed up in a heapof paper fragments, print, and manuscript which would appear to bethe accumulated compliments that have been sent flying at her inthe course of the day. The whole party, Small included, areblackened with dust and dirt and present a fiendish appearance notrelieved by the general aspect of the room. There is more litterand lumber in it than of old, and it is dirtier if possible;likewise, it is ghostly with traces of its dead inhabitant and evenwith his chalked writing on the wall.   On the entrance of visitors, Mr. Smallweed and Judy simultaneouslyfold their arms and stop in their researches.   "Aha!" croaks the old gentleman. "How de do, gentlemen, how de do!   Come to fetch your property, Mr. Weevle? That's well, that's well.   Ha! Ha! We should have been forced to sell you up, sir, to payyour warehouse room if you had left it here much longer. You feelquite at home here again, I dare say? Glad to see you, glad to seeyou!"Mr. Weevle, thanking him, casts an eye about. Mr. Guppy's eyefollows Mr. Weevle's eye. Mr. Weevle's eye comes back without anynew 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 down, "How de do, sir--howde--how--" And then having run down, he lapses into grinningsilence, as Mr. Guppy starts at seeing Mr. Tulkinghorn standing inthe darkness opposite with his hands behind him.   "Gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor," says GrandfatherSmallweed. "I am not the sort of client for a gentleman of suchnote, but he is so good!"Mr. Guppy, slightly nudging his friend to take another look, makesa shuffling bow to Mr. Tulkinghorn, who returns it with an easynod. Mr. Tulkinghorn is looking on as if he had nothing else to doand were rather amused by the novelty.   "A good deal of property here, sir, I should say," Mr. Guppyobserves to Mr. Smallweed.   "Principally rags and rubbish, my dear friend! Rags and rubbish!   Me and Bart and my granddaughter Judy are endeavouring to make outan inventory of what's worth anything to sell. But we haven't cometo much as yet; we--haven't--come--to--hah!"Mr. Smallweed has run down again, while Mr. Weevle's eye, attendedby Mr. Guppy's eye, has again gone round the room and come back.   "Well, sir," says Mr. Weevle. "We won't intrude any longer ifyou'll allow us to go upstairs.""Anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere! You're at home. Make yourselfso, pray!"As they go upstairs, Mr. Guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly andlooks at Tony. Tony shakes his head. They find the old room verydull and dismal, with the ashes of the fire that was burning onthat memorable night yet in the discoloured grate. They have agreat disinclination to touch any object, and carefully blow thedust from it first. Nor are they desirous to prolong their visit,packing the few movables with all possible speed and never speakingabove a whisper.   "Look here," says Tony, recoiling. "Here's that horrible catcoming in!"Mr. Guppy retreats behind a chair. "Small told me of her. Shewent leaping and bounding and tearing about that night like adragon, and got out on the house-top, and roamed about up there fora fortnight, and 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 Jane, in the doorway, with her tiger snarl from ear to ear andher club of a tail, shows no intention of obeying; but Mr.   Tulkinghorn stumbling over her, she spits at his rusty legs, andswearing wrathfully, takes her arched back upstairs. Possibly toroam the house-tops again and return by the chimney.   "Mr. Guppy," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "could I have a word with you?"Mr. Guppy is engaged in collecting the Galaxy Gallery of BritishBeauty from the wall and depositing those works of art in their oldignoble band-box. "Sir," he returns, reddening, "I wish to actwith courtesy towards every member of the profession, andespecially, I am sure, towards a member of it so well known asyourself--I will truly add, sir, so distinguished as yourself.   Still, Mr. Tulkinghorn, sir, I must stipulate that if you have anyword with me, that 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, butthey are amply sufficient for myself.""No doubt, no doubt." Mr. Tulkinghorn is as imperturbable as thehearthstone to which he has quietly walked. "The matter is not ofthat consequence that I need put you to the trouble of making anyconditions, Mr. Guppy." He pauses here to smile, and his smile isas dull and rusty as his pantaloons. "You are to be congratulated,Mr. Guppy; you are a fortunate young man, sir.""Pretty well so, Mr. Tulkinghorn; I don't complain.""Complain? High friends, free admission to great houses, andaccess to elegant ladies! Why, Mr. Guppy, there are people inLondon who would give their ears to be you."Mr. Guppy, looking as if he would give his own reddening and stillreddening ears to be one of those people at present instead ofhimself, replies, "Sir, if I attend to my profession and do what isright by Kenge and Carboy, my friends and acquaintances are of noconsequence to them nor to any member of the profession, notexcepting Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields. I am not under anyobligation 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; Isee by these portraits that you take a strong interest in thefashionable great, sir?"He addresses this to the astounded Tony, who admits the softimpeachment.   "A virtue in which few Englishmen are deficient," observes Mr.   Tulkinghorn. He has been standing on the hearthstone with his backto the smoked chimney-piece, and now turns round with his glassesto his eyes. "Who is this? 'Lady Dedlock.' Ha! A very goodlikeness in its way, but it wants force of character. Good day toyou, gentlemen; good day!"When he has walked out, Mr. Guppy, in a great perspiration, nerveshimself to the hasty completion of the taking down of the GalaxyGallery, concluding with Lady Dedlock.   "Tony," he says hurriedly to his astonished companion, "let us bequick in putting the things together and in getting out of thisplace. It were in vain longer to conceal from you, Tony, thatbetween myself and one of the members of a swan-like aristocracywhom I now hold in my hand, there has been undivulged communicationand association. The time might have been when I might haverevealed it to you. It never will be more. It is due alike to theoath I have taken, alike to the shattered idol, and alike tocircumstances over which I have no control, that the whole shouldbe buried in oblivion. I charge you as a friend, by the interestyou have ever testified in the fashionable intelligence, and by anylittle 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 forensiclunacy, while his friend shows a dazed mind in his whole head ofhair and even in his cultivated whiskers. Chapter 40 National and Domestic England has been in a dreadful state for some weeks. Lord Coodlewould go out, Sir Thomas Doodle wouldn't come in, and there beingnobody in Great Britain (to speak of) except Coodle and Doodle,there has been no government. It is a mercy that the hostilemeeting between those two great men, which at one time seemedinevitable, did not come off, because if both pistols had takeneffect, and Coodle and Doodle had killed each other, it is to bepresumed that England must have waited to be governed until youngCoodle and young Doodle, now in frocks and long stockings, weregrown up. This stupendous national calamity, however, was avertedby Lord Coodle's making the timely discovery that if in the heat ofdebate he had said that he scorned and despised the whole ignoblecareer of Sir Thomas Doodle, he had merely meant to say that partydifferences should never induce him to withhold from it the tributeof his warmest admiration; while it as opportunely turned out, onthe other hand, that Sir Thomas Doodle had in his own bosomexpressly booked Lord Coodle to go down to posterity as the mirrorof virtue and honour. Still England has been some weeks in thedismal strait of having no pilot (as was well observed by SirLeicester Dedlock) to weather the storm; and the marvellous part ofthe matter is that England has not appeared to care very much aboutit, but has gone on eating and drinking and marrying and giving inmarriage as the old world did in the days before the flood. ButCoodle knew the danger, and Doodle knew the danger, and all theirfollowers and hangers-on had the clearest possible perception ofthe danger. At last Sir Thomas Doodle has not only condescended tocome in, but has done it handsomely, bringing in with him all hisnephews, all his male cousins, and all his brothers-in-law. Sothere 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 metamorphosedstate he is available in a good many places simultaneously and canthrow himself upon a considerable portion of the country at onetime. Britannia being much occupied in pocketing Doodle in theform of sovereigns, and swallowing Doodle in the form of beer, andin swearing herself black in the face that she does neither--plainly to the advancement of her glory and morality--the Londonseason comes to a sudden end, through all the Doodleites andCoodleites dispersing to assist Britannia in those religiousexercises.   Hence Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper at Chesney Wold, foresees,though no instructions have yet come down, that the family mayshortly be expected, together with a pretty large accession ofcousins and others who can in any way assist the greatConstitutional work. And hence the stately old dame, taking Timeby the forelock, leads him up and down the staircases, and alongthe galleries and passages, and through the rooms, to witnessbefore he grows any older that everything is ready, that floors arerubbed bright, carpets spread, curtains shaken out, beds puffed andpatted, still-room and kitchen cleared for action--all thingsprepared as beseems the Dedlock dignity.   This present summer evening, as the sun goes down, the preparationsare complete. Dreary and solemn the old house looks, with so manyappliances of habitation and with no inhabitants except thepictured forms upon the walls. So did these come and go, a Dedlockin possession might have ruminated passing along; so did they seethis gallery hushed and quiet, as I see it now; so think, as Ithink, of the gap that they would make in this domain when theywere gone; so find it, as I find it, difficult to believe that itcould be without them; so pass from my world, as I pass fromtheirs, now closing the reverberating door; so leave no blank tomiss them, and so die.   Through some of the fiery windows beautiful from without, and set,at this sunset hour, not in dull-grey stone but in a glorious houseof gold, the light excluded at other windows pours in rich, lavish,overflowing like the summer plenty in the land. Then do the frozenDedlocks thaw. Strange movements come upon their features as theshadows of leaves play there. A dense justice in a corner isbeguiled into a wink. A staring baronet, with a truncheon, gets adimple in his chin. Down into the bosom of a stony shepherdessthere steals a fleck of light and warmth that would have done itgood a hundred years ago. One ancestress of Volumnia, in high-heeled shoes, very like her--casting the shadow of that virginevent before her full two centuries--shoots out into a halo andbecomes a saint. A maid of honour of the court of Charles theSecond, with large round eyes (and other charms to correspond),seems to bathe in glowing water, and it ripples as it glows.   But the fire of the sun is dying. Even now the floor is dusky, andshadow slowly mounts the walls, bringing the Dedlocks down like ageand death. And now, upon my Lady's picture over the great chimney-piece, a weird shade falls from some old tree, that turns it pale,and flutters it, and looks as if a great arm held a veil or hood,watching an opportunity to draw it over her. Higher and darkerrises shadow on the wall--now a red gloom on the ceiling--now thefire is out.   All that prospect, which from the terrace looked so near, has movedsolemnly away and changed--not the first nor the last of beautifulthings that look so near and will so change--into a distantphantom. Light mists arise, and the dew falls, and all the sweetscents in the garden are heavv in the air. Now the woods settleinto great masses as if they were each one profound tree. And nowthe moon rises to separate them, and to glimmer here and there inhorizontal lines behind their stems, and to make the avenue apavement of light among high cathedral arches fantastically broken.   Now the moon is high; and the great house, needing habitation morethan ever, is like a body without life. Now it is even awful,stealing through it, to think of the live people who have slept inthe solitary bedrooms, to say nothing of the dead. Now is the timefor shadow, when every corner is a cavern and every downward step apit, when the stained glass is reflected in pale and faded huesupon the floors, when anything and everything can be made of theheavy staircase beams excepting their own proper shapes, when thearmour has dull lights upon it not easily to be distinguished fromstealthy movement, and when barred helmets are frightfullysuggestive of heads inside. But of all the shadows in ChesneyWold, the shadow in the long drawing-room upon my Lady's picture isthe first to come, the last to be disturbed. At this hour and bythis light it changes into threatening hands raised up and menacingthe handsome face with every breath that stirs.   "She is not well, ma'am," says a groom in Mrs. Rouncewell'saudience-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 abird of passage like. My Lady has not been out much for her andhas kept her room a good deal.""Chesney Wold, Thomas," rejoins the housekeeper with proudcomplacency, "will set my Lady up! There is no finer air and nohealthier soil in the world!"Thomas may have his own personal opinions on this subject, probablyhints them in his manner of smoothing his sleek head from the napeof his neck to his temples, but he forbears to express them furtherand retires to the servants' hall to regale on cold meat-pie andale.   This groom is the pilot-fish before the nobler shark. Nextevening, down come Sir Leicester and my Lady with their largestretinue, and down come the cousins and others from all the pointsof the compass. Thenceforth for some weeks backward and forwardrush mysterious men with no names, who fly about all thoseparticular parts of the country on which Doodle is at presentthrowing himself in an auriferous and malty shower, but who aremerely persons of a restless disposition and never do anythinganywhere.   On these national occasions Sir Leicester finds the cousins useful.   A better man than the Honourable Bob Stables to meet the Hunt atdinner, there could not possibly be. Better got up gentlemen thanthe other cousins to ride over to polling-booths and hustings hereand there, and show themselves on the side of England, it would behard to find. Volumnia is a little dim, but she is of the truedescent; and there are many who appreciate her sprightlyconversation, her French conundrums so old as to have become in thecycles of time almost new again, the honour of taking the fairDedlock in to dinner, or even the privilege of her hand in thedance. On these national occasions dancing may be a patrioticservice, and Volumnia is constantly seen hopping about for the goodof an ungrateful and unpensioning country.   My Lady takes no great pains to entertain the numerous guests, andbeing still unwell, rarely appears until late in the day. But atall the dismal dinners, leaden lunches, basilisk balls, and othermelancholy pageants, her mere appearance is a relief. As to SirLeicester, he conceives it utterly impossible that anything can bewanting, in any direction, by any one who has the good fortune tobe received under that roof; and in a state of sublimesatisfaction, he moves among the company, a magnificentrefrigerator.   Daily the cousins trot through dust and canter over roadside turf,away to hustings and polling-booths (with leather gloves andhunting-whips for the counties and kid gloves and riding-canes forthe boroughs), and daily bring back reports on which Sir Leicesterholds forth after dinner. Daily the restless men who have nooccupation in life present the appearance of being rather busy.   Daily Volumnia has a little cousinly talk with Sir Leicester on thestate of the nation, from which Sir Leicester is disposed toconclude that Volumnia is a more reflecting woman than he hadthought her.   "How are we getting on?" says Miss Volumnia, clasping her hands.   "ARE we safe?"The mighty business is nearly over by this time, and Doodle willthrow himself off the country in a few days more. Sir Leicesterhas just appeared in the long drawing-room after dinner, a brightparticular star surrounded by clouds of cousins.   "Volumnia," replies Sir Leicester, who has a list in his hand, "weare doing tolerably.""Only tolerably!"Although it is summer weather, Sir Leicester always has his ownparticular fire in the evening. He takes his usual screened seatnear it and repeats with much firmness and a little displeasure, aswho should say, I am not a common man, and when I say tolerably, itmust not be understood as a common expression, "Volumnia, we aredoing tolerably.""At least there is no opposition to YOU," Volumnia asserts withconfidence.   "No, Volumnia. This distracted country has lost its senses in manyrespects, 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. SirLeicester, with a gracious inclination of his head, seems to say tohimself, "A sensible woman this, on the whole, though occasionallyprecipitate."In fact, as to this question of opposition, the fair Dedlock'sobservation was superfluous, Sir Leicester on these occasionsalways delivering in his own candidateship, as a kind of handsomewholesale order to be promptly executed. Two other little seatsthat 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 twomembers of Parliament and to send them home when done.""I regret to say, Volumnia, that in many places the people haveshown a bad spirit, and that this opposition to the government hasbeen of a most determined and most implacable description.""W-r-retches!" says Volumnia.   "Even," proceeds Sir Leicester, glancing at the circumjacentcousins on sofas and ottomans, "even in many--in fact, in most--ofthose places in which the government has carried it against afaction--"(Note, by the way, that the Coodleites are always a faction withthe Doodleites, and that the Doodleites occupy exactly the sameposition towards the Coodleites.)"--Even in them I am shocked, for the credit of Englishmen, to beconstrained to inform you that the party has not triumphed withoutbeing put to an enormous expense. Hundreds," says Sir Leicester,eyeing the cousins with increasing dignity and swellingindignation, "hundreds of thousands of pounds!"If Volumnia have a fault, it is the fault of being a trifle tooinnocent, seeing that the innocence which would go extremely wellwith a sash and tucker is a little out of keeping with the rougeand pearl necklace. Howbeit, impelled by innocence, she asks,"What for?""Volumnia," remonstrates Sir Leicester with his utmost severity.   "Volumnia!""No, no, I don't mean what for," cries Volumnia with her favouritelittle scream. "How stupid I am! I mean what a pity!""I am glad," returns Sir Leicester, "that you do mean what a pity."Volumnia hastens to express her opinion that the shocking peopleought to be tried as traitors and made to support the party.   "I am glad, Volumnia," repeats Sir Leicester, unmindful of thesemollifying sentiments, "that you do mean what a pity. It isdisgraceful to the electors. But as you, though inadvertently andwithout intending so unreasonable a question, asked me 'what for?'   let me reply to you. For necessary expenses. And I trust to yourgood sense, Volumnia, not to pursue the subject, here orelsewhere."Sir Leicester feels it incumbent on him to observe a crushingaspect towards Volumnia because it is whispered abroad that thesenecessary expenses will, in some two hundred election petitions, beunpleasantly connected with the word bribery, and because somegraceless jokers have consequently suggested the omission from theChurch service of the ordinary supplication in behalf of the HighCourt of Parliament and have recommended instead that the prayersof the congregation be requested for six hundred and fifty-eightgentlemen in a very unhealthy state.   "I suppose," observes Volumnia, having taken a little time torecover her spirits after her late castigation, "I suppose Mr.   Tulkinghorn has been worked to death.""I don't know," says Sir Leicester, opening his eyes, "why 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 Leicestercould desire to know by whom, and what for. Volumnia, abashedagain, suggests, by somebody--to advise and make arrangements. SirLeicester is not aware that any client of Mr. Tulkinghorn has beenin need of his assistance.   Lady Dedlock, seated at an open window with her arm upon itscushioned ledge and looking out at the evening shadows falling onthe park, has seemed to attend since the lawyer's name wasmentioned.   A languid cousin with a moustache in a state of extreme debilitynow observes from his couch that man told him ya'as'dy thatTulkinghorn had gone down t' that iron place t' give legal 'pinion'bout something, and that contest being over t' day, 'twould behighly jawlly thing if Tulkinghorn should 'pear with news thatCoodle man was floored.   Mercury in attendance with coffee informs Sir Leicester, hereupon,that Mr. Tulkinghorn has arrived and is taking dinner. My Ladyturns her head inward for the moment, then looks out again asbefore.   Volumnia is charmed to hear that her delight is come. He is sooriginal, such a stolid creature, such an immense being for knowingall sorts of things and never telling them! Volumnia is persuadedthat he must be a Freemason. Is sure he is at the head of a lodge,and wears short aprons, and is made a perfect idol of withcandlesticks and trowels. These lively remarks the fair Dedlockdelivers in her youthful manner, while making a purse.   "He has not been here once," she adds, "since I came. I really hadsome thoughts of breaking my heart for the inconstant creature. Ihad almost made up my mind that he was dead."It may be the gathering gloom of evening, or it may be the darkergloom within herself, but a shade is on my Lady's face, as if shethought, "I would he were!""Mr. Tulkinghorn," says Sir Leicester, "is always welcome here andalways discreet wheresoever he is. A very valuable person, anddeservedly respected."The debilitated cousin supposes he is "'normously rich fler.""He has a stake in the country," says Sir Leicester, "I have nodoubt. He is, of course, handsomely paid, and he associates almoston 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 littlewithered scream.   "A rat," says my Lady. "And they have shot him."Enter Mr. Tulkinghorn, followed by Mercuries with lamps andcandles.   "No, no," says Sir Leicester, "I think not. My Lady, do you objectto the twilight?"On the contrary, my Lady prefers it.   "Volumnia?"Oh! Nothing is so delicious to Volumnia as to sit and talk in thedark.   "Then take them away," says Sir Leicester. "Tulkinghorn, I begyour pardon. How do you do?"Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely ease advances, renders hispassing homage to my Lady, shakes Sir Leicester's hand, andsubsides into the chair proper to him when he has anything tocommunicate, on the opposite side of the Baronet's littlenewspaper-table. Sir Leicester is apprehensive that my Lady, notbeing very well, will take cold at that open window. My Lady isobliged to him, but would rather sit there for the air. SirLeicester rises, adjusts her scarf about her, and returns to hisseat. 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 broughtin both their people. You are beaten out of all reason. Three toone."It is a part of Mr. Tulkinghorn's policy and mastery to have nopolitical opinions; indeed, NO opinions. Therefore he says "you"are beaten, and not "we."Sir Leicester is majestically wroth. Volumnia never heard of sucha thing. 'The debilitated cousin holds that it's sort of thingthat's sure tapn slongs votes--giv'n--Mob.   "It's the place, you know," Mr. Tulkinghorn goes on to say in thefast-increasing darkness when there is silence again, "where theywanted to put up Mrs. Rouncewell's son.""A proposal which, as you correctly informed me at the time, he hadthe becoming taste and perception," observes Sir Leicester, "todecline. I cannot say that I by any means approve of thesentiments expressed by Mr. Rouncewell when he was here for somehalf-hour in this room, but there was a sense of propriety in hisdecision which I am glad to acknowledge.""Ha!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It did not prevent him from beingvery active in this election, though."Sir Leicester is distinctly heard to gasp before speaking. "Did Iunderstand you? Did you say that Mr. Rouncewell had been veryactive in this election?""Uncommonly active.""Against--""Oh, dear yes, against you. He is a very good speaker. Plain andemphatic. He made a damaging effect, and has great influence. Inthe business part of the proceedings he carried all before him."It is evident to the whole company, though nobody can see him, thatSir Leicester is staring majestically.   "And he was much assisted," says Mr. Tulkinghorn as a wind-up, "byhis 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 pauseduring which he has been heard to snort and felt to stare, "thenupon 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 whichthings are held together!"General burst of cousinly indignation. Volumnia thinks it isreally high time, you know, for somebody in power to step in and dosomething strong. Debilitated cousin thinks--country's going--Dayvle--steeple-chase pace.   "I beg," says Sir Leicester in a breathless condition, "that we maynot 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 lowbut decided tone, "of parting with her.""That was not my meaning," returns Sir Leicester. "I am glad tohear you say so. I would suggest that as you think her worthy ofyour patronage, you should exert your influence to keep her fromthese dangerous hands. You might show her what violence would bedone in such association to her duties and principles, and youmight preserve her for a better fate. You might point out to herthat she probably would, in good time, find a husband at ChesneyWold by whom she would not be--" Sir Leicester adds, after amoment's consideration, "dragged from the altars of herforefathers."These remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and deferencewhen he addresses himself to his wife. She merely moves her headin reply. The moon is rising, and where she sits there is a littlestream of cold pale light, in which her head is seen.   "It is worthy of remark," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "however, thatthese people are, in their way, very proud.""Proud?" Sir Leicester doubts his hearing.   "I should not be surprised if they all voluntarily abandoned thegirl--yes, lover and all--instead of her abandoning them, supposingshe 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 lawyer, "I state the fact.   Why, I could tell you a story--with Lady Dedlock's permission."Her head concedes it, and Volumnia is enchanted. A story! Oh, heis going to tell something at last! A ghost in it, Volumnia hopes?   "No. Real flesh and blood." Mr. Tulkinghorn stops for an instantand repeats with some little emphasis grafted upon his usualmonotony, "Real flesh and blood, Miss Dedlock. Sir Leicester,these particulars have only lately become known to me. They arevery brief. They exemplify what I have said. I suppress names forthe present. Lady Dedlock will not think me ill-bred, I hope?"By the light of the fire, which is low, he can be seen lookingtowards the moonlight. By the light of the moon Lady Dedlock canbe seen, perfecfly still.   "A townsman of this Mrs. Rouncewell, a man in exactly parallelcircumstances as I am told, had the good fortune to have a daughterwho attracted the notice of a great lady. I speak of really agreat lady, not merely great to him, but married to a gentleman ofyour condition, Sir Leicester."Sir Leicester condescendingly says, "Yes, Mr. Tulkinghorn,"implying that then she must have appeared of very considerablemoral 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 shehad preserved for many years. In fact, she had in early life beenengaged to marry a young rake--he was a captain in the army--nothing connected with whom came to any good. She never did marryhim, 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 themoonlight. By the moonlight, Lady Dedlock can be seen in profile,perfectly still.   "The captain in the army being dead, she believed herself safe; buta train of circumstances with which I need not trouble you led todiscovery. As I received the story, they began in an imprudence onher own part one day when she was taken by surprise, which showshow difficult it is for the firmest of us (she was very firm) to bealways guarded. There was great domestic trouble and amazement,you may suppose; I leave you to imagine, Sir Leicester, thehusband's grief. But that is not the present point. When Mr.   Rouncewell's townsman heard of the disclosure, he no more allowedthe girl to be patronized and honoured than he would have sufferedher to be trodden underfoot before his eyes. Such was his pride,that he indignantly took her away, as if from reproach anddisgrace. He had no sense of the honour done him and his daughterby the lady's condescension; not the least. He resented the girl'sposition, as if the lady had been the commonest of commoners. Thatis the story. I hope Lady Dedlock will excuse its painful nature."There are various opinions on the merits, more or less conflictingwith Volumnia's. That fair young creature cannot believe thereever was any such lady and rejects the whole history on thethreshold. The majority incline to the debilitated cousin'ssentiment, which is in few words--"no business--Rouncewell's fernaltownsman." Sir Leicester generally refers back in his mind to WatTyler and arranges a sequence of events on a plan of his own.   There is not much conversation in all, for late hours have beenkept at Chesney Wold since the necessary expenses elsewhere began,and this is the first night in many on which the family have beenalone. It is past ten when Sir Leicester begs Mr. Tulkinghorn toring for candles. Then the stream of moonlight has swelled into alake, and then Lady Dedlock for the first time moves, and rises,and comes forward to a table for a glass of water. Winkingcousins, bat-like in the candle glare, crowd round to give it;Volumnia (always ready for something better if procurable) takesanother, a very mild sip of which contents her; Lady Dedlock,graceful, self-possessed, looked after by admiring eyes, passesaway slowly down the long perspective by the side of that nymph,not at all improving her as a question of contrast. Chapter 41 In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Room Mr. Tulkinghorn arrives in his turret-room a little breathed by thejourney up, though leisurely performed. There is an expression onhis face as if he had discharged his mind of some grave matter andwere, in his close way, satisfied. To say of a man so severely andstrictly self-repressed that he is triumphant would be to do him asgreat an injustice as to suppose him troubled with love orsentiment or any romantic weakness. He is sedately satisfied.   Perhaps there is a rather increased sense of power upon him as heloosely grasps one of his veinous wrists with his other hand andholding it behind his back walks noiselessly up and down.   There is a capacious writing-table in the room on which is a prettylarge accumulation of papers. The green lamp is lighted, hisreading-glasses lie upon the desk, the easy-chair is wheeled up toit, and it would seem as though he had intended to bestow an houror so upon these claims on his attention before going to bed. Buthe happens not to be in a business mind. After a glance at thedocuments awaiting his notice--with his head bent low over thetable, the old man's sight for print or writing being defective atnight--he opens the French window and steps out upon the leads.   There he again walks slowly up and down in the same attitude,subsiding, if a man so cool may have any need to subside, from thestory he has related downstairs.   The time was once when men as knowing as Mr. Tulkinghorn would walkon turret-tops in the starlight and look up into the sky to readtheir fortunes there. Hosts of stars are visible to-night, thoughtheir brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the moon. If hebe seeking his own star as he methodically turns and turns upon theleads, it should be but a pale one to be so rustily representedbelow. If he be tracing out his destiny, that may be written inother characters nearer to his hand.   As he paces the leads with his eyes most probably as high above histhoughts as they are high above the earth, he is suddenly stoppedin passing the window by two eyes that meet his own. The ceilingof his room is rather low; and the upper part of the door, which isopposite the window, is of glass. There is an inner baize door,too, but the night being warm he did not close it when he cameupstairs. These eyes that meet his own are looking in through theglass from the corridor outside. He knows them well. The bloodhas not flushed into his face so suddenly and redly for many a longyear as when he recognizes Lady Dedlock.   He steps into the room, and she comes in too, closing both thedoors behind her. There is a wild disturbance--is it fear oranger?--in her eyes. In her carriage and all else she looks as shelooked downstairs two hours ago.   Is it fear or is it anger now? He cannot be sure. Both might beas pale, both as intent.   "Lady Dedlock?"She does not speak at first, nor even when she has slowly droppedinto the easy-chair by the table. They look at each other, liketwo pictures.   "Why have you told my story to so many persons?""Lady Dedlock, it was necessary for me to inform you that I knewit.""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 inhis old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, exactly as he hasstood before her at any time since her marriage. The same formalpoliteness, the same composed deference that might as well bedefiance; the whole man the same dark, cold object, at the samedistance, which nothing has ever diminished.   "Is this true concerning the poor girl?"He slightly inclines and advances his head as not quiteunderstanding the question.   "You know what you related. Is it true? Do her friends know mystory also? Is it the town-talk yet? Is it chalked upon the wallsand cried in the streets?"So! Anger, and fear, and shame. All three contending. What powerthis woman has to keep these raging passions down! Mr.   Tulkinghorn's thoughts take such form as he looks at her, with hisragged grey eyebrows a hair's breadth more contracted than usualunder her gaze.   "No, Lady Dedlock. That was a hypothetical case, arising out ofSir Leicester's unconsciously carrying the matter with so high ahand. 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 replies, "I cannot give asatisfactory opinion on that point."And he thinks, with the interest of attentive curiosity, as hewatches the struggle in her breast, "The power and force of thiswoman are astonishing!""Sir," she says, for the moment obliged to set her lips with allthe energy she has, that she may speak distinctly, "I will make itplainer. I do not dispute your hypothetical case. I anticipatedit, 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 thepower of seeing me as I was, he would consider the poor girltarnished by having for a moment been, although most innocently,the subject of my great and distinguished patronage. But I have aninterest in her, or I should rather say--no longer belonging tothis place--I had, and if you can find so much consideration forthe woman under your foot as to remember that, she will be verysensible of your mercy."Mr. Tulkinghorn, profoundly attentive, throws this off with a shrugof self-depreciation and contracts his eyebrows a little more.   "You have prepared me for my exposure, and I thank you for thattoo. Is there anything that you require of me? Is there any claimthat I can release or any charge or trouble that I can spare myhusband in obtaining HIS release by certifying to the exactness ofyour discovery? I will write anything, here and now, that you willdictate. I am ready to do it."And she would do it, thinks the lawver, watchful of the firm handwith 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 sparemyself nor to be spared. You can do nothing worse to me than youhave done. Do what remains now.""Lady Dedlock, there is nothing to be done. I will take leave tosay a few words when you have finished."Their need for watching one another should be over now, but they doit all this time, and the stars watch them both through the openedwindow. Away in the moonlight lie the woodland fields at rest, andthe wide house is as quiet as the narrow one. The narrow one!   Where are the digger and the spade, this peaceful night, destinedto add the last great secret to the many secrets of the Tulkinghornexistence? Is the man born yet, is the spade wrought yet? Curiousquestions to consider, more curious perhaps not to consider, underthe watching stars upon a summer night.   "Of repentance or remorse or any feeling of mine," Lady Dedlockpresently proceeds, "I say not a word. If I were not dumb, youwould be deaf. Let that go by. It is not for your ears."He makes a feint of offering a protest, but she sweeps it away withher disdainful hand.   "Of other and very different things I come to speak to you. Myjewels are all in their proper places of keeping. They will befound there. So, my dresses. So, all the valuables I have. Someready money I had with me, please to say, but no large amount. Idid not wear my own dress, in order that I might avoid observation.   I went to be henceforward lost. Make this known. I leave no othercharge with you.""Excuse me, Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, quite unmoved. "Iam not sure that I understand you. You want--""To be lost to all here. I leave Chesney Wold to-night. I go thishour."Mr. Tulkinghorn shakes his head. She rises, but he, without movinghand from chair-back or from old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, shakes 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 youforgotten the stain and blot upon this place, and where it is, andwho it is?""No, Lady Dedlock, not by any means."Without deigning to rejoin, she moves to the inner door and has itin her hand when he says to her, without himself stirring hand orfoot or raising his voice, "Lady Dedlock, have the goodness to stopand hear me, or before you reach the staircase I shall ring thealarm-bell and rouse the house. And then I must speak out beforeevery guest and servant, every man and woman, in it."He has conquered her. She falters, trembles, and puts her handconfusedly to her head. Slight tokens these in any one else, butwhen so practised an eye as Mr. Tulkinghorn's sees indecision for amoment in such a subject, he thoroughly knows its value.   He promptly says again, "Have the goodness to hear me, LadyDedlock," and motions to the chair from which she has risen. Shehesitates, but he motions again, and she sits down.   "The relations between us are of an unfortunate description, LadyDedlock; but as they are not of my making, I will not apologize forthem. The position I hold in reference to Sir Leicester is so wellknown to you that I can hardly imagine but that I must long haveappeared in your eyes the natural person to make this discovery.""Sir," she returns without looking up from the ground on which hereyes are now fixed, "I had better have gone. It would have beenfar 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 Iam."His jealous glance as she walks that way betrays an instant'smisgiving that she may have it in her thoughts to leap over, anddashing against ledge and cornice, strike her life out upon theterrace below. But a moment's observation of her figure as shestands in the window without any support, looking 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 moved, he stands alittle behind her.   "Lady Dedlock, I have not yet been able to come to a decisionsatisfactory to myself on the course before me. I am not clearwhat to do or how to act next. I must request you, in themeantime, to keep your secret as you have kept it so long and notto wonder that I keep it too."He pauses, but she makes no reply.   "Pardon me, Lady Dedlock. This is an important subject. You arehonouring me with your attention?""I am.""'Thank you. I might have known it from what I have seen of yourstrength of character. I ought not to have asked the question, butI have the habit of making sure of my ground, step by step, as I goon. The sole consideration in this unhappy case is Sir Leicester.""'Then why," she asks in a low voice and without removing hergloomy look from those distant stars, "do you detain me in hishouse?""Because he IS the consideration. Lady Dedlock, I have no occasionto tell you that Sir Leicester is a very proud man, that hisreliance upon you is implicit, that the fall of that moon out ofthe sky would not amaze him more than your fall from your highposition as his wife."She breathes quickly and heavily, but she stands as unflinchinglyas ever he has seen her in the midst of her grandest company.   "I declare to you, Lady Dedlock, that with anything short of thiscase that I have, I would as soon have hoped to root up by means ofmy own strength and my own hands the oldest tree on this estate asto shake your hold upon Sir Leicester and Sir Leicester's trust andconfidence in you. And even now, with this case, I hesitate. Notthat he could doubt (that, even with him, is impossible), but thatnothing 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 ahundred times the whole truth, far and wide. It would beimpossible to save the family credit for a day. It is not to bethought of."There is a quiet decision in his reply which admits of noremonstrance.   "When I speak of Sir Leicester being the sole consideration, he andthe family credit are one. Sir Leicester and the baronetcy, SirLeicester and Chesney Wold, Sir Leicester and his ancestors and hispatrimony"--Mr. Tulkinghorn very dry here--"are, I need not say toyou, Lady Dedlock, inseparable.""Go on!""Therefore," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, pursuing his case in his jog-trot style, "I have much to consider. This is to be hushed up ifit can be. How can it be, if Sir Leicester is driven out of hiswits or laid upon a death-bed? If I inflicted this shock upon himto-morrow morning, how could the immediate change in him beaccounted for? What could have caused it? What could have dividedyou? Lady Dedlock, the wall-chalking and the street-crying wouldcome on directly, and you are to remember that it would not affectyou merely (whom I cannot at all consider in this business) butyour husband, Lady Dedlock, your husband."He gets plainer as he gets on, but not an atom more emphatic oranimated.   "There is another point of view," he continues, "in which the casepresents itself. Sir Leicester is devoted to you almost toinfatuation. He might not be able to overcome that infatuation,even knowing what we know. I am putting an extreme case, but itmight be so. If so, it were better that he knew nothing. Betterfor common sense, better for him, better for me. I must take allthis into account, and it combines to render a decision verydifficult."She stands looking out at the same stars without a word. They arebeginning to pale, and she looks as if their coldness froze her.   "My experience teaches me," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who has by thistime got his hands in his pockets and is going on in his businessconsideration of the matter like a machine. "My experience teachesme, Lady Dedlock, that most of the people I know would do farbetter to leave marriage alone. It is at the bottom of threefourths of their troubles. So I thought when Sir Leicestermarried, and so I always have thought since. No more about that.   I must now be guided by circumstances. In the meanwhile I must begyou to keep your own counsel, and I will keep mine.""I am to drag my present life on, holding its pains at yourpleasure, day by day?" she asks, still looking at the distant sky.   "Yes, I am afraid so, Lady Dedlock.""It is necessary, you think, that I should be so tied to thestake?""I am sure that what I recommend is necessary.""I am to remain on this gaudy platforna on which my miserabledeception has been so long acted, and it is to fall beneath me whenyou give the signal?" she said slowly.   "Not without notice, Lady Dedlock. I shall take no step withoutforewarning you."She asks all her questions as if she were repeating them frommemory 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 thatreference myself, Lady Dedlock, but I may now remind you that yoursecret can be no heavier to you than it was, and is no worse and nobetter than it was. I know it certainly, but I believe we havenever wholly trusted each other."She stands absorbed in the same frozen way for some little timebefore asking, "Is there anything more to be sald to-night?""Why," Mr. Tulkinghorn returns methodically as he softly rubs hishands, "I should like to be assured of your acquiescence in myarrangements, Lady Dedlock.""You may be assured of it.""Good. And I would wish in conclusion to remind you, as a businessprecaution, in case it should be necessary to recall the fact inany communication with Sir Leicester, that throughout our interviewI have expressly stated my sole consideration to be Sir Leicester'sfeelings and honour and the family reputation. I should have beenhappy to have made Lady Dedlock a prominent consideration, too, ifthe case had admitted of it; but unfortunately it does not.""I can attest your fidelity, sir."Both before and after saving it she remains absorbed, but at lengthmoves, and turns, unshaken in her natural and acquired presence,towards the door. Mr. Tulkinghorn opens both the doors exactly ashe would have done yesterday, or as he would have done ten yearsago, and makes his old-fashioned bow as she passes out. It is notan ordinary look that he receives from the handsome face as it goesinto the darkness, and it is not an ordinary movement, though avery slight one, that acknowledges his courtesy. But as hereflects when he is left alone, the woman has been putting nocommon constraint upon herself.   He would know it all the better if he saw the woman pacing her ownrooms with her hair wildly thrown from her flung-back face, herhands clasped behind her head, her figure twisted as if by pain.   He would think so all the more if he saw the woman thus hurrying upand down for hours, without fatigue, without intermission, followedby the faithful step upon the Ghost's Walk. But he shuts out thenow chilled air, draws the window-curtain, goes to bed, and fallsasleep. And truly when the stars go out and the wan day peeps intothe turret-chamber, finding him at his oldest, he looks as if thedigger and the spade were both commissioned and would soon bedigging.   The same wan day peeps in at Sir Leicester pardoning the repentantcountry in a majestically condescending dream; and at the cousinsentering on various public employments, principally receipt ofsalary; and at the chaste Volumnia, bestowing a dower of fiftythousand pounds upon a hideous old general with a mouth of falseteeth like a pianoforte too full of keys, long the admiration ofBath and the terror of every other commuuity. Also into rooms highin the roof, and into offices in court-yards, and over stables,where humbler ambition dreams of bliss, in keepers' lodges, and inholy matrimony with Will or Sally. Up comes the bright sun,drawing everything up with it--the Wills and Sallys, the latentvapour in the earth, the drooping leaves and flowers, the birds andbeasts and creeping things, the gardeners to sweep the dewy turfand unfold emerald velvet where the roller passes, the smoke of thegreat kitchen fire wreathing itself straight and high into thelightsome air. Lastly, up comes the flag over Mr. Tulkinghorn'sunconscious head cheerfully proclaiming that Sir Leicester and LadyDedlock are in their happy home and that there is hospitality atthe place in Lincolnshire. Chapter 42 In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Chambers From the verdant undulations and the spreading oaks of the Dedlockproperty, Mr. Tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale heat anddust of London. His manner of coming and going between the twoplaces is one of his impenetrabilities. He walks into Chesney Woldas if it were next door to his chambers and returns to his chambersas if he had never been out of Lincoln's Inn Fields. He neitherchanges his dress before the journey nor talks of it afterwards.   He melted out of his turret-room this morning, just as now, in thelate twilight, he melts into his own square.   Like a dingy London bird among the birds at roost in these pleasantfields, where the sheep are all made into parchment, the goats intowigs, and the pasture into chaff, the lawyer, smoke-dried andfaded, dwelling among mankind but not consorting with them, agedwithout experience of genial youth, and so long used to make hiscramped nest in holes and corners of human nature that he hasforgotten its broader and better range, comes sauntering home. Inthe oven made by the hot pavements and hot buildings, he has bakedhimself dryer than usual; and he has in his thirsty mind hismellowed 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 noblemysteries arrives at his own dull court-yard. He ascends the door-steps and is gliding into the dusky hall when he encounters, on thetop step, a 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. Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of hishead in his deference towards his best customer, "I was wishful tosay a word to you, sir.""Can you say it here?""Perfectly, sir.""Say it then." The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the ironrailing at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighterlighting the court-yard.   "It is relating," says Mr. Snagsby in a mysterious low voice, "itis 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 notacquainted with that language myself, but I should judge from hermanners and appearance that she was French; anyways, certainlyforeign. Her that was upstairs, sir, when Mr. Bucket and me hadthe 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 behindhis hat. "I am not acquainted myself with the names of foreignersin general, but I have no doubt it WOULD be that." Mr. Snagsbyappears to have set out in this reply with some desperate design ofrepeating the name, but on reflection coughs again to excusehimself.   "And what can you have to say, Snagsby," demands Mr. Tulkinghorn,"about her?""Well, sir," returns the stationer, shading his communication withhis hat, "it falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happiness isvery 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 toofine a point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. And yousee, a foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into theshop, and hovering--I should be the last to make use of a strongexpression 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 ina cough of general application to fill up all the blanks.   "Why, what do you mean?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.   "Just so, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby; "I was sure you would feel ityourself and would excuse the reasonableness of MY feelings whencoupled with the known excitableness of my little woman. You see,the foreign female--which you mentioned her name just now, withquite a native sound I am sure--caught up the word Snagsby thatnight, being uncommon quick, and made inquiry, and got thedirection and come at dinner-time. Now Guster, our young woman, istimid and has fits, and she, taking fright at the foreigner'slooks--which are fierce--and at a grinding manner that she has ofspeaking--which is calculated to alarm a weak mind--gave way to it,instead of bearing up against it, and tumbled down the kitchenstairs out of one into another, such fits as I do sometimes thinkare never gone into, or come out of, in any house but ours.   Consequently there was by good fortune ample occupation for mylittle woman, and only me to answer the shop. When she DID saythat Mr. Tulkinghorn, being always denied to her by his employer(which I had no doubt at the time was a foreign mode of viewing aclerk), she would do herself the pleasure of continually calling atmy place until she was let in here. Since then she has been, as Ibegan by saying, hovering, hovering, sir"--Mr. Snagsby repeats theword with pathetic emphasis--"in the court. The effects of whichmovement it is impossible to calculate. I shouldn't wonder if itmight have already given rise to the painfullest mistakes even inthe neighbours' minds, not mentioning (if such a thing waspossible) my little woman. Whereas, goodness knows," says Mr.   Snagsby, shaking his head, "I never had an idea of a foreignfemale, except as being formerly connected with a bunch of broomsand a baby, or at the present time with a tambourine and earrings.   I never had, I do assure you, sir!"Mr. Tulkinghorn had listened gravely to this complaint and inquireswhen the stationer has finished, "And that's all, is it, Snagsby?""Why yes, sir, that's all," says Mr. Snagsby, ending with a coughthat plainly adds, "and it's enough too--for me.""I don't know what Mademoiselle Hortense may want or mean, unlessshe is mad," says the lawyer.   "Even if she was, you know, sir," Mr. Snagsby pleads, "it wouldn'tbe a consolation to have some weapon or another in the form of aforeign dagger planted in the family.""No," says the other. "Well, well! This shall be stopped. I amsorry you have been inconvenienced. If she comes again, send herhere."Mr. Snagsby, with much bowing and short apologetic coughing, takeshis leave, lightened in heart. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes upstairs,saying to himself, "These women were created to give trouble thewhole 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 saying, he unlocks his door, gropes his way into his murkyrooms, lights his candles, and looks about him. It is too dark tosee much of the Allegory over-head there, but that importunateRoman, who is for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointing, isat his old work pretty distinctly. Not honouring him with muchattention, Mr. Tulkinghorn takes a small key from his pocket,unlocks a drawer in which there is another key, which unlocks achest in which there is another, and so comes to the cellar-key,with which he prepares to descend to the regions of old wine. Heis going towards the door with a candle in his hand when a knockcomes.   "Who's this? Aye, aye, mistress, it's you, is it? You appear at agood time. I have just been hearing of you. Now! What do youwant?"He stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerk's hall andtaps his dry cheek with the key as he addresses these words ofwelcome to Mademoiselle Hortense. That feline personage, with herlips tightly shut and her eyes looking out at him sideways, softlycloses 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 foryou.""Quite right, and quite true.""Not true. Lies!"At times there is a suddenness in the manner of MademoiselleHortense so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it that suchsubject involuntarily starts and fails back. It is Mr.   Tulkinghorn's case at present, though Mademoiselle Hortense, withher eyes almost shut up (but still looking out sideways), is onlysmiling contemptuously and shaking her head.   "Now, mistress," says the lawyer, tapping the key hastily upon thechimney-piece. "If you have anything to say, say it, say it.""Sir, you have not use me well. You have been mean and shabby.""Mean and shabby, eh?" returns the lawyer, rubbing his nose withthe key.   "Yes. What is it that I tell you? You know you have. You haveattrapped me--catched me--to give you information; you have askedme 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 itnot?" Mademoiselle Hortense makes another spring.   "You are a vixen, a vixen!" Mr. Tulkinghorn seems to meditate ashe looks distrustfully at her, then he replies, "Well, wench, well.   I paid you.""You paid me!" she repeats with fierce disdain. "Two sovereign! Ihave not change them, I re-fuse them, I des-pise them, I throw themfrom me!" Which she literally does, taking them out of her bosomas she speaks and flinging them with such violence on the floorthat they jerk up again into the light before they roll away intocorners and slowly settle down there after spinning vehemently.   "Now!" says Mademoiselle Hortense, darkening her large eyes again.   "You have paid me? Eh, my God, oh yes!"Mr. Tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key while she entertainsherself with a sarcastic laugh.   "You must be rich, my fair friend," he composedly observes, "tothrow money about in that way!""I AM rich," she returns. "I am very rich in hate. I hate myLady, of all my heart. You know that.""Know it? How should I know it?""Because you have known it perfectly before you prayed me to giveyou that information. Because you have known perfectly that I wasen-r-r-r-raged!" It appears impossible for mademoiselle to rollthe letter "r" sufficiently in this word, notwithstanding that sheassists her energetic delivery by clenching both her hands andsetting all her teeth.   "Oh! I knew that, did I?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn, examining the wardsof the key.   "Yes, without doubt. I am not blind. You have made sure of mebecause you knew that. You had reason! I det-est her."Mademoiselle folds her arms and throws this last remark at him overone 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 pursueher, to chase her, to disgrace and to dishonour her. I will helpyou well, and with a good will. It is what YOU do. Do I not knowthat?""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 decidea little bet, a wager? Eh, my God, oh yes!" In this reply, downto the word "wager" inclusive, mademoiselle has been ironicallypolite and tender, then as suddenly dashed into the bitterest andmost defiant scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same momentvery nearly shut and staringly wide open.   "Now, let us see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with thekey and looking imperturbably at her, "how this matter stands.""Ah! Let us see," mademoiselle assents, with many angry and tightnods of her head.   "You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which you havejust 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 mademoiselle, cataleptic 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 totake the candle and pick up that money of yours. I think you willfind it behind the clerk's partition in the corner yonder."She merely throws a laugh over her shoulder and stands her groundwith 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 keysof prisons are larger. In this city there are houses of correction(where the treadmills are, for women), the gates of which are verystrong and heavy, and no doubt the keys too. I am afraid a lady ofyour spirit and activity would find it an inconvenience to have oneof those keys turned upon her for any length of time. What do youthink?""I think," mademoiselle replies without any action and in a clear,obliging voice, "that you are a miserable wretch.""Probably," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his nose.   "But I don't ask what you think of myself; I ask what you think ofthe 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 ofour good English citizens from being troubled, even by a lady'svisits against his desire. And on his complaining that he is sotroubled, it takes hold of the troublesome lady and shuts her up inprison under hard discipline. Turns the key upon her, mistress."Illustrating with the cellar-key.   "Truly?" returns mademoiselle in the same pleasant voice. "That isdroll! But--my faith! --still what does it matter to me?""My fair friend," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "make 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 ofagreeable jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerishexpansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more wouldmake her do it.   "In a word, mistress," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "I am sorry to beunpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here--orthere--again, I will give you over to the police. Their gallantryis great, but they carry troublesome people through the streets inan ignominious manner, strapped down on a board, my good wench.""I will prove you," whispers mademoiselle, stretching out her hand,"I will try if you dare to do it!""And if," pursues the lawyer without minding her, "I place you inthat good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be sometime before you find yourself at liberty again.""I will prove you," repeats mademoiselle in her former whisper.   "And now," proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her, "you hadbetter go. Think twice before you come here again.""Think you," she answers, "twice two hundred times!""You were dismissed by your lady, you know," Mr. Tulkinghornobserves, following her out upon the staircase, "as the mostimplacable and unmanageable of women. Now turn over a new leaf andtake warning by what I say to you. For what I say, I mean; andwhat I threaten, I will do, mistress."She goes down without answering or looking behind her. When she isgone, he goes down too, and returning with his cobweb-coveredbottle, devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents,now and then, as he throws his head back in his chair, catchingsight of the pertinacious Roman pointing from the ceiling. Chapter 43 Esther's Narrative It matters little now how much I thought of my living mother whohad told me evermore to consider her dead. I could not venture toapproach her or to communicate with her in writing, for my sense ofthe peril in which her life was passed was only to be equalled bymy fears of increasing it. Knowing that my mere existence as aliving creature was an unforeseen danger in her way, I could notalways conquer that terror of myself which had seized me when Ifirst knew the secret. At no time did I dare to utter her name. Ifelt as if I did not even dare to hear it. If the conversationanywhere, when I was present, took that direction, as it sometimesnaturally did, I tried not to hear: I mentally counted, repeatedsomething that I knew, or went out of the room. I am conscious nowthat I often did these things when there can have been no danger ofher being spoken of, but I did them in the dread I had of hearinganything that might lead to her betrayal, and to her betrayalthrough me.   It matters little now how often I recalled the tones of my mother'svoice, wondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longedto do, and thought how strange and desolate it was that it shouldbe so new to me. It matters little that I watched for every publicmention of my mother's name; that I passed and repassed the door ofher house in town, loving it, but afraid to look at it; that I oncesat in the theatre when my mother was there and saw me, and when wewere so wide asunder before the great company of all degrees thatany link or confidence between us seemed a dream. It is all, allover. My lot has been so blest that I can relate little of myselfwhich is not a story of goodness and generosity in others. I maywell pass that little and go on.   When we were settled at home again, Ada and I had manyconversations with my guardian of which Richard was the theme. Mydear girl was deeply grieved that he should do their kind cousin somuch wrong, but she was so faithful to Richard that she could notbear to blame him even for that. My guardian was assured of it,and never coupled his name with a word of reproof. "Rick ismistaken, my dear," he would say to her. "Well, well! We have allbeen mistaken over and over again. We must trust to you and timeto set him right."We knew afterwards what we suspected then, that he did not trust totime until he had often tried to open Richard's eyes. That he hadwritten to him, gone to him, talked with him, tried every gentleand persuasive art his kindness could devise. Our poor devotedRichard was deaf and blind to all. If he were wrong, he would makeamends when the Chancery suit was over. If he were groping in thedark, he could not do better than do his utmost to clear away thoseclouds in which so much was confused and obscured. Suspicion andmisunderstanding were the fault of the suit? Then let him work thesuit out and come through it to his right mind. This was hisunvarying reply. Jarndyce and Jarndyce had obtained suchpossession of his whole nature that it was impossible to place anyconsideration before him which he did not, with a distorted kind ofreason, make 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 guardian, laughing, "My dear, who wouldadvise with Skimpole?""Encourager would perhaps have been a better word," said I.   "Encourager!" returned my guardian again. "Who could be encouragedby Skimpole?""Not Richard?" I asked.   "No," he replied. "Such an unworldly, uncalculating, gossamercreature is a relief to him and an amusement. But as to advisingor encouraging or occupying a serious station towards anybody oranything, it is simply not to be thought of in such a child asSkimpole.""Pray, cousin John," said Ada, who had just joined us and nowlooked over my shoulder, "what made him such a child?""What made him such a child?" inquired my guardian, rubbing hishead, a little at a loss.   "Yes, cousin John.""Why," he slowly replied, roughening his head more and more, "he isall 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 hisyouth attached too much importance to them and too little to anytraining that would have balanced and adjusted them, and so hebecame what he is. Hey?" said my guardian, stopping short andlooking at us hopefully. "What do you think, you two?"Ada, glancing at me, said she thought it was a pity he should be anexpense to Richard.   "So it is, so it is," returned my guardian hurriedly. "That mustnot be. We must arrange that. I must prevent it. That will neverdo."And I said I thought it was to be regretted that he had everintroduced Richard to Mr. Vholes for a present of five pounds.   "Did he?" said my guardian with a passing shade of vexation on hisface. "But there you have the man. There you have the man! Thereis nothing mercenary in that with him. He has no idea of the valueof money. He introduces Rick, and then he is good friends with Mr.   Vholes and borrows five pounds of him. He means nothing by it andthinks nothing of it. He told you himself, I'll be bound, mydear?""Oh, yes!" said I.   "Exactly!" cried my guardian, quite triumphant. "There you havethe man! If he had meant any harm by it or was conscious of anyharm in it, he wouldn't tell it. He tells it as he does it in meresimplicity. But you shall see him in his own home, and then you'llunderstand him better. We must pay a visit to Harold Skimpole andcaution him on these points. Lord bless you, my dears, an infant,an infant!"In pursuance of this plan, we went into London on an early day andpresented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole's door.   He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, where therewere at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking aboutin cloaks, smoking little paper cigars. Whether he was a bettertenant than one might have supposed, in consequence of his friendSomebody always paying his rent at last, or whether his inaptitudefor business rendered it particularly difficult to turn him out, Idon't know; but he had occupied the same house some years. It wasin a state of dilapidation quite equal to our expectation. Two orthree of the area railings were gone, the water-butt was broken,the knocker was loose, the bell-handle had been pulled off a longtime to judge from the rusty state of the wire, and dirtyfootprints on the steps were the only signs of its being inhabited.   A slatternly full-blown girl who seemed to be bursting out at therents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes like an over-ripeberry answered our knock by opening the door a very little way andstopping up the gap with her figure. As she knew Mr. Jarndyce(indeed Ada and I both thought that she evidently associated himwith the receipt of her wages), she immediately relented andallowed us to pass in. The lock of the door being in a disabledcondition, she then applied herself to securing it with the chain,which was not in good action either, and said would we go upstairs?   We went upstairs to the first floor, still seeing no otherfurniture than the dirty footprints. Mr. Jarndyce without furtherceremony entered a room there, and we followed. It was dingyenough and not at all clean, but furnished with an odd kind ofshabby luxury, with a large footstool, a sofa, and plenty ofcushions, an easy-chair, and plenty of pillows, a piano, books,drawing materials, music, newspapers, and a few sketches andpictures. A broken pane of glass in one of the dirty windows waspapered and wafered over, but there was a little plate of hothousenectarines on the table, and there was another of grapes, andanother of sponge-cakes, and 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 thenabout mid-day--and looking at a collection of wallflowers in thebalcony.   He was not in the least disconcerted by our appearance, but roseand received us in his usual airy manner.   "Here I am, you see!" he said when we were seated, not without somelittle difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being broken.   "Here I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some men want legs ofbeef and mutton for breakfast; I don't. Give me my peach, my cupof coffee, and my claret; I am content. I don't want them forthemselves, but they remind me of the sun. There's nothing solarabout legs of beef and mutton. Mere animal satisfaction!""This is our friend's consulting-room (or would be, if he everprescribed), his sanctum, his studio," said my guardian to us.   "Yes," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his bright face about, "this isthe bird's cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. Theypluck his feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings,he sings!"He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, "He 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 manwanted to know, when he brought them last evening, whether heshould wait for the money. 'Really, my friend,' I said, 'I thinknot--if your time is of any value to you.' I suppose it was, forhe went away."My guardian looked at us with a smile, as though he asked us, "Isit possible to be worldly with this baby?""This is a day," said Mr. Skimpole, gaily taking a little claret ina tumbler, "that will ever be remembered here. We shall call itSaint Clare and Saint Summerson day. You must see my daughters. Ihave a blue-eyed daughter who is my Beauty daughter, I have aSentiment daughter, and I have a Comedy daughter. You must seethem all. They'll be enchanted."He was going to summon them when my guardian interposed and askedhim to pause a moment, as he wished to say a word to him first.   "My dear Jarndyce," he cheerfully replied, going back to his sofa,"as many moments as you please. Time is no object here. We neverknow what o'clock it is, and we never care. Not the way to get onin 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 again, plainly saying, "You hear him?""Now, Harold," he began, "the word I have to say relates to Rick.""The dearest friend I have!" returned Mr. Skimpole cordially. "Isuppose he ought not to be my dearest friend, as he is not on termswith you. But he is, I can't help it; he is full of youthfulpoetry, and I love him. If you don't like it, I can't help it. Ilove him."The engaging frankness with which he made this declaration reallyhad a disinterested appearance and captivated my guardian, if not,for the moment, Ada too.   "You are welcome to love him as much as you like," returned Mr.   Jarndyce, "but we must save his pocket, Harold.""Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole. "His pocket? Now you are coming to whatI don't understand." Taking a little more claret and dipping oneof the cakes in it, he shook his head and smiled at Ada and me withan ingenuous foreboding that he never could be made to understand.   "If you go with him here or there," said my guardian plainly, "youmust not let him pay for both.""My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, his genial faceirradiated by the comicality of this idea, "what am I to do? If hetakes me anywhere, I must go. And how can I pay? I never have anymoney. 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 sevenand sixpence? I know nothing about seven and sixpence. It isimpossible for me to pursue the subject with any consideration forthe man. I don't go about asking busy people what seven andsixpence is in Moorish--which I don't understand. Why should I goabout asking them what seven and sixpence is in Money--which Idon't understand?""Well," said my guardian, by no means displeased with this artlessreply, "if you come to any kind of journeying with Rick, you mustborrow the money of me (never breathing the least allusion to thatcircumstance), and leave the calculation to him.""My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "I will do anything togive 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 onlyto 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 ashower of money.""Indeed it is not so, sir," said Ada. "He is poor.""No, really?" returned Mr. Skimpole with his bright smile. "Yousurprise me.   "And not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed," said myguardian, laying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of Mr.   Skimpole's dressing-gown, "be you very careful not to encourage himin that reliance, Harold.""My dear good friend," returned Mr. Skimpole, "and my dear MissSiunmerson, and my dear Miss Clare, how can I do that? It'sbusiness, and I don't know business. It is he who encourages me.   He emerges from great feats of business, presents the brightestprospects before me as their result, and calls upon me to admirethem. I do admire them--as bright prospects. But I know no moreabout them, and I tell him so."The helpless kind of candour with which he presented this beforeus, the light-hearted manner in which he was amused by hisinnocence, the fantastic way in which he took himself under his ownprotection and argued about that curious person, combined with thedelightful ease of everything he said exactly to make out myguardian's case. The more I saw of him, the more unlikely itseemed to me, when he was present, that he could design, conceal,or influence anything; and yet the less likely that appeared whenhe was not present, and the less agreeable it was to think of hishaving anything to do with any one for whom I cared.   Hearing that his examination (as he called it) was now over, Mr.   Skimpole left the room with a radiant face to fetch his daughters(his sons had run away at various times), leaving my guardian quitedelighted by the manner in which he had vindicated his childishcharacter. He soon came back, bringing with him the three youngladies and Mrs. Skimpole, who had once been a beauty but was now adelicate high-nosed invalid suffering under a complication ofdisorders.   "This," said Mr. Skimpole, "is my Beauty daughter, Arethusa--playsand sings odds and ends like her father. This is my Sentimentdaughter, Laura--plays a little but don't sing. This is my Comedydaughter, Kitty--sings a little but don't play. We all draw alittle and compose a little, and none of us have any idea of timeor money."Mrs. Skimpole sighed, I thought, as if she would have been glad tostrike out this item in the family attainments. I also thoughtthat she rather impressed her sigh upon my guardian and that shetook every opportunity of throwing in another.   "It is pleasant," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his sprightly eyesfrom one to the other of us, "and it is whimsically interesting totrace peculiarities in families. In this family we are allchildren, and I am the youngest."The daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were amused bythis droll fact, particularly the Comedy daughter.   "My dears, it is true," said Mr. Skimpole, "is it not? So it is,and so it must be, because like the dogs in the hymn, 'it is ournature to.' Now, here is Miss Summerson with a fine administrativecapacity and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. It willsound very strange in Miss Summerson's ears, I dare say, that weknow nothing about chops in this house. But we don't, not theleast. We can't cook anything whatever. A needle and thread wedon't know how to use. We admire the people who possess thepractical wisdom we want, but we don't quarrel with them. Then whyshould they quarrel with us? Live and let live, we say to them.   Live upon your practical wisdom, and let us live upon you!"He laughed, but as usual seemed quite candid and really to meanwhat he said.   "We have sympathy, my roses," said Mr. Skimpole, "sympathy foreverything. Have we not?""Oh, yes, papa!" cried the three daughters.   "In fact, that is our family department," said Mr. Skimpole, "inthis hurly-burly of life. We are capable of looking on and ofbeing interested, and we DO look on, and we ARE interested. Whatmore can we do? Here is my Beauty daughter, married these threeyears. Now I dare say her marrying another child, and having twomore, was all wrong in point of political economy, but it was veryagreeable. We had our little festivities on those occasions andexchanged social ideas. She brought her young husband home oneday, and they and their young fledglings have their nest upstairs.   I dare say at some time or other Sentiment and Comedy will bringTHEIR husbands home and have THEIR nests upstairs too. So we geton, we don't know how, but somehow."She looked very young indeed to be the mother of two children, andI could not help pitying both her and them. It was evident thatthe three daughters had grown up as they could and had had just aslittle haphazard instruction as qualified them to be their father'splaythings in his idlest hours. His pictorial tastes wereconsulted, I observed, in their respective styles of wearing theirhair, the Beauty daughter being in the classic manner, theSentiment daughter luxuriant and flowing, and the Comedy daughterin the arch style, with a good deal of sprightly forehead, andvivacious little curls dotted about the corners of her eyes. Theywere dressed to correspond, though in a most untidy and negligentway.   Ada and I conversed with these young ladies and found themwonderfully like their father. In the meanwhile Mr. Jarndyce (whohad been rubbing his head to a great extent, and hinted at a changein the wind) talked with Mrs. Skimpole in a corner, where we couldnot help hearing the chink of money. Mr. Skimpole had previouslyvolunteered to go home with us and had withdrawn to dress himselffor the purpose.   "My roses," he said when he came back, "take care of mama. She ispoorly to-day. By going home with Mr. Jarndyce for a day or two, Ishall hear the larks sing and preserve my amiability. It has beentried, 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 hiswallflowers, 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 assented, butwith perfect good humour. "It was coarse. There was an absence ofthe finer touches of humanity in it! My daughters have taken greatoffence," 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. Skimpole, "who is a baker in this neighbourhood and fromwhom we borrowed a couple of armchairs. We wanted a couple of arm-chairs, and we hadn't got them, and therefore of course we lookedto a man who HAD got them, to lend them. Well! This morose personlent them, and we wore them out. When they were worn out, hewanted them back. He had them back. He was contented, you willsay. Not at all. He objected to their being worn. I reasonedwith him, and pointed out his mistake. I said, 'Can you, at yourtime of life, be so headstrong, my friend, as to persist that anarm-chair is a thing to put upon a shelf and look at? That it isan object to contemplate, to survey from a distance, to considerfrom a point of sight? Don't you KNOW that these arm-chairs wereborrowed to be sat upon?' He was unreasonable and unpersuadableand used intemperate language. Being as patient as I am at thisminute, I addressed another appeal to him. I said, 'Now, my goodman, however our business capacities may vary, we are all childrenof one great mother, Nature. On this blooming summer morning hereyou see me' (I was on the sofa) 'with flowers before me, fruit uponthe 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 absurdfigure of an angry baker!' But he did," said Mr. Skimpole, raisinghis laughing eyes in playful astonishinent; "he did interpose thatridiculous figure, and he does, and he will again. And therefore Iam very glad to get out of his way and to go home with my friendJarndyce."It seemed to escape his consideration that Mrs. Skimpole and thedaughters remained behind to encounter the baker, but this was soold 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 gracefulas any other aspect in which he showed himself and rode away withus in perfect harmony of mind. We had an opportunity of seeingthrough some open doors, as we went downstairs, that his ownapartment was a palace to the rest of the house.   I could have no anticipation, and I had none, that something verystartling to me at the moment, and ever memorable to me in whatensued from it, was to happen before this day was out. Our guestwas in such spirits on the way home that I could do nothing butlisten to him and wonder at him; nor was I alone in this, for Adayielded to the same fascination. As to my guardian, the wind,which had threatened to become fixed in the east when we leftSomers Town, veered completely round before we were a couple ofmiles 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 road, he was in thedrawing-room before any of us; and I heard him at the piano while Iwas yet looking after my housekeeping, singing refrains ofbarcaroles and drinking songs, Italian and German, by the score.   We were all assembled shortly before dinner, and he was still atthe piano idly picking out in his luxurious way little strains ofmusic, and talking between whiles of finishing some sketches of theruined old Verulam wall to-morrow, which he had begun a year or twoago and had got tired of, when a card was brought in and myguardian read aloud in a surprised voice, "Sir Leicester Dedlock!"The visitor was in the room while it was yet turning round with meand before I had the power to stir. If I had had it, I should havehurried away. I had not even the presence of mind, in mygiddiness, to retire to Ada in the window, or to see the window, orto know where it was. I heard my name and found that my guardianwas 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 seatedhimself, "I 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 expressmy regret that any cause of complaint, however strong, that I mayhave against a gentleman who--who is known to you and has been yourhost, and to whom therefore I will make no farther reference,should have prevented you, still more ladies under your escort andcharge, from seeing whatever little there may be to gratify apolite and refined taste at my house, Chesney Wold.""You are exceedingly obliging, Sir Leicester, and on behalf ofthose ladies (who are present) and for myself, I thank you verymuch.""It is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that the gentleman to whom, for thereasons I have mentioned, I refrain from making further allusion--it is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that that gentleman may have done methe honour so far to misapprehend my character as to induce you tobelieve that you would not have been received by my localestablishment in Lincolnshire with that urbanity, that courtesy,which its members are instructed to show to all ladies andgentlemen who present themselves at that house. I merely beg toobserve, sir, that the fact is the reverse."My guardian delicately dismissed this remark without making anyverbal answer.   "It has given me pain, Mr. Jarndyce," Sir Leicester weightilyproceeded. "I assure you, sir, it has given--me--pain--to learnfrom the housekeeper at Chesney Wold that a gentleman who was inyour company in that part of the county, and who would appear topossess a cultivated taste for the fine arts, was likewise deterredby some such cause from examining the family pictures with thatleisure, that attention, that care, which he might have desired tobestow upon them and which some of them might possibly haverepaid." Here he produced a card and read, with much gravity and alittle trouble, through his eye-glass, "Mr. Hirrold--Herald--Harold--Skampling--Skumpling--I beg your pardon--Skimpole.""This is Mr. Harold Skimpole," said my guardian, evidentlysurprised.   "Oh!" exclaimed Sir Leicester, "I am happy to meet Mr. Skimpole andto 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, Ishall certainly give myself the pleasure and advantage of anothervisit to your beautiful house. The owners of such places asChesney Wold," said Mr. Skimpole with his usual happy and easy air,"are public benefactors. They are good enough to maintain a numberof delightful objects for the admiration and pleasure of us poormen; and not to reap all the admiration and pleasure that theyyield is to be ungrateful to our benefactors."Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this sentiment highly. "Anartist, sir?""No," returned Mr. Skimpole. "A perfectly idle man. A mereamateur."Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this even more. He hoped hemight have the good fortune to be at Chesney Wold when Mr. Skimpolenext came down into Lincolnshire. Mr. Skimpole professed himselfmuch flattered and honoured.   "Mr. Skimpole mentioned," pursued Sir Leicester, addressing himselfagain to my guardian, "mentioned to the house-keeper, who, as hemay have observed, is an old and attached retainer of the family--"("That is, when I walked through the house the other day, on theoccasion 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 wasMr. Jarndyce." Sir Leicester bowed to the bearer of that name.   "And hence I became aware of the circumstance for which I haveprofessed my regret. That this should have occurred to anygentleman, Mr. Jarndyce, but especially a gentleman formerly knownto Lady Dedlock, and indeed claiming some distant connexion withher, and for whom (as I learn from my Lady herself) she entertainsa 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 yourconsideration. Indeed the mistake was mine, and I ought toapologize for it."I had not once looked up. I had not seen the visitor and had noteven appeared to myself to hear the conversation. It surprises meto find that I can recall it, for it seemed to make no impressionon me as it passed. I heard them speaking, but my mind was soconfused and my instinctive avoidance of this gentleman made hispresence 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,rising, "and my Lady informed me that she had had the pleasure ofexchanging a few words with Mr. Jarndyce and his wards on theoccasion of an accidental meeting during their sojourn in thevicinity. Permit me, Mr. Jarndyce, to repeat to yourself, and tothese ladies, the assurance I have already tendered to Mr.   Skimpole. Circumstances undoubtedly prevent my saying that itwould afford me any gratification to hear that Mr. Boythorn hadfavoured my house with his presence, but those circumstances areconfined to that gentleman himself and do not extend beyond him.""You know my old opinion of him," said Mr. Skimpole, lightlyappealing to us. "An amiable bull who is detenined to make everycolour scarlet!"Sir Leicester Dedlock coughed as if he could not possibly hearanother word in reference to such an individual and took his leavewith great ceremony and politeness. I got to my own room with allpossible speed and remained there until I had recovered my self-command. It had been very much disturbed, but I was thankful tofind when I went downstairs again that they only rallied me forhaving been shy and mute before the great Lincolnshire baronet.   By that time I had made up my mind that the period was come when Imust tell my guardian what I knew. The possibility of my beingbrought into contact with my mother, of my being taken to herhouse, even of Mr. Skimpole's, however distantly associated withme, receiving kindnesses and obligations from her husband, was sopainful that I felt I could no longer guide myself without hisassistance.   When we had retired for the night, and Ada and I had had our usualtalk in our pretty room, I went out at my door again and sought myguardian among his books. I knew he always read at that hour, andas I drew near I saw the light shining out into the passage fromhis 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 quiettime of saying a word to you about myself."He put a chair for me, shut his book, and put it by, and turned hiskind attentive face towards me. I could not help observing that itwore that curious expression I had observed in it once before--onthat night when he had said that he was in no trouble which I couldreadily understand.   "What concerns you, my dear Esther," said he, "concerns 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 andsupport. Oh! You don't know how much need I have to-night."He looked unprepared for my being so earnest, and even a littlealarmed.   "Or how anxious I have been to speak to you," said I, "ever sincethe 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 theprofoundest astonishment, awaiting what I should say next. I didnot know how to prepare him.   "Why, Esther," said he, breaking into a smile, "our visitor and youare the two last persons on earth I should have thought ofconnecting together!""Oh, yes, guardian, I know it. And I too, but a little while ago."The smile passed from his face, and he became graver than before.   He crossed to the door to see that it was shut (but I had seen tothat) and resumed his seat before me.   "Guardian," said I, "do you remensher, when we were overtaken bythe 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 gonetheir several ways?""Of course.""Why did they separate, guardian?"His face quite altered as he looked at me. "My child, whatquestions are these! I never knew. No one but themselves ever didknow, I believe. Who could tell what the secrets of those twohandsome and proud women were! You have seen Lady Dedlock. If youhad ever seen her sister, you would know her to have been asresolute and haughty as she.""Oh, guardian, I have seen her many and many a time!""Seen her?"He paused a little, biting his lip. "Then, Esther, when you spoketo me long ago of Boythorn, and when I told you that he was all butmarried once, and that the lady did not die, but died to him, andthat that time had had its influence on his later life--did youknow it all, and know who the lady was?""No, guardian," I returned, fearful of the light that dimly brokeupon me. "Nor do I know yet.""Lady Dedlock's sister.""And why," I could scarcely ask him, "why, guardian, pray tell mewhy 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 someinjury which her haughty spirit had received in her cause ofquarrel with her sister had wounded her beyond all reason, but shewrote him that from the date of that letter she died to him--as inliteral truth she did--and that the resolution was exacted from herby her knowledge of his proud temper and his strained sense ofhonour, which were both her nature too. In consideration for thosemaster points in him, and even in consideration for them inherself, she made the sacrifice, she said, and would live in it anddie in it. She did both, I fear; certainly he never saw her, neverheard of her from that hour. Nor did any one.""Oh, guardian, what have I done!" I cried, giving way to my grief;"what sorrow have I innocently caused!""You caused, Esther?""Yes, guardian. Innocently, but most surely. That secluded sisteris my first remembrance.""No, no!" he cried, starting.   "Yes, guardian, yes! And HER sister is my mother!"I would have told him all my mother's letter, but he would not hearit then. He spoke so tenderly and wisely to me, and he put soplainly before me all I had myself imperfectly thought and hoped inmy better state of mind, that, penetrated as I had been withfervent gratitude towards him through so many years, I believed Ihad never loved him so dearly, never thanked him in my heart sofully, as I did that night. And when he had taken me to my roomand kissed me at the door, and when at last I lay down to sleep, mythought was how could I ever be busy enough, how could I ever begood enough, how in my little way could I ever hope to be forgetfulenough of myself, devoted enough to him, and useful enough toothers, to show him how I blessed and honoured him. Chapter 44 The Letter and the Answer My guardian called me into his room next morning, and then I toldhim what had been left untold on the previous night. There wasnothing to be done, he said, but to keep the secret and to avoidanother such encounter as that of yesterday. He understood myfeeling and entirely shared it. He charged himself even withrestraining Mr. Skimpole from improving his opportunity. Oneperson whom he need not name to me, it was not now possible for himto advise or help. He wished it were, but no such thing could be.   If her mistrust of the lawyer whom she had mentioned were well-founded, which he scarcely doubted, he dreaded discovery. He knewsomething of him, both by sight and by reputation, and it wascertain that he was a dangerous man. Whatever happened, herepeatedly impressed upon me with anxious affection and kindness, Iwas as innocent of as himself and as unable to influence.   "Nor do I understand," said he, "that any doubts tend towards you,my dear. Much suspicion may exist without that connexion.""With the lawyer," I returned. "But two other persons have comeinto my mind since I have been anxious. Then I told him all aboutMr. Guppy, who I feared might have had his vague surmises when Ilittle understood his meaning, but in whose silence after our lastinterview I expressed perfect confidence.   "Well," said my guardian. "Then we may dismiss him for thepresent. Who is the other?"I called to his recollection the French maid and the eager offer ofherself she had made to me.   "Ha!" he returned thoughtfully. "That is a more alarming personthan the clerk. But after all, my dear, it was but seeking for anew service. She had seen you and Ada a little while before, andit was natural that you should come into her head. She merelyproposed herself for your maid, you know. She did nothing more.""Her manner was strange," said I.   "Yes, and her manner was strange when she took her shoes off andshowed that cool relish for a walk that might have ended in herdeath-bed," said my guardian. "It would be useless self-distressand torment to reckon up such chances and possibilities. There arevery few harmless circumstances that would not seem full ofperilous meaning, so considered. Be hopeful, little woman. Youcan be nothing better than yourself; be that, through thisknowledge, as you were before you had it. It is the best you cando for everybody's sake. I, sharing 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 canobserve it from my distance. And if the time should come when Ican stretch out a hand to render the least service to one whom itis better not to name even here, I will not fail to do it for herdear daughter's sake."I thanked him with my whole heart. What could I ever do but thankhim! I was going out at the door when he asked me to stay amoment. Quickly turning round, I saw that same expression on hisface again; and all at once, I don't know how, it flashed upon meas a new and far-off possibility that I understood it.   "My dear Esther," said my guardian, "I have long had something inmy thoughts that I have wished to say to you.""Indeed?""I have had some difficulty in approaching it, and I still have. Ishould wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberatelyconsidered. Would you object to my writing it?""Dear guardian, how could I object to your writing anything for MEto read?""Then see, my love," said he with his cheery smile, "am I at thismoment quite as plain and easy--do I seem as open, as honest andold-fashioned--as I am at any time?"I answered in all earnestness, "Quite." With the strictest truth,for his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted a minute),and his fine, sensible, cordial, sterling manner was restored.   "Do I look as if I suppressed anything, meant anything but what Isaid, had any reservation at all, no matter what?" said he with hisbright clear eyes on mine.   I answered, most 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 guardian, "give me your hand."He took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and lookingdown into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithfulnessof manner--the old protecting manner which had made that house myhome in a moment--said, "You have wrought changes in me, littlewoman, since the winter day in the stage-coach. First and last youhave done me a world of good since that time.""Ah, guardian, what have you done for me since that time!""But," said he, "that is not to be remembered now.""It never can be forgotten.""Yes, Esther," said he with a gentle seriousness, "it is to beforgotten now, to be forgotten for a while. You are only toremember now that nothing can change me as you know me. Can youfeel quite assured of that, my dear?""I can, and I do," I said.   "That's much," he answered. "That's everything. But I must nottake that at a word. I will not write this something in mythoughts until you have quite resolved within yourself that nothingcan change me as you know me. If you doubt that in the leastdegree, I will never write it. If you are sure of that, on goodconsideration, send Charley to me this night week--'for theletter.' But if you are not quite certain, never send. Mind, Itrust to your truth, in this thing as in everything. If you arenot quite certain on that one point, never send!""Guardian," said I, "I am already certain, I can no more be changedin that conviction than you can be changed towards me. I shallsend Charley for the letter."He shook my hand and said no more. Nor was any more said inreference to this conversation, either by him or me, through thewhole week. When the appointed night came, I said to Charley assoon as I was alone, "Go and knock at Mr. Jarndyce's door, Charley,and say you have come from me--'for the letter.'" Charley went upthe stairs, and down the stairs, and along the passages--the zig-zag way about the old-fashioned house seemed very long in mylistening ears that night--and so came back, along the passages,and down the stairs, and up the stairs, and brought the letter.   "Lay it on the table, Charley," said I. So Charley laid it on thetable and went to bed, and I sat looking at it without taking itup, thinking of many things.   I began with my overshadowed childhood, and passed through thosetimid days to the heavy time when my aunt lay dead, with herresolute face so cold and set, and when I was more solitary withMrs. Rachael than if I had had no one in the world to speak to orto look at. I passed to the altered days when I was so blest as tofind friends in all around me, and to be beloved. I came to thetime when I first saw my dear girl and was received into thatsisterly affection which was the grace and beauty of my life. Irecalled the first bright gleam of welcome which had shone out ofthose very windows upon our expectant faces on that cold brightnight, and which had never paled. I lived my happy life there overagain, I went through my illness and recovery, I thought of myselfso altered and of those around me so unchanged; and all thishappiness shone like a light from one central figure, representedbefore 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 me, and the consideration itshowed for me in every word, that my eyes were too often blinded toread much at a time. But I read it through three times before Ilaid it down. I had thought beforehand that I knew its purport,and I did. It asked me, would I be the mistress of Bleak House.   It was not a love letter, though it expressed so much love, but waswritten just as he would at any time have spoken to me. I saw hisface, and heard his voice, and felt the influence of his kindprotecting manner in every line. It addressed me as if our placeswere reversed, as if all the good deeds had been mine and all thefeelings they had awakened his. It dwelt on my being young, and hepast the prime of life; on his having attained a ripe age, while Iwas a child; on his writing to me with a silvered head, and knowingall this so well as to set it in full before me for maturedeliberation. It told me that I would gain nothing by such amarriage and lose nothing by rejecting it, for no new relationcould enhance the tenderness in which he held me, and whatever mydecision was, he was certain it would be right. But he hadconsidered this step anew since our late confidence and had decidedon taking it, if it only served to show me through one poorinstance that the whole world would readily unite to falsify thestern prediction of my childhood. I was the last to know whathappiness I could bestow upon him, but of that he said no more, forI was always to remember that I owed him nothing and that he was mydebtor, and for very much. He had often thought of our future, andforeseeing that the time must come, and fearing that it might comesoon, when Ada (now very nearly of age) would leave us, and whenour present mode of life must be broken up, had become accustomedto reflect on this proposal. Thus he made it. If I felt that Icould ever give him the best right he could have to be myprotector, and if I felt that I could happily and justly become thedear companion of his remaining life, superior to all lighterchances and changes than death, even then he could not have me bindmyself irrevocably while this letter was yet so new to me, but eventhen I must have ample time for reconsideration. In that case, orin the opposite case, let him be unchanged in his old relation, inhis old manner, in the old name by which I called him. And as tohis bright Dame Durden and little housekeeper, she would ever bethe same, he knew.   This was the substance of the letter, written throughout with ajustice and a dignity as if he were indeed my responsible guardianimpartially representing the proposal of a friend against whom inhis integrity he stated the full case.   But he did not hint to me that when I had been better looking hehad had this same proceeding in his thoughts and had refrained fromit. That when my old face was gone from me, and I had noattractions, he could love me just as well as in my fairer days.   That the discovery of my birth gave him no shock. That hisgenerosity rose above my disfigurement and my inheritance of shame.   That the more I stood in need of such fidelity, the more firmly Imight trust in him to the last.   But I knew it, I knew it well now. It came upon me as the close ofthe benignant history I had been pursuing, and I felt that I hadbut one thing to do. To devote my life to his happiness was tothank him poorly, and what had I wished for the other night butsome new means of thanking him?   Still I cried very much, not only in the fullness of my heart afterreading the letter, not only in the strangeness of the prospect--for it was strange though I had expected the contents--but as ifsomething for which there was no name or distinct idea wereindefinitely lost to me. I was very happy, very thankful, veryhopeful; but I cried very much.   By and by I went to my old glass. My eyes were red and swollen,and I said, "Oh, Esther, Esther, can that be you!" I am afraid theface in the glass was going to cry again at this reproach, but Iheld up my finger at it, and it stopped.   "That is more like the composed look you comforted me with, mydear, when you showed me such a change!" said I, beginning to letdown my hair. "When you are mistress of Bleak House, you are to beas cheerful as a bird. In fact, you are always to be cheerful; solet us begin for once and for all."I went on with my hair now, quite comfortably. I sobbed a littlestill, but that was because I had been crying, not because I wascrying then.   "And so Esther, my dear, you are happy for life. Happy with yourbest friends, happy in your old home, happy in the power of doing agreat deal of good, and happy in the undeserved love of the best ofmen."I thought, all at once, if my guardian had married some one else,how should I have felt, and what should I have done! That wouldhave been a change indeed. It presented my life in such a new andblank form that I rang my housekeeping keys and gave them a kissbefore I laid them down in their basket again.   Then I went on to think, as I dressed my hair before the glass, howoften had I considered within myself that the deep traces of myillness and the circumstances of my birth were only new reasons whyI should be busy, busy, busy--useful, amiable, serviceable, in allhonest, unpretending ways. This was a good time, to be sure, tosit down morbidly and cry! As to its seeming at all strange to meat first (if that were any excuse for crying, which it was not)that I was one day to be the mistress of Bleak House, why should itseem strange? Other people had thought of such things, if I hadnot. "Don't you remember, my plain dear," I asked myself, lookingat the glass, "what Mrs. Woodcourt said before those scars werethere about your marrying--"Perhaps the name brought them to my remembrance. The dried remainsof the flowers. It would be better not to keep them now. They hadonly been preserved in memory of something wholly past and gone,but it would be better not to keep them now.   They were in a book, and it happened to be in the next room--oursitting-room, dividing Ada's chamber from mine. I took a candleand went softly in to fetch it from its shelf. After I had it inmy hand, I saw my beautiful darling, through the open door, lyingasleep, and I stole in to kiss her.   It was weak in me, I know, and I could have no reason for crying;but I dropped a tear upon her dear face, and another, and another.   Weaker than that, I took the withered flowers out and put them fora moment to her lips. I thought about her love for Richard,though, indeed, the flowers had nothing to do with that. Then Itook them into my own room and burned them at the candle, and theywere dust in an instant.   On entering the breakfast-room next morning, I found my guardianjust as usual, quite as frank, as open, and free. There being notthe least constraint in his manner, there was none (or I thinkthere was none) in mine. I was with him several times in thecourse of the morning, in and out, when there was no one there, andI thought it not unlikely that he might speak to me about theletter, but he did not say a word.   So, on the next morning, and the next, and for at least a week,over which time Mr. Skimpole prolonged his stay. I expected, everyday, that my guardian might speak to me about the letter, but henever did.   I thought then, growing uneasy, that I ought to write an answer. Itried over and over again in my own room at night, but I could notwrite an answer that at all began like a good answer, so I thoughteach night I would wait one more day. And I waited seven moredays, and he never said a word.   At last, Mr. Skimpole having departed, we three were one afternoongoing out for a ride; and I, being dressed before Ada and goingdown, came upon my guardian, with his back towards me, standing atthe drawing-room window looking out.   He turned on my coming in and said, smiling, "Aye, it's you, littlewoman, is it?" and looked out again.   I had made up my mind to speak to him now. In short, I had comedown on purpose. "Guardian," I said, rather hesitating andtrembling, "when would you like to have the answer to the letterCharley 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 him, and he said wasthis the mistress of Bleak House, and I said yes; and it made nodifference presently, and we all went out together, and I saidnothing to my precious pet about it. Chapter 45 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 Ihappened to turn my eyes towards the house and saw a long thinshadow going in which looked like Mr. Vholes. Ada had been tellingme only that morning of her hopes that Richard might exhaust hisardour in the Chancery suit by being so very earnest in it; andtherefore, not to damp my dear girl's spirits, I said nothing aboutMr. Vholes's shadow.   Presently came Charley, lightly winding among the bushes andtripping along the paths, as rosy and pretty as one of Flora'sattendants instead of my maid, saying, "Oh, if you please, miss,would you step and speak to Mr. Jarndyce!"It was one of Charley's peculiarities that whenever she was chargedwith a message she always began to deliver it as soon as shebeheld, at any distance, the person for whom it was intended.   Therefore I saw Charley asking me in her usual form of words to"step and speak" to Mr. Jarndyce long before I heard her. And whenI did hear her, she had said it so often that she was out ofbreath.   I told Ada I would make haste back and inquired of Charley as wewent in whether there was not a gentleman with Mr. Jarndyce. Towhich Charley, whose grammar, I confess to my shame, never did anycredit to my educational powers, replied, "Yes, miss. Him as comedown in the country with Mr. Richard."A more complete contrast than my guardian and Mr. Vholes I supposethere could not be. I found them looking at one another across atable, the one so open and the other so close, the one so broad andupright and the other so narrow and stooping, the one giving outwhat he had to say in such a rich ringing voice and the otherkeeping it in in such a cold-blooded, gasping, fish-like mannerthat I thought I never had seen two people so unmatched.   "You know Mr. Vholes, my dear," said my guardian. Not with thegreatest urbanity, I must say.   Mr. Vholes rose, gloved and buttoned up as usual, and seatedhimself again, just as he had seated himself beside Richard in thegig. Not having Richard to look at, he looked straight before him.   "Mr. Vholes," said my guardian, eyeing his black figure as if hewere a bird of ill omen, "has brought an ugly report of our mostunfortunate 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 immovable, except thathe secretly picked at one of the red pimples on his yellow facewith his black glove.   "And as Rick and you are happily good friends, I should like toknow," said my guardian, "what you think, my dear. Would you be sogood as to--as to speak up, Mr. Vholes?"Doing anything but that, Mr. Vholes observed, "I have been sayingthat I have reason to know, Miss Summerson, as Mr. C.'sprofessional adviser, that Mr. C.'s circumstances are at thepresent moment in an embarrassed state. Not so much in point ofamount as owing to the peculiar and pressing nature of liabilitiesMr. C. has incurred and the means he has of liquidating or meetingthe same. I have staved off many little matters for Mr. C., butthere is a limit to staving off, and we have reached it. I havemade some advances out of pocket to accommodate theseunpleasantnesses, but I necessarily look to being repaid, for I donot pretend to be a man of capital, and I have a father to supportin the Vale of Taunton, besides striving to realize some littleindependence for three dear girls at home. My apprehension is, Mr.   C.'s circumstances being such, lest it should end in his obtainingleave to part with his commission, which at all events is desirableto be made known to his connexions."Mr. Vholes, who had looked at me while speaking, here emerged intothe silence he could hardly be said to have broken, so stifled washis tone, and looked before him again.   "Imagine the poor fellow without even his present resource," saidmy guardian to me. "Yet what can I do? You know him, Esther. Hewould never accept of help from me now. To offer it or hint at itwould be to drive him to an extremity, if nothing else did."Mr. Vholes hereupon addressed me again.   "What Mr. Jarndyce remarks, miss, is no doubt the case, and is thedifficulty. I do not see that anything is to be done, I do not saythat anything is to be done. Far from it. I merely come down hereunder the seal of confidence and mention it in order thateverything may be openly carried on and that it may not be saidafterwards that everything was not openly carried on. My wish isthat everything should be openly carried on. I desire to leave agood name behind me. If I consulted merely my own interests withMr. C., I should not be here. So insurmountable, as you must wellknow, would be his objections. This is not a professionalattendance. This can he charged to nobody. I have no interest init except as a member of society and a father--AND a son," said Mr.   Vholes, who had nearly forgotten that point.   It appeared to us that Mr. Vholes said neither more nor less thanthe truth in intimating that he sought to divide theresponsibility, such as it was, of knowing Richard's situation. Icould only suggest that I should go down to Deal, where Richard wasthen stationed, and see him, and try if it were possible to avertthe worst. Without consulting Mr. Vholes on this point, I took myguardian aside to propose it, while Mr. Vholes gauntly stalked tothe fire and warmed his funeral gloves.   The fatigue of the journey formed an immediate objection on myguardian's part, but as I saw he had no other, and as I was onlytoo happy to go, I got his consent. We had then merely to disposeof Mr. Vholes.   "Well, sir," said Mr. Jarndyce, "Miss Summerson will communicatewith Mr. Carstone, and you can only hope that his position may beyet retrievable. You will allow me to order you lunch after yourjourney, sir.""I thank you, Mr. Jarndyce," said Mr. Vholes, putting out his longblack sleeve to check the ringing of the bell, "not any. I thankyou, no, not a morsel. My digestion is much impaired, and I am buta poor knife and fork at any time. If I was to partake of solidfood at this period of the day, I don't know what the consequencesmight be. Everything having been openly carried on, sir, I willnow with your permission take my leave.""And I would that you could take your leave, and we could all takeour leave, Mr. Vholes," returned my guardian bitterly, "of a causeyou know of."Mr. Vholes, whose black dye was so deep from head to foot that ithad quite steamed before the fire, diffusing a very unpleasantperfume, made a short one-sided inclination of his head from theneck and slowly shook it.   "We whose ambition it is to be looked upon in the light ofrespectable practitioners, sir, can but put our shoulders to thewheel. We do it, sir. At least, I do it myself; and I wish tothink well of my professional brethren, one and all. You aresensible of an obligation not to refer to me, miss, incommunicating 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 glove, which scarcely seemed to have anyhand in it, on my fingers, and then on my guardian's fingers, andtook his long thin shadow away. I thought of it on the outside ofthe coach, passing over all the sunny landscape between us andLondon, chilling the seed in the ground as it glided along.   Of course it became necessary to tell Ada where I was going and whyI was going, and of course she was anxious and distressed. But shewas too true to Richard to say anything but words of pity and wordsof excuse, and in a more loving spirit still--my dear devotedgirl!--she wrote him a long letter, of which I took charge.   Charley was to be my travelling companion, though I am sure Iwanted none and would willingly have left her at home. We all wentto London that afternoon, and finding two places in the mail,secured them. At our usual bed-time, Charley and I were rollingaway seaward with the Kentish letters.   It was a night's journey in those coach times, but we had the mailto ourselves and did not find the night very tedious. It passedwith me as I suppose it would with most people under suchcircumstances. At one while my journey looked hopeful, and atanother hopeless. Now I thought I should do some good, and now Iwondered how I could ever have supposed so. Now it seemed one ofthe most reasonable things in the world that I should have come,and now one of the most unreasonable. In what state I should findRichard, what I should say to him, and what he would say to meoccupied my mind by turns with these two states of feeling; and thewheels seemed to play one tune (to which the burden of myguardian's letter set itself) over and over again all night.   At last we came into the narrow streets of Deal, and very gloomythey were upon a raw misty morning. The long flat beach, with itslittle irregular houses, wooden and brick, and its litter ofcapstans, and great boats, and sheds, and bare upright poles withtackle and blocks, and loose gravelly waste places overgrown withgrass and weeds, wore as dull an appearance as any place I eversaw. The sea was heaving under a thick white fog; and nothing elsewas moving but a few early ropemakers, who, with the yarn twistedround their bodies, looked as if, tired of their present state ofexistence, they were spinning themselves into cordage.   But when we got into a warm room in an excellent hotel and satdown, comfortably washed and dressed, to an early breakfast (for itwas too late to think of going to bed), Deal began to look morecheerful. Our little room was like a ship's cabin, and thatdelighted Charley very much. Then the fog began to rise like acurtain, and numbers of ships that we had had no idea were nearappeared. I don't know how many sail the waiter told us were thenlying in the downs. Some of these vessels were of grand size--onewas a large Indiaman just come home; and when the sun shone throughthe clouds, maktng silvery pools in the dark sea, the way in whichthese ships brightened, and shadowed, and changed, amid a bustle ofboats pulling off from the shore to them and from them to theshore, and a general life and motion in themselves and everythingaround them, was most beautiful.   The large Indiaman was our great attraction because she had comeinto the downs in the night. She was surrounded by boats, and wesaid how glad the people on board of her must be to come ashore.   Charley was curious, too, about the voyage, and about the heat inIndia, and the serpents and the tigers; and as she picked up suchinformation much faster than grammar, I told her what I knew onthose points. I told her, too, how people in such voyages weresometimes wrecked and cast on rocks, where they were saved by theintrepidity and humanity of one man. And Charley asking how thatcould be, I told her how we knew at home of such a case.   I had thought of sending Richard a note saying I was there, but itseemed so much better to go to him without preparation. As helived in barracks I was a little doubtful whether this wasfeasible, but we went out to reconnoitre. Peeping in at the gateof the barrack-yard, we found everything very quiet at that time inthe morning, and I asked a sergeant standing on the guardhouse-steps where he lived. He sent a man before to show me, who went upsome bare stairs, and knocked with his knuckles at a door, and leftus.   "Now then!" cried Richard from within. So I left Charley in thelittle passage, and going on to the half-open door, said, "Can Icome in, Richard? It's only Dame Durden."He was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, tincases, books, boots, brushes, and portmanteaus strewn all about thefloor. He was only half dressed--in plain clothes, I observed, notin uniform--and his hair was unbrushed, and he looked as wild ashis room. All this I saw after he had heartily welcomed me and Iwas seated near him, for he started upon hearing my voice andcaught me in his arms in a moment. Dear Richard! He was ever thesame to me. Down to--ah, poor poor fellow!--to the end, he neverreceived me but with something of his old merry boyish manner.   "Good heaven, my dear little woman," said he, "how do you comehere? Who could have thought of seeing you! Nothing the matter?   Ada is well?""Quite well. Lovelier than ever, Richard!""Ah!" he said, lenning back in his chair. "My poor cousin! I waswriting to you, Esther."So worn and haggard as he looked, even in the fullness of hishandsome youth, leaning back in his chair and crushing the closelywritten sheet of paper in his hand!   "Have you been at the trouble of writing all that, and am I not toread it after all?" I asked.   "Oh, my dear," he returned with a hopeless gesture. "You may readit in the whole room. It is all over here."I mildly entreated him not to be despondent. I told him that I hadheard by chance of his being in difficulty and had come to consultwith him what could best be done.   "Like you, Esther, but useless, and so NOT like you!" said he witha melancholy smile. "I am away on leave this day--should have beengone in another hour--and that is to smooth it over, for my sellingout. Well! Let bygones be bygones. So this calling follows therest. I only want to have been in the church to have made theround of all the professions.""Richard," I urged, "it is not so hopeless as that?""Esther," he returned, "it is indeed. I am just so near disgraceas that those who are put in authority over me (as the catechismgoes) would far rather be without me than with me. And they areright. Apart from debts and duns and all such drawbacks, I am notfit even for this employment. I have no care, no mind, no heart,no soul, but for one thing. Why, if this bubble hadn't brokennow," he said, tearing the letter he had written into fragments andmoodily casting them away, by driblets, "how could I have goneabroad? I must have been ordered abroad, but how could I havegone? How could I, with my experience of that thing, trust evenVholes unless I was at his back!"I suppose he knew by my face what I was about to say, but he caughtthe hand I had laid upon his arm and touched my own lips with it toprevent me from going on.   "No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid--must forbid. The firstis John Jarndyce. The second, you know what. Call it madness, andI tell you I can't help it now, and can't be sane. But it is nosuch thing; it is the one object I have to pursue. It is a pity Iever was prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any other. Itwould be wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time, anxiety, andpains I have bestowed upon it! Oh, yes, true wisdom. It would bevery agreeable, too, to some people; but I never will."He was in that mood in which I thought it best not to increase hisdetermination (if anything could increase it) by opposing him. Itook out Ada's letter and put it in his hand.   "Am I to read it now?" he asked.   As I told him yes, he laid it on the table, and resting his headupon his hand, began. He had not read far when he rested his headupon his two hands--to hide his face from me. In a little while herose as if the light were bad and went to the window. He finishedreading it there, with his back towards me, and after he hadfinished and had folded it up, stood there for some minutes withthe letter in his hand. When he came back to his chair, I sawtears in his eyes.   "Of course, Esther, you know what she says here?" He spoke in asoftened voice and kissed the letter as he asked me.   "Yes, Richard.""Offers me," he went on, tapping his foot upon the floor, "thelittle inheritance she is certain of so soon--just as little and asmuch as I have wasted--and begs and prays me to take it, set myselfright 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 window, and laying his arm across it, leanedhis head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see him so,but I hoped he might become more yielding, and I remained silent.   My experience was very limited; I was not at all prepared for hisrousing himself out of this emotion to a new sense of injury.   "And this is the heart that the same John Jarndyce, who is nototherwise to be mentioned between us, stepped in to estrange fromme," said he indignantly. "And the dear girl makes me thisgenerous offer from under the same John Jarndyce's roof, and withthe same John Jarndyce's gracious consent and connivance, I daresay, as a new means of buying me off.""Richard!" I cried out, rising hastily. "I will not hear you saysuch shameful words!" I was very angry with him indeed, for thefirst time in my life, but it only lasted a moment. When I saw hisworn young face looking at me as if he were sorry, I put my hand onhis shoulder and said, "If you please, my dear Richard, do notspeak in such a tone to me. Consider!"He blamed himself exceedingly and told me in the most generousmanner that he had been very wrong and that he begged my pardon athousand times. At that I laughed, but trembled a little too, forI was rather fluttered after being so fiery.   "To accept this offer, my dear Esther," said he, sitting downbeside me and resuming our conversation, "--once more, pray, prayforgive me; I am deeply grieved--to accept my dearest cousin'soffer is, I need not say, impossible. Besides, I have letters andpapers that I could show you which would convince you it is allover here. I have done with the red coat, believe me. But it issome satisfaction, in the midst of my troubles and perplexities, toknow that I am pressing Ada's interests in pressing my own. Vholeshas his shoulder to the wheel, and he cannot help urging it on asmuch for her as for me, thank God!"His sanguine hopes were rising within him and lighting up hisfeatures, but they made his face more sad to me than it had beenbefore.   "No, no!" cried Richard exultingly. "If every farthing of Ada'slittle fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent inretaining me in what I am not fit for, can take no interest in, andam weary of. It should be devoted to what promises a betterreturn, and should be used where she has a larger stake. Don't beuneasy for me! I shall now have only one thing on my mind, andVholes and I will work it. I shall not be without means. Free ofmy commission, I shall be able to compound with some small usurerswho will hear of nothing but their bond now--Vholes says so. Ishould have a balance in my favour anyway, but that would swell it.   Come, come! You shall carry a letter to Ada from me, Esther, andyou must both of you be more hopeful of me and not believe that Iam quite cast away just yet, my 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. Itonly came from my heart. He heard it patiently and feelingly, butI saw that on the two subjects he had reserved it was at presenthopeless to make any representation to him. I saw too, and hadexperienced in this very interview, the sense of my guardian'sremark that it was even more mischievous to use persuasion with himthan to leave him as he was.   Therefore I was driven at last to asking Richard if he would mindconvincing me that it really was all over there, as he had said,and that it was not his mere impression. He showed me withouthesitation a correspondence making it quite plain that hisretirement was arranged. I found, from what he told me, that Mr.   Vholes had copies of these papers and had been in consultation withhim throughout. Beyond ascertaining this, and having been thebearer of Ada's letter, and being (as I was going to be) Richard'scompanion back to London, I had done no good by coming down.   Admitting this to myself with a reluctant heart, I said I wouldreturn to the hotel and wait until he joined me there, so he threwa cloak over his shoulders and saw me to the gate, and Charley andI went back along the beach.   There was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some navalofficers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about them withunusual interest. I said to Charley this would be one of the greatIndiaman's boats now, and we stopped to look.   The gentlemen came slowly up from the waterside, speaking good-humouredly to each other and to the people around and glancingabout them as if they were glad to be in England again. "Charley,Charley," said I, "come away!" And I hurried on so swiftly that mylittle maid was surprised.   It was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room and I had hadtime to take breath that I began to think why I had made suchhaste. In one of the sunburnt faces I had recognized Mr. AllanWoodcourt, and I had been afraid of his recognizing me. I had beenunwilling that he should see my altered looks. I had been taken bysurprise, and my courage had quite failed me.   But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, "My dear,there is no reason--there is and there can be no reason at all--whyit should be worse for you now than it ever has been. What youwere last month, you are to-day; you are no worse, you are nobetter. This is not your resolution; call it up, Esther, call itup!" I was in a great tremble--with running--and at first wasquite unable to calm myself; but I got better, and I was very gladto know it.   The party came to the hotel. I heard them speaking on thestaircase. I was sure it was the same gentlemen because I knewtheir voices again--I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt's. It would stillhave been a great relief to me to have gone away without makingmyself known, but I was determined not to do so. "No, my dear, no.   No, no, no!"I untied my bonnet and put my veil half up--I think I mean halfdown, but it matters very little--and wrote on one of my cards thatI happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstone, and I sent it into Mr. Woodcourt. He came immediately. I told him I was rejoicedto 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 I, "but we can hardly call that a misfortune whichenabled you to be so useful and so brave. We read of it with thetruest interest. It first came to my knowledge through your oldpatient, poor Miss Flite, when I was recovering from my severeillness.""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 tobe able to put it aside.   "Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful. She is a mostaffectionate 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 I, "that I was deeply touched by her sympathyand 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 worldto desire."I felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than I had everhad for myself. It inspired me with new fortitude and new calmnessto find that it was I who was under the necessity of reassuringhim. I spoke to him of his voyage out and home, and of his futureplans, and of his probable return to India. He said that was verydoubtful. He had not found himself more favoured by fortune therethan here. He had gone out a poor ship's surgeon and had come homenothing better. While we were talking, and when I was glad tobelieve that I had alleviated (if I may use such a term) the shockhe had had in seeing me, Richard came in. He had heard downstairswho was with me, and they met with cordial pleasure.   I saw that after their first greetings were over, and when theyspoke of Richard's career, Mr. Woodcourt had a perception that allwas not going well with him. He frequently glanced at his face asif there were something in it that gave him pain, and more thanonce he looked towards me as though he sought to ascertain whetherI knew what the truth was. Yet Richard was in one of his sanguinestates and in good spirits and was thoroughly pleased to see Mr.   Woodcourt again, whom he had always liked.   Richard proposed that we all should go to London together; but Mr.   Woodcourt, having to remain by his ship a little longer, could notjoin us. He dined with us, however, at an early hour, and becameso much more like what he used to be that I was still more at peaceto think I had been able to soften his regrets. Yet his mind wasnot relieved of Richard. When the coach was almost ready andRichard ran down to look after his luggage, he spoke to me abouthim.   I was not sure that I had a right to lay his whole story open, butI referred in a few words to his estrangement from Mr Jarndyce andto 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 I, "Do you think himso changed?""He is changed," he returned, shaking his head.   I felt the blood rush into my face for the first time, but it wasonly an instantaneous emotion. I turned my head aside, and it wasgone.   "It is not," said Mr. Woodcourt, "his being so much younger orolder, or thinner or fatter, or paler or ruddier, as there beingupon his face such a singular expression. I never saw soremarkable a look in a young person. One cannot say that it is allanxiety or all weariness; yet it is both, and like ungrowndespair.""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 toknow," I proceeded. "Mr. Woodcourt, you are going to London?""To-morrow or the next day.""There is nothing Richard wants so much as a friend. He alwaysliked you. Pray see him when you get there. Pray help himsometimes with your companionship if you can. You do not know ofwhat 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 said, more moved than he had been from thefirst, "before heaven, I will be a true friend to him! I willaccept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!""God bless you!" said I, with my eyes filling fast; but I thoughtthey might, when it was not for myself. "Ada loves him--we alllove him, but Ada loves him as we cannot. I will tell her what yousay. Thank you, and God bless you, in her name!"Richard came back as we finished exchanging these hurried words andgave me his arm to take me to the coach.   "Woodcourt," he said, unconscious with what application, "pray letus meet in London!""Meet?" returned the other. "I have scarcely a friend there nowbut you. Where shall I find you?""Why, I must get a lodging of some sort," said Richard, pondering.   "Say at Vholes's, Symond's Inn.""Good! Without loss of time."They shook hands heartily. When I was seated in the coach andRichard was yet standing in the street, Mr. Woodcourt laid hisfriendly hand on Richard's shoulder and looked at me. I understoodhim and waved mine in thanks.   And in his last look as we drove away, I saw that he was very sorryfor me. I was glad to see it. I felt for my old self as the deadmay feel if they ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to betenderly remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quiteforgotten. Chapter 46 Stop Him!   Darkness rests upon Tom-All-Alone's. Dilating and dilating sincethe sun went down last night, it has gradually swelled until itfills every void in the place. For a time there were some dungeonlights burning, as the lamp of life hums in Tom-all-Alone's,heavily, heavily, in the nauseous air, and winking--as that lamp,too, winks in Tom-all-Alone's--at many horrible things. But theyare blotted out. The moon has eyed Tom with a dull cold stare, asadmitting some puny emulation of herself in his desert region unfitfor life and blasted by volcanic fires; but she has passed on andis gone. The blackest nightmare in the infernal stables grazes onTom-all-Alone's, and Tom is fast asleep.   Much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out ofParliament, concerning Tom, and much wrathful disputation how Tomshall be got right. Whether he shall be put into the main road byconstables, or by beadles, or by bell-ringing, or by force offigures, or by correct principles of taste, or by high church, orby low church, or by no church; whether he shall be set tosplitting trusses of polemical straws with the crooked knife of hismind or whether he shall be put to stone-breaking instead. In themidst of which dust and noise there is but one thing perfectlyclear, to wit, that Tom only may and can, or shall and will, bereclaimed according to somebody's theory but nobody's practice.   And in the hopeful meantime, Tom goes to perdition head foremost inhis old determined spirit.   But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengers, andthey serve him in these hours of darkness. There is not a drop ofTom's corrupted blood but propagates infection and contagionsomewhere. It shall pollute, this very night, the choice stream(in which chemists on analysis would find the genuine nobility) ofa Norman house, and his Grace shall not be able to say nay to theinfamous alliance. There is not an atom of Tom's slime, not acubic inch of any pestilential gas in which he lives, not oneobscenity or degradation about him, not an ignorance, not awickedness, not a brutality of his committing, but shall work itsretribution through every order of society up to the proudest ofthe proud and to the highest of the high. Verily, what withtainting, plundering, and spoiling, Tom has his revenge.   It is a moot point whether Tom-all-Alone's be uglier by day or bynight, but on the argument that the more that is seen of it themore shocking it must be, and that no part of it left to theimagination is at all likely to be made so bad as the reality, daycarries it. The day begins to break now; and in truth it might bebetter for the national glory even that the sun should sometimesset upon the British dominions than that it should ever rise uponso vile a wonder as Tom.   A brown sunburnt gentleman, who appears in some inaptitude forsleep to be wandering abroad rather than counting the hours on arestless pillow, strolls hitherward at this quiet time. Attractedby curiosity, he often pauses and looks about him, up and down themiserable by-ways. Nor is he merely curious, for in his brightdark eye there is compassionate interest; and as he looks here andthere, he seems to understand such wretchedness and to have studiedit before.   On the banks of the stagnant channel of mud which is the mainstreet of Tom-all-Alone's, nothing is to be seen but the crazyhouses, shut up and silent. No waking creature save himselfappears except in one direction, where he sees the solitary figureof a woman sitting on a door-step. He walks that way.   Approaching, he observes that she has journeyed a long distance andis footsore and travel-stained. She sits on the door-step in themanner of one who is waiting, with her elbow on her knee and herhead upon her hand. Beside her is a canvas bag, or bundle, she hascarried. She is dozing probably, for she gives no heed to hissteps as he comes toward her.   The broken footway is so narrow that when Allan Woodcourt comes towhere the woman sits, he has to turn into the road to pass her.   Looking down at her face, his eye meets hers, and 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 becausethere will be sun here presently to warm me.""I am afraid you are tired. I am sorry to see you sitting in thestreet.""Thank you, sir. It don't matter."A habit in him of speaking to the poor and of avoiding patronage orcondescension or childishness (which is the favourite device, manypeople deeming it quite a subtlety to talk to them like littlespelling books) has put him on good terms with the woman easily.   "Let me look at your forehead," he says, bending down. "I am adoctor. Don't be afraid. I wouldn't hurt you for the world."He knows that by touching her with his skilful and accustomed handhe can soothe her yet more readily. She makes a slight objection,saying, "It's nothing"; but he has scarcely laid his fingers on thewounded place when she lifts it up to the light.   "Aye! A bad bruise, and the skin sadly broken. This must be verysore.""It do ache a little, sir," returns the woman with a started tearupon her cheek.   "Let me try to make it more comfortable. My handkerchief won'thurt you.""Oh, dear no, sir, I'm sure of that!"He cleanses the injured place and dries it, and having carefullyexamined it and gently pressed it with the palm of his hand, takesa small case from his pocket, dresses it, and binds it up. Whilehe is thus employed, he says, after laughing at his establishing asurgery in the street, "And so your husband is a brickmaker?""How do you know that, sir?" asks the woman, astonished.   "Why, I suppose so from the colour of the clay upon your bag and onyour dress. And I know brickmakers go about working at pieceworkin different places. And I am sorry to say I have known them cruelto their wives too."The woman hastily lifts up her eyes as if she would deny that herinjury is referable to such a cause. But feeling the hand upon herforehead, and seeing his busy and composed face, she quietly dropsthem again.   "Where is he now?" asks the surgeon.   "He got into trouble last night, sir; but he'll look for me at thelodging-house.""He will get into worse trouble if he often misuses his large andheavy hand as he has misused it here. But you forgive him, brutalas he is, and I say no more of him, except that I wish he deservedit. You have no young child?"The woman shakes her head. "One as I calls mine, sir, but it'sLiz's.""Your own is dead. I see! Poor little thing!"By this time he has finished and is putting up his case. "Isuppose 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 andcurtsys.   "It's a good two or three and twenty mile from here, sir. At SaintAlbans. You know Saint Albans, sir? I thought you gave a startlike, as if you did.""Yes, I know something of it. And now I will ask you a question inreturn. Have you money for your lodging?""Yes, sir," she says, "really and truly." And she shows it. Hetells her, in acknowledgment of her many subdued thanks, that sheis very welcome, gives her good day, and walks away. Tom-all-Alone's is still asleep, and nothing is astir.   Yes, something is! As he retraces his way to the point from whichhe descried the woman at a distance sitting on the step, he sees aragged figure coming very cautiously along, crouching close to thesoiled walls--which the wretchedest figure might as well avoid--andfurtively thrusting a hand before it. It is the figure of a youthwhose face is hollow and whose eyes have an emaciated glare. He isso intent on getting along unseen that even the apparition of astranger in whole garments does not tempt him to look back. Heshades his face with his ragged elbow as he passes on the otherside of the way, and goes shrinking and creeping on with hisanxious hand before him and his shapeless clothes hanging inshreds. Clothes made for what purpose, or of what material, itwould be impossible to say. They look, in 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 this, with ashadowy belief that he has seen the boy before. He cannot recallhow or where, but there is some association in his mind with such aform. He imagines that he must have seen it in some hospital orrefuge, still, cannot make out why it comes with any special forceon his remembrance.   He is gradually emerging from Tom-all-Alone's in the morning light,thinking about it, when he hears running feet behind him, andlooking round, sees the boy scouring towards him at great speed,followed by the woman.   "Stop him, stop him!" cries the woman, almost breath less. "Stophim, sir!"He darts across the road into the boy's path, but the boy isquicker than he, makes a curve, ducks, dives under his hands, comesup half-a-dozen yards beyond him, and scours away again. Still thewoman follows, crying, "Stop him, sir, pray stop him!" Allan, notknowing but that he has just robbed her of her money, follows inchase and runs so hard that he runs the boy down a dozen times, buteach time he repeats the curve, the duck, the dive, and scours awayagain. To strike at him on any of these occasions would be to felland disable him, but the pursuer cannot resolve to do that, and sothe grimly ridiculous pursuit continues. At last the fugitive,hard-pressed, takes to a narrow passage and a court which has nothoroughfare. Here, against a hoarding of decaying timber, he isbrought to bay and tumbles down, lying gasping at his pursuer, whostands and gasps at him until the woman comes up.   "Oh, you, Jo!" cries the woman. "What? I have found you at last!""Jo," repeats Allan, looking at him with attention, "Jo! Stay. Tobe sure! I recollect this lad some time ago being brought beforethe coroner.""Yes, I see you once afore at the inkwhich," whimpers Jo. "What ofthat? Can't you never let such an unfortnet as me alone? An't Iunfortnet enough for you yet? How unfortnet do you want me fur tobe? I've been a-chivied and a-chivied, fust by one on you and nixtby another on you, till I'm worritted to skins and bones. Theinkwhich warn't MY fault. I done nothink. He wos wery good to me,he wos; he wos the only one I knowed to speak to, as ever comeacross my crossing. It ain't wery likely I should want him to beinkwhiched. I only wish I wos, myself. I don't know why I don'tgo and make a hole in the water, I'm sure I don't."He says it with such a pitiable air, and his grimy tears appear soreal, and he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like agrowth of fungus or any unwholesome excrescence produced there inneglect and impurity, that Allan Woodcourt is softened towards him.   He says to the woman, "Miserable creature, what has he done?"To which she only replies, shaking her head at the prostrate figuremore amazedly than angrily, "Oh, you Jo, you Jo. I have found youat last!""What has he done?" says Allan. "Has he robbed you?""No, sir, no. Robbed me? He did nothing but what was kind-heartedby me, and that's the wonder of it."Allan looks from Jo to the woman, and from the woman to Jo, waitingfor one of them to unravel the riddle.   "But he was along with me, sir," says the woman. "Oh, you Jo! Hewas along with me, sir, down at Saint Albans, ill, and a younglady, Lord bless her for a good friend to me, took pity on him whenI durstn't, and took him home--"Allan shrinks back from him with a sudden horror.   "Yes, sir, yes. Took him home, and made him comfortable, and likea thankless monster he ran away in the night and never has beenseen or heard of since till I set eyes on him just now. And thatyoung lady that was such a pretty dear caught his illness, lost herbeautiful looks, and wouldn't hardly be known for the same younglady now if it wasn't for her angel temper, and her pretty shape,and her sweet voice. Do you know it? You ungrateful wretch, doyou know that this is all along of you and of her goodness to you?"demands the woman, beginning to rage at him as she recalls it andbreaking into passionate tears.   The boy, in rough sort stunned by what he hears, falls to smearinghis dirty forehead with his dirty palm, and to staring at theground, and to shaking from head to foot until the crazy hoardingagainst which he leans rattles.   Allan restrains the woman, merely by a quiet gesture, buteffectually.   "Richard told me--" He falters. "I mean, I have heard of this--don't mind me for a moment, I will speak presently."He turns away and stands for a while looking out at the coveredpassage. When he comes back, he has recovered his composure,except that he contends against an avoidance of the boy, which isso very remarkable that it absorbs the woman's attention.   "You hear what she says. But get up, get up!"Jo, shaking and chattering, slowly rises and stands, after themanner of his tribe in a difficulty, sideways against the hoarding,resting one of his high shoulders against it and covertly rubbinghis 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 hereever 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 court, looks at his questioner nohigher than the knees, and finally answers, "I don't know how to donothink, and I can't get nothink to do. I'm wery poor and ill, andI thought I'd come back here when there warn't nobody about, andlay down and hide somewheres as I knows on till arter dark, andthen go and beg a trifle of Mr. Snagsby. He wos allus willin furto 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 again, looks at his questioner's kneesagain, and concludes by laying his profile against the hoarding ina sort of resignation.   "Did you hear me ask you where you have come from?""Tramp then," says Jo.   "Now tell me," proceeds Allan, making a strong effort to overcomehis repugnance, going very near to him, and leaning over him withan expression of confidence, "tell me how it came about that youleft that house when the good young lady had been so unfortunate asto pity you and take you home."Jo suddenly comes out of his resignation and excitedly declares,addressing the woman, that he never known about the young lady,that he never heern about it, that he never went fur to hurt her,that he would sooner have hurt his own self, that he'd sooner havehad his unfortnet ed chopped off than ever gone a-nigh her, andthat she wos wery good to him, she wos. Conducting himselfthroughout as if in his poor fashion he really meant it, andwinding up with some very miserable sobs.   Allan Woodcourt sees that this is not a sham. He constrainshimself to touch him. "Come, Jo. Tell me.""No. I dustn't," says Jo, relapsing into the profile state. "Idustn't, or I would.""But I must know," returns the other, "all the same. Come, Jo."After two or three such adjurations, Jo lifts up his head again,looks round the court again, and says in a low voice, "Well, I'lltell you something. I was took away. There!""Took away? In the night?""Ah!" Very apprehensive of being overheard, Jo looks about him andeven glances up some ten feet at the top of the hoarding andthrough the cracks in it lest the object of his distrust should belooking over or hidden on the other side.   "Who took you away?""I dustn't name him," says Jo. "I dustn't do it, sir.   "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 Jo, shaking his head fearfulty, "ashe DON'T hear.""Why, he is not in this place.""Oh, ain't he though?" says Jo. "He's in all manner of places, allat wanst."Allan looks at him in perplexity, but discovers some real meaningand good faith at the bottom of this bewildering reply. Hepatiently awaits an explicit answer; and Jo, more baffled by hispatience than by anything else, at last desperately whispers a namein his ear.   "Aye!" says Allan. "Why, what 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 upto.""No, no, we will try to prevent that. But what did he do withyou?""Put me in a horsepittle," replied Jo, whispering, "till I wasdischarged, then giv me a little money--four half-bulls, wot youmay call half-crowns--and ses 'Hook it! Nobody wants you here,' heses. 'You hook it. You go and tramp,' he ses. 'You move on,' heses. 'Don't let me ever see you nowheres within forty mile ofLondon, 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 Jo, nervouslyrepeating all his former precautions and investigations.   Allan considers a little, then remarks, turning to the woman butkeeping an encouraging eye on Jo, "He is not so ungrateful as yousupposed. He had a reason for going away, though it was aninsufficient one.""Thankee, sir, thankee!" exclaims Jo. "There now! See how hardyou wos upon me. But ony you tell the young lady wot the genlmnses, and it's all right. For YOU wos wery good to me too, and Iknows it.""Now, Jo," says Allan, keeping his eye upon him, "come with me andI 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 avoidobservation, you will not run away, I know very well, if you makeme 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 thistime, and the whole town will be broad awake in another hour. Comealong. Good day again, my good woman.""Good day again, sir, and I thank you kindly many times again."She has been sitting on her bag, deeply attentive, and now risesand takes it up. Jo, repeating, "Ony you tell the young lady as Inever went fur to hurt her and wot the genlmn ses!" nods andshambles and shivers, and smears and blinks, and half laughs andhalf cries, a farewell to her, and takes his creeping way alongafter Allan Woodcourt, close to the houses on the opposite side ofthe street. In this order, the two come up out of Tom-all-Alone'sinto the broad rays of the sunlight and the purer air. Chapter 47 Jo's Will As Allan Woodcourt and Jo proceed along the streets where the highchurch spires and the distances are so near and clear in themorning light that the city itself seems renewed by rest, Allanrevolves in his mind how and where he shall bestow his companion.   "It surely is a strange fact," he considers, "that in the heart ofa civilized world this creature in human form should be moredifficult to dispose of than an unowned dog." But it is none theless a fact because of its strangeness, and the difficulty remains.   At first he looks behind him often to assure himself that Jo isstill really following. But look where he will, he still beholdshim close to the opposite houses, making his way with his wary handfrom brick to brick and from door to door, and often, as he creepsalong, glancing over at him watchfully. Soon satisfied that thelast thing in his thoughts is to give him the slip, Allan goes on,considering with a less divided attention what he shall do.   A breakfast-stall at a street-corner suggests the first thing to bedone. He stops there, looks round, and beckons Jo. Jo crosses andcomes halting and shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles of hisright hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left,kneading dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. What is a daintyrepast to Jo is then set before him, and he begins to gulp thecoffee and to gnaw the bread and butter, looking anxiously abouthim in all directions as he eats and drinks, like 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 Jo, soon putting downhis food, "but I don't know nothink--not even that. I don't carefor eating wittles nor yet for drinking on 'em." And Jo standsshivering and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.   Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse and on his chest.   "Draw breath, Jo!" "It draws," says Jo, "as heavy as a cart." Hemight add, "And rattles like it," but he only mutters, "I'm a-moving 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 measureof wine and gives the lad a portion of it very carefully. Hebegins to revive almost as soon as it passes his lips. "We mayrepeat that dose, Jo," observes Allan after watching him with hisattentive face. "So! Now we will take five minutes' rest, andthen go on again."Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stall, withhis back against an iron railing, Allan Woodcourt paces up and downin the early sunshine, casting an occasional look towards himwithout appearing to watch him. It requires no discernment toperceive that he is warmed and refreshed. If a face so shaded canbrighten, his face brightens somewhat; and by little and little heeats the slice of bread he had so hopelessly laid down. Observantof these signs of improvement, Allan engages him in conversationand elicits to his no small wonder the adventure of the lady in theveil, with all its consequences. Jo slowly munches as he slowlytells it. When he has finished his story and his bread, they go onagain.   Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place ofrefuge for the boy to his old patient, zealous little Miss Flite,Allan leads the way to the court where he and Jo firstforegathered. But all is changed at the rag and bottle shop; MissFlite no longer lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featuredfemale, much obscured by dust, whose age is a problem, but who isindeed no other than the interesting Judy, is tart and spare in herreplies. These sufficing, however, to inform the visitor that MissFlite and her birds are domiciled with a Mrs. Blinder, in BellYard, he repairs to that neighbouring place, where Miss Flite (whorises early that she may be punctual at the divan of justice heldby her excellent friend the Chancellor) comes running downstairswith tears of welcome and with open arms.   "My dear physician!" cries Miss Flite. "My meritorious,distinguished, honourable officer!" She uses some odd expressions,but is as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can be--moreso than it often is. Allan, very patient with her, waits until shehas no more raptures to express, then points out Jo, trembling in adoorway, and tells her how he comes there.   "Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the present? Now, you have afund of knowledge and good sense and can advise me.   Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself toconsider; but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her.   Mrs. Blinder is entirely let, and she herself occupies poorGridley's room. "Gridley!" exclaims Miss Flite, clapping her handsafter a twentieth repetition of this remark. "Gridley! To besure! Of course! My dear physician! General George will help usout."It is hopeless to ask for any information about General George, andwould be, though Miss Flite had not akeady run upstairs to put onher pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl and to arm herselfwith her reticule of documents. But as she informs her physicianin her disjointed manner on coming down in full array that GeneralGeorge, whom she often calls upon, knows her dear Fitz Jarndyce andtakes a great interest in all connected with her, Allan is inducedto think that they may be in the right way. So he tells Jo, forhis encouragement, that 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 Gallery, and the long entry,and the bare perspective beyond it, Allan 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 hismouth, no stock on, and his muscular arms, developed by broadswordand dumbbell, weightily asserting themselves through his lightshirt-sleeves.   "Your servant, sir," says Mr. George with a military salute. Good-humouredly smiling all over his broad forehead up into his crisphair, he then defers to Miss Flite, as, with great stateliness, andat some length, she performs the courtly ceremony of presentation.   He winds it up with another "Your servant, sir!" and anothersalute.   "Excuse me, sir. A sailor, I believe?" says Mr. George.   "I am proud to find I have the air of one," returns Allan; "but Iam only a sea-going doctor.""Indeed, sir! I should have thought you was a regular blue-jacketmyself."Allan hopes Mr. George will forgive his intrusion the more readilyon that account, and particularly that he will not lay aside hispipe, which, in his politeness, he has testifled some intention ofdoing. "You are very good, sir," returns the trooper. "As I knowby experience that it's not disagreeable to Miss Flite, and sinceit's equally agreeable to yourself--" and finishes the sentence byputting it between his lips again. Allan proceeds to tell him allhe knows about Jo, unto which the trooper listens with a graveface.   "And that's the lad, sir, is it?" he inquires, looking along theentry to where Jo stands staring up at the great letters on thewhitewashed front, which have no meaning in his eyes.   "That's he," says Allan. "And, Mr. George, I am in this difficultyabout him. I am unwilling to place him in a hospital, even if Icould procure him immediate admission, because I foresee that hewould not stay there many hours if he could be so much as gotthere. The same objection applies to a workhouse, supposing I hadthe patience to be evaded and shirked, and handed about from postto pillar in trying to get him into one, which is a system that Idon't take kindly to.""No man does, sir," returns Mr. George.   "I am convinced that he would not remain in either place, becausehe is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person whoordered him to keep out of the way; in his ignorance, he believesthis person to be everywhere, and cognizant of everything.""I ask your pardon, sir," says Mr. George. "But you have notmentioned that party's name. Is it a secret, sir?""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 blowingout a cloud of smoke and squaring his chest, "and the boy is so farcorrect that he undoubtedly is a--rum customer." Mr. George smokeswith a profound meaning after this and surveys Miss Flite insilence.   "Now, I wish Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson at least to know thatthis Jo, who tells so strange a story, has reappeared, and to haveit 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 poorlodging kept by decent people where he would be admitted. Decentpeople and Jo, Mr. George," says Allan, following the direction ofthe trooper's eyes along the entry, "have not been much acquainted,as you see. Hence the difficulty. Do you happen to know any onein this neighbourhood who would receive him for a while on mypaying for him beforehand?"As he puts the question, he becomes aware of a dirty-faced littleman standing at the trooper's elbow and looking up, with an oddlytwisted figure and countenance, into the trooper's face. After afew more puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant at thelittle man, and the little man winks up at the trooper.   "Well, sir," says Mr. George, "I can assure you that I wouldwillingiy be knocked on the head at any time if it would be at allagreeable to Miss Summerson, and consequently I esteem it aprivilege to do that young lady any service, however small. We arenaturally in the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and Phil. Yousee what the place is. You are welcome to a quiet corner of it forthe boy if the same would meet your views. No charge made, exceptfor rations. We are not in a flourishing state of circumstanceshere, sir. We are liable to be tumbled out neck and crop at amoment's notice. However, sir, such as the place is, and so longas it lasts, here it is at your service."With a comprehensive wave of his pipe, Mr. George places the wholebuilding at his visitor's disposal.   "I take it for granted, sir," he adds, "you being one of themedical staff, that there is no present infection about thisunfortunate subject?"Allan is quite sure of it.   "Because, sir," says Mr. George, shaking his head sorrowfully, "wehave 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 hisformer assurance, "that the boy is deplorably low and reduced andthat 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 manner, "it appearsto me--being naturally in the vagabond way myself--that the soonerhe comes out of the street, the better. You, Phil! Bring him in!"Mr. Squod tacks out, all on one side, to execute the word ofcommand; and the trooper, having smoked his pipe, lays it by. Jois brought in. He is not one of Mrs. Pardiggle's TockahoopoIndians; he is not one of Mrs. Jellyby's lambs, being whollyunconnected with Borrioboola-Gha; he is not softened by distanceand unfamiliarity; he is not a genuine foreign-grown savage; he isthe ordinary home-made article. Dirty, ugly, disagreeable to allthe senses, in body a common creature of the common streets, onlyin soul a heathen. Homely filth begrimes him, homely parasitesdevour him, homely sores are in him, homely rags are on him; nativeignorance, the growth of English soil and climate, sinks hisimmortal nature lower than the beasts that perish. Stand forth,Jo, in uncompromising colours! From the sole of thy foot to thecrown of thy head, there is nothing interesting about thee.   He shuffles slowly into Mr. George's gallery and stands huddledtogether in a bundle, looking all about the floor. He seems toknow that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly forwhat he is and partly for what he has caused. He, too, shrinksfrom them. He is not of the same order of things, not of the sameplace in creation. He is of no order and no place, neither of thebeasts nor of humanity.   "Look here, Jo!" says Allan. "This is Mr. George."Jo searches the floor for some time longer, then looks up for amoment, and then down again.   "He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodgingroom here."Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a bow.   After a little more consideration and some backing and changing ofthe foot on which he rests, he mutters that he is "wery thankful.""You are quite safe here. All you have to do at present is to beobedient and to get strong. And mind you tell us the truth here,whatever you do, Jo.""Wishermaydie if I don't, sir," says Jo, reverting to his favouritedeclaration. "I never done nothink yit, but wot you knows on, toget myself into no trouble. I never was in no other trouble atall, sir, 'sept not knowin' nothink and starwation.""I believe it, now attend to Mr. George. I see he is going tospeak to you.""My intention merely was, sir," observes Mr. George, amazinglybroad and upright, "to point out to him where he can lie down andget a thorough good dose of sleep. Now, look here." As thetrooper speaks, he conducts them to the other end of the galleryand opens one of the little cabins. "There you are, you see! Hereis a mattress, and here you may rest, on good behaviour, as long asMr., I ask your pardon, sir"--he refers apologetically to the cardAllan has given him--"Mr. Woodcourt pleases. Don't you be alarmedif you hear shots; they'll be aimed at the target, and not you.   Now, there's another thing I would recommend, sir," says thetrooper, turning to his visitor. "Phil, come here!"Phil bears down upon them according to his usual tactics. "Here isa man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the gutter.   Consequently, it is to be expected that he takes a natural interestin this poor creature. You do, don't you, Phil?""Certainly and surely I do, guv'ner," is Phil's reply.   "Now I was thinking, sir," says Mr. George in a martial sort ofconfidence, as if he were giving his opinion in a council of war ata drum-head, "that if this man was to take him to a bath and was tolay out a few shillings in getting him one or two coarse articles--""Mr. George, my considerate friend," returns Allan, taking out hispurse, "it is the very favour I would have asked."Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on this work ofimprovement. Miss Flite, quite enraptured by her success, makesthe best of her way to court, having great fears that otherwise herfriend the Chancellor may be uneasy about her or may give thejudgment she has so long expected in her absence, and observing"which you know, my dear physician, and general, after so manyyears, would be too absurdly unfortunate!" Allan takes theopportunity of going out to procure some restorative medicines, andobtaining them near at hand, soon returns to find the trooperwalking up and down the gallery, and to fall into step and walkwith him.   "I take it, sir," says Mr. George, "that you know Miss Summersonpretty well?"Yes, it appears.   "Not related to her, sir?"No, it appears.   "Excuse the apparent curiosity," says Mr. George. "It seemed to meprobable that you might take more than a common interest in thispoor creature because Miss Summerson had taken that unfortunateinterest in him. 'Tis MY case, sir, I assure you.""And mine, Mr. George."The trooper looks sideways at Allan's sunburnt cheek and brightdark eye, rapidly measures his height and build, and seems toapprove of him.   "Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that Iunquestionably know the rooms in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where Buckettook the lad, according to his account. Though he is notacquainted with the name, I can help you to it. It's Tulkinghorn.   That's what it is."Allan looks at him inquiringly, repeating the name.   "Tulkinghorn. That's the name, sir. I know the man, and know himto have been in communication with Bucket before, respecting adeceased 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 trooper, stopping shortand folding his arms on his square chest so angrily that his facefires 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 andblood than a rusty old carbine is. He is a kind of man--byGeorge!--that has caused me more restlessness, and more uneasiness,and more dissatisfaction with myself than all other men puttogether. That's the kind of man Mr. Tulkinghorn is!""I am sorry," says Allan, "to have touched so sore a place.""Sore?" The trooper plants his legs wider apart, wets the palm ofhis broad right hand, and lays it on the imaginary moustache.   "It's no fault of yours, sir; but you shall judge. He has got apower over me. He is the man I spoke of just now as being able totumble me out of this place neck and crop. He keeps me on aconstant see-saw. He won't hold off, and he won't come on. If Ihave a payment to make him, or time to ask him for, or anything togo to him about, he don't see me, don't hear me--passes me on toMelchisedech's in Clifford's Inn, Melchisedech's in Clifford's Innpasses me back again to him--he keeps me prowling and danglingabout him as if I was made of the same stone as himself. Why, Ispend half my life now, pretty well, loitering and dodging abouthis door. What does he care? Nothing. Just as much as the rustyold carbine I have compared him to. He chafes and goads me till--Bah! Nonsense! I am forgetting myself. Mr. Woodcourt," thetrooper resumes his march, "all I say is, he is an old man; but Iam glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs to my horseand riding at him in a fair field. For if I had that chance, inone of the humours he drives me into--he'd go down, sir!"Mr. George has been so excited that he finds it necessary to wipehis forehead on his shirt-sleeve. Even while he whistles hisimpetuosity away with the national anthem, some involuntaryshakings of his head and heavings of his chest still linger behind,not to mention an occasional hasty adjustment with both hands ofhis open shirt-collar, as if it were scarcely open enough toprevent his being troubled by a choking sensation. In short, AllanWoodcourt has not much doubt about the going down of Mr.   Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.   Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is assisted to hismattress by the careful Phil, to whom, after due administration ofmedicine by his own hands, Allan confides all needful means andinstructions. The morning is by this time getting on apace. Herepairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast, and then, withoutseeking rest, goes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate hisdiscovery.   With him Mr. Jarndyce returns alone, confidentially telling himthat there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeedand showing a serious interest in it. To Mr. Jarndyce, Jo repeatsin substance what he said in the morning, without any materialvariation. Only that cart of his is heavier to draw, and drawswith 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 tosleep, as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known once, isa-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 possiblefor an unfortnet to be it."He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in thecourse of a day or two that Allan, after conferring with Mr.   Jarndyce, good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook's Court, therather, as the cart seems to be breaking down.   To Cook's Court, therefore, he repairs. Mr. Snagsby is behind hiscounter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an indenture ofseveral skins which has just come in from the engrosser's, animmense desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there aresting-place of a few large letters to break the awful monotonyand save the traveller from despair. Mr Snagsby puts up at one ofthese inky wells and greets the stranger with his cough of generalpreparation for business.   "You don't remember me, Mr. Snagsby?"The stationer's heart begins to thump heavily, for his oldapprehensions have never abated. It is as much as he can do toanswer, "No, sir, I can't say I do. I should have considered--notto put too fine a point upon it--that I never saw you before, sir.""Twice before," says Allan Woodcourt. "Once at a poor bedside, andonce--""It's come at last!" thinks the afflicted stationer, asrecollection breaks upon him. "It's got to a head now and is goingto burst!" But he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct hisvisitor 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 amelancholy whisper, "to speak as low as you can? For my littlewoman is a-listening somewheres, or I'll forfeit the business andfive hundred pound!"In deep dejection Mr. Snagsby sits down on his stool, with his backagainst his desk, protesting, "I never had a secret of my own, sir.   I can't charge my memory with ever having once attempted to deceivemy little woman on my own account since she named the day. Iwouldn't have done it, sir. Not to put too fine a point upon it, Icouldn't have done it, I dursn't have done it. Whereas, andnevertheless, 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 heremember Jo. Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, oh,don't he!   "You couldn't name an individual human being--except myself--thatmy little woman is more set and determined against than Jo," saysMr. Snagsby.   Allan asks why.   "Why?" repeats Mr. Snagsby, in his desperation clutching at theclump of hair at the back of his bald head. "How should 1 knowwhy? But you are a single person, sir, and may you long be sparedto ask a married person such a question!"With this beneficent wish, Mr. Snagsby coughs a cough of dismalresignation and submits himself to hear what the visitor has tocommunicate.   "There again!" says Mr. Snagsby, who, between the earnestness ofhis feelings and the suppressed tones of his voice is discolouredin the face. "At it again, in a new direction! A certain personcharges me, in the solemnest way, not to talk of Jo to any one,even my little woman. Then comes another certain person, in theperson of yourself, and charges me, in an equally solemn way, notto mention Jo to that other certain person above all other persons.   Why, this is a private asylum! Why, not to put too fine a pointupon it, this is Bedlam, sir!" says Mr. Snagsby.   But it is better than he expected after all, being no explosion ofthe mine below him or deepening of the pit into which he hasfallen. And being tender-hearted and affected by the account hehears of Jo's condition, he readily engages to "look round" asearly in the evening as he can manage it quietly. He looks roundvery quietly when the evening comes, but it may turn out that Mrs.   Snagsby is as quiet a manager as he.   Jo is very glad to see his old friend and says, when they are leftalone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come sofar out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby,touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon thetable half a crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds ofwounds.   "And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquires the stationerwith his cough of sympathy.   "I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, "and don't want fornothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think. Mr. Sangsby! I'mwery 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 whatit is that he is sorry for having done.   "Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady aswos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never saysnothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being sergood and my having been s'unfortnet. The lady come herself and seeme yesday, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo!' she ses. 'We thought we'd lostyou, Jo!' she ses. And she sits down a-smilin so quiet, and don'tpass 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, hecome 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-speakinup 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 willrelieve his feelings.   "Wot I was a-thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, "wos, as youwos 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 then, Mr.   Sangsby, wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could goand couldn't he moved no furder, whether you might be so goodp'raps as to write out, wery large so that any one could see itanywheres, as that I wos wery truly hearty sorry that I done it andthat I never went fur to do it, and that though I didn't knownothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it and wosallus grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgiveme 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. "Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you,sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore."The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough,slips down his fourth half-crown--he has never been so close to acase requiring so many--and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, uponthis little earth, shall meet no more. No more.   For the cart so hard to draw is near its journey's end and dragsover stony ground. All round the clock it labours up the brokensteps, shattered and worn. Not many times can the sun rise andbehold it still upon its weary road.   Phil Squod, with his smoky gunpowder visage, at once acts as nurseand works as armourer at his little table in a corner, oftenlooking round and saying with a nod of his green-baize cap and anencouraging elevation of his one eyebrow, "Hold up, my boy! Holdup!" There, too, is Mr. Jarndyce many a time, and Allan Woodcourtalmost always, both thinking, much, how strangely fate hasentangled this rough outcast in the web of very different lives.   There, too, the trooper is a frequent visitor, filling the doorwaywith his athletic figure and, from his superfluity of life andstrength, seeming to shed down temporary vigour upon Jo, who neverfails to speak more robustly in answer to his cheerful words.   Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt, newlyarrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. After awhile he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his facetowards him--just as he sat in the law-writer's room--and toucheshis chest and heart. The cart had very nearly given up, butlabours on a little more.   The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. Phil hasstopped in a low clinking noise, with his little hammer in hishand. Mr. Woodcourt looks round with that grave professionalinterest and attention on his face, and glancing significantly atthe trooper, signs to Phil to carry his table out. When the littlehammer is next used, there will be a speck of rust upon it.   "Well, Jo! What is the matter? Don't be frightened.""I thought," says Jo, who has started and is looking round, "Ithought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. Ain't there nobody here butyou, Mr. Woodcot?""Nobody.""And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. Am I, sir?""No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I'm wery thankful."After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouthvery near his ear and says to him in a low, distinct voice, "Jo!   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 atMr. Sangsby's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn'tmake out nothink on it. Different times there was other genlmencome down Tom-all-Alone's a-prayin, but they all mostly sed as thet'other 'wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a-talkingto theirselves, or a-passing blame on the t'others, and not a-talkin to us. WE never knowd nothink. I never knowd what it wosall about."It takes him a long time to say this, and few but an experiencedand attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him.   After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of 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," hereturns 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 meindeed, he wos. It's time fur me to go down to that there berryinground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go thereand be berried. He used fur to say to me, 'I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him nowand 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 willyou 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 thegate afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. And there'sa step there, as I used for to clean with my broom. It's turnedwery dark, sir. Is there any light a-comin?""It is coming fast, Jo."Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road isvery near its end.   "Jo, my poor fellow!""I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a-gropin--a-gropin--let mecatch 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!   Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, rightreverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women,born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thusaround us every day. Chapter 48 Closing in The place in Lincolnshire has shut its many eyes again, and thehouse in town is awake. In Lincolnshire the Dedlocks of the pastdoze in their picture-frames, and the low wind murmurs through thelong drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty regularly. Intown the Dedlocks of the present rattle in their fire-eyedcarriages through the darkness of the night, and the DedlockMercuries, with ashes (or hair-powder) on their heads, symptomaticof their great humility, loll away the drowsy mornings in thelittle windows of the hall. The fashionable world--tremendous orb,nearly five miles round--is in full swing, and the solar systemworks respectfully at its appointed distances.   Where the throng is thickest, where the lights are brightest, whereall the senses are ministered to with the greatest delicacy andrefinement, Lady Dedlock is. From the shining heights she hasscaled and taken, she is never absent. Though the belief she ofold reposed in herself as one able to reserve whatsoever she wouldunder her mantle of pride is beaten down, though she has noassurance that what she is to those around her she will remainanother day, it is not in her nature when envious eyes are lookingon to yield or to droop. They say of her that she has lately grownmore handsome and more haughty. The debilitated cousin says ofher that she's beauty nough--tsetup shopofwomen--but ratherlarming kind--remindingmanfact--inconvenient woman--who WILLgetoutofbedandbawthstahlishment--Shakespeare.   Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, looks nothing. Now, as heretofore,he is to be found in doorways of rooms, with his limp white cravatloosely twisted into its old-fashioned tie, receiving patronagefrom the peerage and making no sign. Of all men he is still thelast who might be supposed to have any influence upon my Lady. Ofall woman she is still the last who might be supposed to have anydread of him.   One thing has been much on her mind since their late interview inhis turret-room at Chesney Wold. She is now decided, and preparedto throw it off.   It is morning in the great world, afternoon according to the littlesun. The Mercuries, exhausted by looking out of window, arereposing in the hall and hang their heavy heads, the gorgeouscreatures, like overblown sunflowers. Like them, too, they seem torun to a deal of seed in their tags and trimmings. Sir Leicester,in the library, has fallen asleep for the good of the country overthe report of a Parliamentary committee. My Lady sits in the roomin 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 thing, andas she bends her head over it, my Lady watches her in silence. Notfor the first time to-day.   "Rosa."The pretty village face looks brightly up. Then, seeing howserious my Lady is, looks puzzled and surprised.   "See to the door. Is it shut?"Yes. She goes to it and returns, and looks yet more surprised.   "I am about to place confidence in you, child, for I know I maytrust your attachment, if not your judgment. In what I am going todo, I will not disguise myself to you at least. But I confide inyou. Say nothing to any one of what passes between us."The timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to betrustworthy.   "Do you know," Lady Dedlock asks her, signing to her to bring herchair nearer, "do you know, Rosa, that I am different to you fromwhat I am to any one?""Yes, my Lady. Much kinder. But then I often think I know you asyou really are.""You often think you know me as I really am? Poor child, poorchild!"She says it with a kind of scorn--though not of Rosa--and sitsbrooding, looking dreamily at her.   "Do you think, Rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me? Do yousuppose your being young and natural, and fond of me and gratefulto 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 myheart, I wish it was so.""It is so, little one."The pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure by the darkexpression on the handsome face before it. It looks timidly for anexplanation.   "And if I were to say to-day, 'Go! Leave me!' I should say whatwould give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what would leaveme very solitary.""My Lady! Have I offended you?""In nothing. Come here."Rosa bends down on the footstool at my Lady's feet. My Lady, withthat motherly touch of the famous ironmaster night, lays her handupon her dark hair and gently keeps it there.   "I told you, Rosa, that I wished you to be happy and that I wouldmake 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 nopart, rendering it far better for you that you should not remainhere. You must not remain here. I have determined that you shallnot. I have written to the father of your lover, and he will behere to-day. All this I have done for your sake."The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses and says what shallshe do, what shall she do, when they are separated! Her mistresskisses her on the cheek and makes no other answer.   "Now, be happy, child, under better circumstances. Be beloved andhappy!""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, thinkagain. Let me stay a little while!""I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake, not myown. 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 keepmy confidence. Do so much for my sake, and thus all ends betweenus!"She detaches herself from her simple-hearted companion and leavesthe room. Late in the afternoon, when she next appears upon thestaircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state. Asindifferent as if all passion, feeling, and interest had been wornout in the earlier ages of the world and had perished from itssurface with its other departed monsters.   Mercury has announced Mr. Rouncewell, which is the cause of herappearance. Mr. Rouncewell is not in the library, but she repairsto the library. Sir Leicester is there, and she wishes to speak tohim first.   "Sir Leicester, I am desirous--but you are engaged."Oh, dear no! Not at all. Only Mr. Tulkinghorn.   Always at hand. Haunting every place. No relief or security fromhim for a moment.   "I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. Will you allow me to retire?"With a look that plainly says, "You know you have the power toremain if you will," she tells him it is not necessary and movestowards a chair. Mr. Tulkinghorn brings it a little forward forher with his clumsy bow and retires into a window opposite.   Interposed between her and the fading light of day in the now quietstreet, his shadow falls upon her, and he darkens all before her.   Even so does he darken her life.   It is a dull street under the best conditions, where the two longrows of houses stare at each other with that severity that half-a-dozen of its greatest mansions seem to have been slowly stared intostone rather than originally built in that material. It is astreet of such dismal grandeur, so determined not to condescend toliveliness, that the doors and windows hold a gloomy state of theirown in black paint and dust, and the echoing mews behind have a dryand massive appearance, as if they were reserved to stable thestone chargers of noble statues. Complicated garnish of iron-workentwines itself over the flights of steps in this awful street, andfrom these petrified bowers, extinguishers for obsolete flambeauxgasp at the upstart gas. Here and there a weak little iron hoop,through which bold boys aspire to throw their friends' caps (itsonly present use), retains its place among the rusty foliage,sacred to the memory of departed oil. Nay, even oil itself, yetlingering at long intervals in a little absurd glass pot, with aknob in the bottom like an oyster, blinks and sulks at newer lightsevery night, like its high and dry master in the House of Lords.   Therefore there is not much that Lady Dedlock, seated in her chair,could wish to see through the window in which Mr. Tulkinghornstands. And yet--and yet--she sends a look in that direction as ifit were her heart's desire to have that figure moved out of theway.   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. Iam tired to death of the matter.""What can I do--to--assist?" demands Sir Leicester in someconsiderable doubt.   "Let us see him here and have done with it. Will you tell them tosend him up?""Mr. Tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring. Thank you. Request,"says Sir Leicester to Mercury, not immediately remembering thebusiness term, "request the iron gentleman to walk this way."Mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, andproduces him. Sir Leicester receives that ferruginous persongraciously.   "I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell. Be seated. (My solicitor,Mr. Tulkinghorn.) My Lady was desirous, Mr. Rouncewell," SirLeicester 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 gentleman, "to give mybest attention to anything Lady Dedlock does me the honour to say."As he turns towards her, he finds that the impression she makesupon him is less agreeable than on the former occasion. A distantsupercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her, and there isnothing in her bearing, as there was before, to encourage openness.   "Pray, sir," says Lady Dedlock listlessly, "may I be allowed toinquire whether anything has passed between you and your sonrespecting your son's fancy?"It is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a lookupon him as she asks this question.   "If my memory serves me, Lady Dedlock, I said, when I had thepleasure of seeing you before, that I should seriously advise myson to conquer that--fancy." The ironmaster repeats her expressionwith a little emphasis.   "And did you?""Oh! Of course I did."Sir Leicester gives a nod, approving and confirmatory. Veryproper. The iron gentleman, having said that he would do it, wasbound to do it. No difference in this respect between the basemetals and the precious. Highly proper.   "And pray has he done so?""Really, Lady Dedlock, I cannot make you a definite reply. I fearnot. Probably not yet. In our condition of life, we sometimescouple an intention with our--our fancies which renders them notaltogether easy to throw off. I think it is rather our way to bein earnest."Sir Leicester has a misgiving that there may be a hidden WatTylerish meaning in this expression, and fumes a little. Mr.   Rouncewell is perfectly good-humoured and polite, but within suchlimits, evidently adapts his tone to his reception.   "Because," proceeds my Lady, "I 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 quiteconcur"--Sir Leicester flattered--"and if you cannot give us theassurance that this fancy is at an end, I have come to theconclusion 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 interposes, "butperhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman which shehas not merited. Here is a young woman," says Sir Leicester,magnificently laying out the matter with his right hand like aservice of plate, "whose good fortune it is to have attracted thenotice and favour of an eminent lady and to live, under theprotection of that eminent lady, surrounded by the variousadvantages which such a position confers, and which areunquestionably very great--I believe unquestionably very great,sir--for a young woman in that station of life. The question thenarises, should that young woman be deprived of these manyadvantages and that good fortune simply because she has"--SirLeicester, with an apologetic but dignified inclination of his headtowards the ironmaster, winds up his sentence--"has attracted thenotice of Mr Rouncewell's son? Now, has she deserved thispunishment? Is this just towards her? Is this our previousunderstanding?""I beg your pardon," interposes Mr. Rouncewell's son's father.   "Sir Leicester, will you allow me? I think I may shorten thesubject. Pray dismiss that from your consideration. If youremember anything so unimportant--which is not to be expected--youwould recollect that my first thought in the affair was directlyopposed to her remaining here."Dismiss the Dedlock patronage from consideration? Oh! SirLeicester is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handeddown to him through such a family, or he really might havemistrusted their report of the iron gentleman's observations.   "It is not necessary," observes my Lady in her coldest mannerbefore he can do anything but breathe amazedly, "to enter intothese matters on either side. The girl is a very good girl; I havenothing whatever to say against her, but she is so far insensibleto her many advantages and her good fortune that she is in love--orsupposes she is, poor little fool--and unable to appreciate them."Sir Leicester begs to observe that wholly alters the case. Hemight have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and reasonsin support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Lady. Theyoung woman had better go.   "As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last occasionwhen we were fatigued by this business," Lady Dedlock languidlyproceeds, "we cannot make conditions with you. Without conditions,and under present circumstances, the girl is quite misplaced hereand had better go. I have told her so. Would you wish to have hersent 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 ofthe incumbrance and remove her from her present position.""And to speak as plainly," she returns with the same studiedcarelessness, "so should I. Do I understand that you will take herwith you?"The iron gentleman makes an iron bow.   "Sir Leicester, will you ring?" Mr. Tulkinghorn steps forward fromhis window and pulls the bell. "I had forgotten you. Thank you."He makes his usual bow and goes quietly back again. Mercury,swift-responsive, appears, receives instructions whom to produce,skims away, produces the aforesaid, and departs.   Rosa has been crying and is yet in distress. On her coming in, theironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm in his, and remains withher near the door ready to depart.   "You are taken charge of, you see," says my Lady in her wearymanner, "and are going away well protected. I have mentioned thatyou are a very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for.""She seems after all," observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, loitering a littleforward with his hands behind him, "as if she were crying at goingaway.""Why, she is not well-bred, you see," returns Mr. Rouncewell withsome quickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have the lawyerto retort upon, "and she is an inexperienced little thing and knowsno 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 Lady, and that shewas happy at Chesney Wold, and has been happy with my Lady, andthat she thanks my Lady over and over again. "Out, you sillylittle puss!" says the ironmaster, checking her in a low voice,though not angrily. "Have a spirit, if you're fond of Watt!" MyLady merely waves her off with indifference, saying, "There, there,child! You are a good girl. Go away!" Sir Leicester hasmagnificently disengaged himself from the subject and retired intothe sanctuary of his blue coat. Mr. Tulkinghorn, an indistinctform against the dark street now dotted with lamps, looms in myLady's view, bigger and blacker than before.   "Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Rouncewell after a pauseof a few moments, "I beg to take my leave, with an apology forhaving again troubled you, though not of my own act, on thistiresome subject. I can very well understand, I assure you, howtiresome so small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock. If Iam doubtful of my dealing with it, it is only because I did not atfirst quietly exert my influence to take my young friend here awaywithout troubling you at all. But it appeared to me--I dare saymagnifying the importance of the thing--that it was respectful toexplain to you how the matter stood and candid to consult yourwishes and convenience. I hope you will excuse my want ofacquaintance with the polite world."Sir Leicester considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary bythese remarks. "Mr. Rouncewell," he returns, "do not menfion it.   Justifications are unnecessary, I hope, on either side.""I am glad to hear it, Sir Leicester; and if I may, by way of alast word, revert to what I said before of my mother's longconnexion with the family and the worth it bespeaks on both sides,I would point out this little instance here on my arm who showsherself so affectionate and faithful in parting and in whom mymother, I dare say, has done something to awaken such feelings--though of course Lady Dedlock, by her heartfelt interest and hergenial condescension, has done much more.   If he mean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. Hepoints it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward mannerof speech, though in saying it he turns towards that part of thedim room where my Lady sits. Sir Leicester stands to return hisparting salutation, Mr. Tulkinghorn again rings, Mercury takesanother flight, and Mr. Rouncewell and Rosa leave the house.   Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn stillstanding in his window with his hands behind him and my Lady stillsitting with his figure before her, closing up her view of thenight as well as of the day. She is very pale. Mr. Tulkinghorn,observing it as she rises to retire, thinks, "Well she may be! Thepower of this woman is astonishing. She has been acting a part thewhole time." But he can act a part too--his one unchangingcharacter--and as he holds the door open for this woman, fiftypairs of eyes, each 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 iswhipped in to the rescue of the Doodle Party and the discomfitureof the Coodle Faction. Lady Dedlock asks on sitting down todinner, still deadly pale (and quite an illustration of thedebilitated cousin's text), whether he is gone out? Yes. WhetherMr. Tulkinghorn is gone yet? No. Presently she asks again, is hegone YET? No. What is he doing? Mercury thinks he is writingletters in the library. Would my Lady wish to see him? Anythingbut that.   But he wishes to see my Lady. Within a few more minutes he isreported as sending his respects, and could my Lady please toreceive him for a word or two after her dinner? My Lady willreceive him now. He comes now, apologizing for intruding, even byher permission, while she is at table. When they are alone, myLady waves her hand to dispense with such mockeries.   "What do you want, sir?""Why, Lady Dedlock," says the lawyer, taking a chair at a littledistance from her and slowly rubbing his rusty legs up and down, upand down, up and down, "I am rather surprised by the course youhave taken.""Indeed?""Yes, decidedly. I was not prepared for it. I consider it adeparture from our agreement and your promise. It puts us in a newposition, Lady Dedlock. I feel myself under the necessity ofsaying that I don't approve of it."He stops in his rubbing and looks at her, with his hands on hisknees. Imperturbable and unchangeable as he is, there is still anindefinable freedom in his manner which is new and which does notescape this woman's observation.   "I do not quite understand you.""Oh, yes you do, I think. I think you do. Come, come, LadyDedlock, we must not fence and parry now. You know you like thisgirl.""Well, sir?""And you know--and I know--that you have not sent her away for thereasons you have assigned, but for the purpose of separating her asmuch as possible from--excuse my mentioning it as a matter ofbusiness--any reproach and exposure that impend over yourself.""Well, sir?""Well, Lady Dedlock," returns the lawyer, crossing his legs andnursing the uppermost knee. "I object to that. I consider that adangerous proceeding. I know it to be unnecessary and calculatedto awaken speculation, doubt, rumour, I don't know what, in thehouse. Besides, it is a violation of our agreement. You were tobe exactly what you were before. Whereas, it must be evident toyourself, as it is to me, that you have been this evening verydifferent from what you were before. Why, bless my soul, LadyDedlock, transparenfly so!""If, sir," she begins, "in my knowledge of my secret--" But heinterrupts her.   "Now, Lady Dedlock, this is a matter of business, and in a matterof business the ground cannot be kept too clear. It is no longeryour secret. Excuse me. That is just the mistake. It is mysecret, in trust for Sir Leicester and the family. If it were yoursecret, Lady Dedlock, we should not be here holding thisconversation.""That is very true. If in my knowledge of THE secret I do what Ican to spare an innocent girl (especially, remembering your ownreference to her when you told my story to the assembled guests atChesney Wold) from the taint of my impending shame, I act upon aresolution I have taken. Nothing in the world, and no one in theworld, could shake it or could move me." This she says with greatdeliberation and distinctness and with no more outward passion thanhimself. As for him, he methodically discusses his matter ofbusiness as if she were any insensible instrument used in business.   "Really? Then you see, Lady Dedlock," he returns, "you are not tobe trusted. You have put the case in a perfecfly plain way, andaccording to the literal fact; and that being the case, you are notto be trusted.""Perhaps you may remember that I expressed some anxiety on thissame point when we spoke at night at Chesney Wold?""Yes," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, coolly getting up and standing on thehearth. "Yes. I recollect, Lady Dedlock, that you certainlyreferred to the girl, but that was before we came to ourarrangement, and both the letter and the spirit of our arrangementaltogether precluded any action on your part founded upon mydiscovery. There can be no doubt about that. As to sparing thegirl, of what importance or value is she? Spare! Lady Dedlock,here is a family name compromised. One might have supposed thatthe course was straight on--over everything, neither to the rightnor to the left, regardless of all considerations in the way,sparing nothing, treading everything under foot."She has been looking at the table. She lifts up her eyes and looksat him. There is a stern expression on her face and a part of herlower lip is compressed under her teeth. "This woman understandsme," 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 nodinner, but has twice or thrice poured out water with a steady handand drunk it. She rises from table, takes a lounging-chair, andreclines in it, shading her face. There is nothing in her mannerto express weakness or excite compassion. It is thoughtful,gloomy, concentrated. "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 leisure, not speaking for a time. She toostudies something at her leisure. She is not the first to speak,appearing indeed so unlikely to be so, though he stood there untilmidnight, that even he is driven upon breaking silence.   "Lady Dedlock, the most disagreeable part of this businessinterview remains, but it is business. Our agreement is broken. Alady of your sense and strength of character will be prepared formy now declaring it void and taking my own course.""I am quite prepared."Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head. "That is all I have to troubleyou with, Lady Dedlock."She stops him as he is moving out of the room by asking, "This isthe notice I was to receive? I wish not to misapprehend you.""Not exactly the notice you were to receive, Lady Dedlock, becausethe contemplated notice supposed the agreement to have beenobserved. But virtually the same, virtually the same. Thedifference 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 andcautiously shaking his head at the shaded face. "No, not to-night.""To-morrow?""All things considered, I had better decline answering thatquestion, 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 areprepared, and I hold out no expectations which circumstances mightfail to justify. I wish you good evening."She removes her hand, turns her pale face towards him as he walkssilently to the door, and stops him once again as he is about toopen it.   "Do you intend to remain in the house any time? I heard you werewriting in the library. Are you going to return there?""Only for my hat. I am going home."She bows her eyes rather than her head, the movement is so slightand curious, and he withdraws. Clear of the room he looks at hiswatch but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or thereabouts.   There is a splendid clock upon the staircase, famous, as splendidclocks not often are, for its accuracy. "And what do YOU say," Mr.   Tulkinghorn inquires, referring to it. "What do you say?"If it said now, "Don't go home!" What a famous clock, hereafter,if it said to-night of all the nights that it has counted off, tothis old man of all the young and old men who have ever stoodbefore it, "Don't go home!" With its sharp clear bell it strikesthree quarters after seven and ticks on again. "Why, you are worsethan I thought you," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, muttering reproof to hiswatch. "Two minutes wrong? At this rate you won't last my time."What a watch to return good for evil if it ticked in answer, "Don'tgo home!"He passes out into the streets and walks on, with his hands behindhim, under the shadow of the lofty houses, many of whose mysteries,difficulties, mortgages, delicate affairs of all kinds, aretreasured up within his old black satin waistcoat. He is in theconfidence of the very bricks and mortar. The high chimney-stackstelegraph family secrets to him. Yet there is not a voice in amile of them to whisper, "Don't go home!"Through the stir and motion of the commoner streets; through theroar and jar of many vehicles, many feet, many voices; with theblazing shop-lights lighting him on, the west wind blowing him on,and the crowd pressing him on, he is pitilessly urged upon his way,and nothing meets him murmuring, "Don't go home!" Arrived at lastin his dull room to light his candles, and look round and up, andsee the Roman pointing from the ceiling, there is no newsignificance in the Roman's hand to-night or in the flutter of theattendant groups to give him the late warning, "Don't come here!"It is a moonlight night, but the moon, being past the full, is onlynow rising over the great wilderness of London. The stars areshining as they shone above the turret-leads at Chesney Wold. Thiswoman, as he has of late been so accustomed to call her, looks outupon them. Her soul is turbulent within her; she is sick at heartand restless. The large rooms are too cramped and close. Shecannot endure their restraint and will walk alone in a neighbouringgarden.   Too capricious and imperious in all she does to be the cause ofmuch surprise in those about her as to anything she does, thiswoman, loosely muffled, goes out into the moonlight. Mercuryattends with the key. Having opened the garden-gate, he deliversthe key into his Lady's hands at her request and is bidden to goback. She will walk there some time to ease her aching head. Shemay be an hour, she may be more. She needs no further escort. Thegate shuts upon its spring with a clash, and he leaves her passingon into the dark shade of some trees.   A fine night, and a bright large moon, and multitudes of stars.   Mr. Tulkinghorn, in repairing to his cellar and in opening andshutting those resounding doors, has to cross a little prison-likeyard. He looks up casually, thinking what a fine night, what abright large moon, what multitudes of stars! A quiet night, too.   A very quiet night. When the moon shines very brilliantly, asolitude and stillness seem to proceed from her that influence evencrowded places full of life. Not only is it a still night on dustyhigh roads and on hill-summits, whence a wide expanse of countrymay be seen in repose, quieter and quieter as it spreads away intoa fringe of trees against the sky with the grey ghost of a bloomupon them; not only is it a still night in gardens and in woods,and on the river where the water-meadows are fresh and green, andthe stream sparkles on among pleasant islands, murmuring weirs, andwhispering rushes; not only does the stillness attend it as itflows where houses cluster thick, where many bridges are reflectedin it, where wharves and shipping make it black and awful, where itwinds from these disfigurements through marshes whose grim beaconsstand like skeletons washed ashore, where it expands through thebolder region of rising grounds, rich in cornfield wind-mill andsteeple, and where it mingles with the ever-heaving sea; not onlyis it a still night on the deep, and on the shore where the watcherstands to see the ship with her spread wings cross the path oflight that appears to be presented to only him; but even on thisstranger's wilderness of London there is some rest. Its steeplesand towers and its one great dome grow more ethereal; its smokyhouse-tops lose their grossness in the pale effulgence; the noisesthat arise from the streets are fewer and are softened, and thefootsteps on the pavements pass more tranquilly away. In thesefields of Mr. Tulkinghorn's inhabiting, where the shepherds play onChancery pipes that have no stop, and keep their sheep in the foldby hook and by crook until they have shorn them exceeding close,every noise is merged, this moonlight night, into a distant ringinghum, as if the city were a vast glass, vibrating.   What's that? Who fired a gun or pistol? Where was it?   The few foot-passengers start, stop, and stare about them. Somewindows and doors are opened, and people come out to look. It wasa 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 inthe neighbourhood, who bark vehemently. Terrified cats scamperacross the road. While the dogs are yet barking and howling--thereis one dog howling like a demon--the church-clocks, as if they werestartled too, begin to strike. The hum from the streets, likewise,seems to swell into a shout. But it is soon over. Before the lastclock begins to strike ten, there is a lull. When it has ceased,the fine night, the bright large moon, and multitudes of stars, areleft at peace again.   Has Mr. Tulkinghorn been disturbed? His windows are dark andquiet, and his door is shut. It must be something unusual indeedto bring him out of his shell. Nothing is heard of him, nothing isseen of him. What power of cannon might it take to shake thatrusty old man out of his immovable composure?   For many years the persistent Roman has been pointing, with noparticular meaning, from that ceiling. It is not likely that hehas any new meaning in him to-night. Once pointing, alwayspointing--like any Roman, or even Briton, with a single idea.   There he is, no doubt, in his impossible attitude, pointing,unavailingly, all night long. Moonlight, darkness, dawn, sunrise,day. There he is still, eagerly pointing, and no one minds him.   But a little after the coming of the day come people to clean therooms. And either the Roman has some new meaning in him, notexpressed before, or the foremost of them goes wild, for looking upat his outstretched hand and looking down at what is below it, thatperson shrieks and flies. The others, looking in as the first onelooked, shriek and fly too, and there is an alarm in the street.   What does it mean? No light is admitted into the darkened chamber,and people unaccustomed to it enter, and treading softly butheavily, carry a weight into the bedroom and lay it down. There iswhispering and wondering all day, strict search of every corner,careful tracing of steps, and careful noting of the disposition ofevery article of furniture. All eyes look up at the Roman, and allvoices murmur, "If he could only tell what he saw!"He is pointing at a table with a bottle (nearly full of wine) and aglass upon it and two candles that were blown out suddenly soonafter being lighted. He is pointing at an empty chair and at astain upon the ground before it that might be almost covered with ahand. These objects lie directly within his range. An excitedimagination might suppose that there was something in them soterrific as to drive the rest of the composition, not only theattendant big-legged boys, but the clouds and flowers and pillarstoo--in short, the very body and soul of Allegory, and all thebrains it has--stark mad. It happens surely that every one whocomes into the darkened room and looks at these things looks up atthe 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 surely, through many years to come, that ghostlystories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to becovered, so hard to be got out, and that the Roman, pointing fromthe ceiling shall point, so long as dust and damp and spiders sparehim, with far greater significance than he ever had in Mr.   Tulkinghorn's time, and with a deadly meaning. For Mr.   Tulkinghorn's time is over for evermore, and the Roman pointed atthe murderous hand uplifted against his life, and pointedhelplessly at him, from night to morning, lying face downward onthe floor, shot through the heart. Chapter 49 Dutiful Friendship A great annual occasion has come round in the establishment of Mr.   Matthew Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitae, ex-artilleryman and presentbassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival. Thecelebration of a birthday in the family.   It is not Mr. Bagnet's birthday. Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishesthat epoch in the musical instrument business by kissing thechildren with an extra smack before breakfast, smoking anadditional pipe after dinner, and wondering towards evening whathis poor old mother is thinking about it--a subject of infinitespeculation, and rendered so by his mother having departed thislife twenty years. Some men rarely revert to their father, butseem, in the bank-books of their remembrance, to have transferredall 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 keptclear 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. Thoseoccasions are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarelyoverleap the bounds of happy returns and a pudding. On youngWoolwich's last birthday, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observingon his growth and general advancement, proceed, in a moment ofprofound reflection on the changes wrought by time, to examine himin the catechism, accomplishing with extreme accuracy the questionsnumber one and two, "What is your name?" and "Who gave you thatname?" but there failing in the exact precision of his memory andsubstituting for number three the question "And how do you likethat name?" which he propounded with a sense of its importance, initself so edifying and improving as to give it quite an orthodoxair. This, however, was a speciality on that particular birthday,and not a general solemnity.   It is the old girl's birthday, and that is the greatest holiday andreddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet's calendar. The auspicious eventis always commemorated according to certain forms settled andprescribed by Mr. Bagnet some years since. Mr. Bagnet, beingdeeply convinced that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is toattain the highest pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forthhimself very early in the morning of this day to buy a pair; he is,as invariably, taken in by the vendor and installed in thepossession of the oldest inhabitants of any coop in Europe.   Returning with these triumphs of toughness tied up in a clean blueand white cotton handkerchief (essential to the arrangements), hein a casual manner invites Mrs. Bagnet to declare at breakfast whatshe would like for dinner. Mrs. Bagnet, by a coincidence neverknown to fail, replying fowls, Mr. Bagnet instantly produces hisbundle from a place of concealment amidst general amazement andrejoicing. He further requires that the old girl shall do nothingall day long but sit in her very best gown and be served by himselfand the young people. As he is not illustrious for his cookery,this may be supposed to be a matter of state rather than enjoymenton the old girl's part, but she keeps her state with all imaginablecheerfulness.   On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the usualpreliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultry, which, ifthere be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught with chaff,to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the familyby their unlooked-for production; he is himself directing theroasting of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnet, with her wholesome brownfingers itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in hergown of ceremony, an honoured guest.   Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich, serving,as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. Tothese young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, or ashake of the head, or a crooked face, as they made mistakes.   "At half after one." Says Mr. Bagnet. "To the minute. They'll bedone."Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a standstillbefore the fire and beginning to burn.   "You shall have a dinner, old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Fit for aqueen."Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the perceptionof her son, betrays so much uneasiness of spirit that he isimpelled by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes,what is the matter, thus standing, with his eyes wide open, moreoblivious of the fowls than before, and not affording the leasthope of a return to consciousness. Fortunately his elder sisterperceives the cause of the agitation in Mrs. Bagnet's breast andwith an admonitory poke recalls him. The stopped fowls going roundagain, Mrs. 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 years, old girl. Has George looked us up.   This afternoon?""Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young one, Ibegin to think. Just about that, and no less," returns Mrs.   Bagnet, laughing and shaking her head.   "Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "never mind. You'd be as young asever you was. If you wasn't younger. Which you are. As everybodyknows."Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that Bluffyis sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate on whatit will be.   "Do you know, Lignum," says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance on thetable-cloth, and winking "salt!" at Malta with her right eye, andshaking the pepper away from Quebec with her head, "I begin tothink George is in the roving way again.   "George," returns Mr. Bagnet, "will never desert. And leave hisold 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 hewould be off."Mr. Bagnet asks why.   "Well," returns his wife, considering, "George seems to me to begetting not a little impatient and restless. I don't say but whathe's as free as ever. Of course he must be free or he wouldn't beGeorge, but he smarts and seems put out.""He's extra-drilled," says Mr. Bagnet. "By a lawyer. Who wouldput the devil out.""There's something in that," his wife assents; "but so it is,Lignum."Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessityunder which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole forceof his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dryhumour of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the madegravy acquiring no flavour and turning out of a flaxen complexion.   With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in theprocess of peeling, upheaving from their centres in everydirection, as if they were subject to earthquakes. The legs of thefowls, too, are longer than could be desired, and extremely scaly.   Overcoming these disadvantages to the best of his ability, Mr.   Bagnet at last dishes and they sit down at table, Mrs. Bagnetoccupying the guest's place at his right hand.   It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in ayear, for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious.   Every kind of finer tendon and ligament that is in the nature ofpoultry to possess is developed in these specimens in the singularform of guitar-strings. Their limbs appear to have struck rootsinto their breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into theearth. Their legs are so hard as to encourage the idea that theymust have devoted the greater part of their long and arduous livesto pedestrian exercises and the walking of matches. But Mr.   Bagnet, unconscious of these little defects, sets 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'sdisappointment on any day, least of all on such a day, for anyconsideration, she imperils her digestion fearfully. How youngWoolwich 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 ofthe repast in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearthswept, and the dinner-service washed up and polished in thebackyard. The great delight and energy with which the two youngladies apply themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts inimitation of their mother and skating in and out on littlescaffolds of pattens, inspire the highest hopes for the future, butsome anxiety for the present. The same causes lead to confusion oftongues, a clattering of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, awhisking of brooms, and an expenditure of water, all in excess,while the saturation of the young ladies themselves is almost toomoving a spectacle for Mrs. Bagnet to look upon with the calmnessproper to her position. At last the various cleansing processesare triumphantly completed; Quebec and Malta appear in freshattire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco, and something to drink areplaced upon the table; and the old girl enjoys the first peace ofmind she ever knows on the day of this delightful entertainment.   When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock arevery near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnetannounces, "George! Military time."It is George, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl(whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, andfor Mr. Bagnet. "Happy returns to all!" says Mr. George.   "But, George, old man!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at himcuriously. "What's come to you?""Come to me?""Ah! You are so white, George--for you--and look so shocked. Nowdon't he, Lignum?""George," says Mr. Bagnet, "tell the old girl. What's the matter.""I didn't know I looked white," says the trooper, passing his handover his brow, "and I didn't know I looked shocked, and I'm sorry Ido. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place diedyesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over.""Poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother's pity. "Is hegone? Dear, dear!""I didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthdaytalk, but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. Ishould have roused up in a minute," says the trooper, makinghimself speak more gaily, "but you're so quick, Mrs. Bagnet.""You're right. The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Is as quick. Aspowder.""And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick toher," cries Mr. George. "See here, I have brought a little broochalong with me. It's a poor thing, you know, but it's a keepsake.   That's all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet."Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiringleapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species ofreverential 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 thebeautifullest thing that ever was seen!""Good!" says Mr. Bagnet. "My opinion.""It's so pretty, George," cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on allsides and holding it out at arm's length, "that it seems too choicefor me.""Bad!" says Mr. Bagnet. "Not my opinlon.""But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," saysMrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her handstretched out to him; "and though I have been a crossgrainedsoldier's wife to you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends,I am sure, in reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it onyourself, for good luck, if you will, George."The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks overyoung Woolwich's head to see it done with an interest so maturelywooden, yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot helplaughing in her airy way and saying, "Oh, Lignum, Lignum, what aprecious old chap you are!" But the trooper fails to fasten thebrooch. His hand shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. "Wouldany one believe this?" says he, catching it as it drops and lookinground. "I am so out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job likethis!"Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy likea pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes thetrooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes tobe got into action. "If that don't bring you round, George," saysshe, "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 verywell, Mrs. Bagnet. I'll tell you how, one way and another, theblues have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad.   'Twas dull work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to helphim.""What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him underyour 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 thanto know his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone tobe helped out of that.""Ah, poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet.   "Then," says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passinghis heavy hand over his hair, "that brought up Gridley in a man'smind. His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the twogot mixed up in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to dowith both. And to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel,standing up on end in his corner, hard, indifferent, takingeverything so evenly--it made flesh and blood tingle, I do assureyou.""My advice to you," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "is to light your pipe andtingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better forthe health altogether.""You're right," says the trooper, "and I'll do it."So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity thatimpresses the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to deferthe ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health, always given byhimself on these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. Butthe young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit ofcalling "the mixtur," and George's pipe being now in a glow, Mr.   Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of theevening. He addresses the assembled company in the followingterms.   "George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take aday's march. And you won't find such another. Here's towardsher!"The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returnsthanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This modelcomposition is limited to the three words "And wishing yours!"which the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in successionand a well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again followsup, on the present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation,"Here's a man!"Here IS a man, much to the astonishment of the little company,looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man--a quickkeen man--and he takes in everybody's look at him, all at once,individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him aremarkable man.   "George," says the man, nodding, "how do you find yourself?""Why, it's Bucket!" cries Mr. George.   "Yes," says the man, coming in and closing the door. "I was goingdown the street here when I happened to stop and look in at themusical instruments in the shop-window--a friend of mine is in wantof a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone--and I saw a partyenjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; Ithought I couldn't be mistaken. How goes the world with you,George, at the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you,ma'am? And with you, governor? And Lord," says Mr. Bucket,opening his arms, "here's children too! You may do anything withme if you only show me children. Give us a kiss, my pets. Nooccasion to inquire who YOUR father and mother is. Never saw sucha likeness in my life!"Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. Georgeand taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. "You pretty dears," saysMr. Bucket, "give us another kiss; it's the only thing I'm greedyin. Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be theages of these two, ma'am? I should put 'em down at the figures ofabout eight and ten.""You're very near, sir," says Mrs. Bagnet.   "I generally am near," returns Mr. Bucket, "being so fond ofchildren. A friend of mine has had nineteen of 'em, ma'am, all byone mother, and she's still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Notso much so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! Andwhat do you call these, my darling?" pursues Mr. Bucket, pinchingMalta's cheeks. "These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart!   And what do you think about father? Do you think father couldrecommend a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr.   Bucket's friend, my dear? My name's Bucket. Ain't that a funnyname?"These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs.   Bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glassfor Mr. Bucket and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be gladto receive so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but shetells him that as a friend of George's she is particularly glad tosee him this evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits.   "Not in his usual spirits?" exclaims Mr. Bucket. "Why, I neverheard of such a thing! What's the matter, George? You don'tintend to tell me you've been out of spirits. What should you beout of spirits for? You haven't got anything on your mind, youknow.""Nothing particular," returns the trooper.   "I should think not," rejoins Mr. Bucket. "What could you have onyour mind, you know! And have these pets got anything on THEIRminds, eh? Not they, but they'll be upon the minds of some of theyoung fellows, some of these days, and make 'em precious low-spirited. I ain't much of a prophet, but I can tell you that,ma'am."Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of hisown.   "There, ma'am!" says Mr. Bucket. "Would you believe it? No, Ihaven't. My wife and a lodger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucketis as fond of children as myself and as wishful to have 'em, butno. So it is. Worldly goods are divided unequally, and man mustnot repine. What a very nice backyard, ma'am! Any way out of thatyard, now?"There is no way out of that yard.   "Ain't there really?" says Mr. Bucket. "I should have thoughtthere might have been. Well, I don't know as I ever saw a backyardthat took my fancy more. Would you allow me to look at it? Thankyou. No, I see there's no way out. But what a very good-proportioned yard it is!"Having cast his sharp eye all about it, Mr. Bucket returns to hischair next his friend Mr. George and pats Mr. George affectionatelyon 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 havebeen otherwise? A man of your fine figure and constitution has noright to be out of spirits. That ain't a chest to be out ofspirits, is it, ma'am? And you haven't got anything on your mind,you know, George; what could you have on your mind!"Somewhat harping on this phrase, considering the extent and varietyof his conversational powers, Mr. Bucket twice or thrice repeats itto the pipe he lights, and with a listening face that isparticularly his own. But the sun of his sociality soon recoversfrom this brief eclipse and shines again.   "And this is brother, is it, my dears?" says Mr. Bucket, referringto Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of youngWoolwich. "And a nice brother he is--half-brother I mean to say.   For he's too old to be your boy, ma'am.""I can certify at all events that he is not anybody else's,"returns Mrs. Bagnet, laughing.   "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 thebrow, you know, THERE his father comes out!" Mr. Bucket comparesthe faces with one eye shut up, while Mr. Bagnet smokes in stolidsatisfaction.   This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnet to inform him that the boyis George's godson.   "George's godson, is he?" rejoins Mr. Bucket with extremecordiality. "I must shake hands over again with George's godson.   Godfather and godson do credit to one another. And what do youintend to make of him, ma'am? Does he show any turn for anymusical instrument?"Mr. Bagnet suddenly interposes, "Plays the fife. Beautiful.""Would you believe it, governor," says Mr. Bucket, struck by thecoincidence, "that when I was a boy I played the fife myself? Notin a scientific way, as I expect he does, but by ear. Lord blessyou! 'British Grenadiers'--there's a tune to warm an Englishmanup! COULD you give us 'British Grenadiers,' my fine fellow?"Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than thiscall upon young Woolwich, who immediately fetches his fife andperforms the stirring melody, during which performance Mr. Bucket,much enlivened, beats time and never falls to come in sharp withthe burden, "British Gra-a-anadeers!" In short, he shows so muchmusical taste that Mr. Bagnet actually takes his pipe from his lipsto express his conviction that he is a singer. Mr. Bucket receivesthe harmonious impeachment so modestly, confessing how that he didonce chaunt a little, for the expression of the feelings of his ownbosom, and with no presumptuous idea of entertaining his friends,that he is asked to sing. Not to be behindhand in the sociality ofthe evening, he complies and gives them "Believe Me, if All ThoseEndearing Young Charms." This ballad, he informs Mrs. Bagnet, heconsiders to have been his most powerful ally in moving the heartof Mrs. Bucket when a maiden, and inducing her to approach thealtar--Mr. Bucket's own words are "to come up to the scratch."This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in theevening that Mr. George, who testified no great emotions ofpleasure on his entrance, begins, in spite of himself, to be ratherproud of him. He is so friendly, is a man of so many resources,and so easy to get on with, that it is something to have made himknown there. Mr. Bagnet becomes, after another pipe, so sensibleof the value of his acquaintance that he solicits the honour of hiscompany on the old girl's next birthday. If anything can moreclosely cement and consolidate the esteem which Mr. Bucket hasformed for the family, it is the discovery of the nature of theoccasion. He drinks to Mrs. Bagnet with a warmth approaching torapture, engages himself for that day twelvemonth more thanthankfully, makes a memorandum of the day in a large black pocket-book with a girdle to it, and breathes a hope that Mrs. Bucket andMrs. Bagnet may before then become, in a manner, sisters. As hesays himself, what is public life without private ties? He is inhis humble way a public man, but it is not in that sphere that hefinds happiness. No, it must be sought within the confines ofdomestic bliss.   It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn,should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promisingan acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him.   Whatever the subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eyeupon him. He waits to walk home with him. He is interested in hisvery boots and observes even them attentively as Mr. George sitssmoking cross-legged in the chimney-corner.   At length Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment Mr.   Bucket, with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises. Hedotes upon the children to the last and remembers the commission hehas undertaken for an absent friend.   "Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor--could yourecommend me such a thing?""Scores," says Mr. Bagnet.   "I am obliged to you," returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand.   "You're a friend in need. A good tone, mind you! My friend is aregular dab at it. Ecod, he saws away at Mozart and Handel and therest of the big-wigs like a thorough workman. And you needn't,"says Mr. Bucket in a considerate and private voice, "you needn'tcommit yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don't want to paytoo large a price for my friend, but I want you to have your properpercentage and be remunerated for your loss of time. That is butfair. Every man must live, and ought to it."Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl to the effect that theyhave found a jewel of price.   "Suppose I was to give you a look in, say, at half arter ten to-morrow morning. Perhaps you could name the figures of a fewwiolincellers of a good tone?" says Mr. Bucket.   Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have therequisite information ready and even hint to each other at thepracticability of having a small stock collected there forapproval.   "Thank you," says Mr. Bucket, "thank you. Good night, ma'am. Goodnight, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much obliged to youfor one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life."They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure hehas given them in his company; and so they part with manyexpressions of goodwill on both sides. "Now George, old boy," saysMr. Bucket, taking his arm at the shop-door, "come along!" As theygo down the little street and the Bagnets pause for a minutelooking after them, Mrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy Lignum thatMr. Bucket "almost clings to George like, and seems to be reallyfond of him."The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-paved, it is a littleinconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. Mr. Georgetherefore soon proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucket, who cannotmake up his mind to relinquish his friendly hold, replies, "Waithalf a minute, George. I should wish to speak to you first."Immediately afterwards, he twists him into a public-house and intoa parlour, where he confronts him and claps his own back againstthe door.   "Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "duty is duty, and friendship isfriendship. I never want the two to clash if I can help it. Ihave endeavoured to make things pleasant to-night, and I put it toyou whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself incustody, George.""Custody? What for?" returns the trooper, thunderstruck.   "Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, urging a sensible view of the caseupon him with his fat forefinger, "duty, as you know very well, isone thing, and conversation is another. It's my duty to inform youthat any observations you may make will be liable to be usedagainst you. Therefore, George, be careful what you say. Youdon't happen to have heard of a murder?""Murder!""Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger in animpressive state of action, "bear in mind what I've said to you. Iask you nothing. You've been in low spirits this afternoon. Isay, you don't happen to have heard of a murder?""No. Where has there been a murder?""Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "don't you go and commit yourself.   I'm a-going to tell you what I want you for. There has been amurder in Lincoln's Inn Fields--gentleman of the name ofTulkinghorn. He was shot last night. I want you for that."The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start outupon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face.   "Bucket! It's not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killedand that you suspect ME?""George," returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going, "it iscertainly possible, because it's the case. This deed was done lastnight at ten o'clock. Now, you know where you were last night atten o'clock, and you'll be able to prove it, no doubt.""Last night! Last night?" repeats the trooper thoughtfully. Thenit flashes upon him. "Why, great heaven, I was there last night!""So I have understood, George," returns Mr. Bucket with greatdeliberation. "So I have understood. Likewise you've been veryoften there. You've been seen hanging about the place, and you'vebeen heard more than once in a wrangle with him, and it's possible--I don't say it's certainly so, mind you, but it's possible--thathe may have been heard to call you a threatening, murdering,dangerous fellow."The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all if he could speak.   "Now, George," continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon the tablewith an air of business rather in the upholstery way thanotherwise, "my wish is, as it has been all the evening, to makethings pleasant. I tell you plainly there's a reward out, of ahundred guineas, offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Youand me have always been pleasant together; but I have got a duty todischarge; and if that hundred guineas is to be made, it may aswell be made by me as any other man. On all of which accounts, Ishould hope it was clear to you that I must have you, and that I'mdamned if I don't have you. Am I to call in any assistance, or isthe trick done?"Mr. George has recovered himself and stands up like a soldier.   "Come," he says; "I am ready.""George," continues Mr. Bucket, "wait a bit!" With his upholsterermanner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted up, he takesfrom his pocket a pair of handcuffs. "This is a serious charge,George, and such is my duty."The trooper flushes angrily and hesitates a moment, but holds outhis two hands, clasped together, and says, "There! Put them on!"Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment. "How do you find them? Arethey comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to make things aspleasant as is consistent with my duty, and I've got another pairin my pocket." This remark he offers like a most respectabletradesman anxious to execute an order neatly and to the perfectsatisfaction of his customer. "They'll do as they are? Very well!   Now, you see, George"--he takes a cloak from a corner and beginsadjusting it about the trooper's neck--"I was mindful of yourfeelings when I come out, and brought this on purpose. There!   Who's the wiser?""Only I," returns the trooper, "but as I know it, do me one moregood 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. "Do, for God's sake, pull my hatforward."So strongly entreated, Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat on,and conducts his prize into the streets, the trooper marching on assteadily as usual, though with his head less erect, and Mr. Bucketsteering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings. Chapter 50 Esther's Narrative It happened that when I came home from Deal I found a note fromCaddy Jellyby (as we always continued to call her), informing methat her health, which had been for some time very delicate, wasworse and that she would be more glad than she could tell me if Iwould go to see her. It was a note of a few lines, written fromthe couch on which she lay and enclosed to me in another from herhusband, in which he seconded her entreaty with much solicitude.   Caddy was now the mother, and I the godmother, of such a poorlittle baby--such a tiny old-faced mite, with a countenance thatseemed to be scarcely anything but cap-border, and a little lean,long-fingered hand, always clenched under its chin. It would liein this attitude all day, with its bright specks of eyes open,wondering (as I used to imagine) how it came to be so small andweak. Whenever it was moved it cried, but at all other times itwas so patient that the sole desire of its life appeared to be tolie quiet and think. It had curious little dark veins in its faceand curious little dark marks under its eyes like faintremembrances of poor Caddy's inky days, and altogether, to thosewho were not used to it, it was quite a piteous little sight.   But it was enough for Caddy that SHE was used to it. The projectswith which she beguiled her illness, for little Esther's education,and little Esther's marriage, and even for her own old age as thegrandmother of little Esther's little Esthers, was so prettilyexpressive of devotion to this pride of her life that I should betempted to recall some of them but for the timely remembrance thatI am getting on irregularly as it is.   To return to the letter. Caddy had a superstition about me whichhad been strengthening in her mind ever since that night long agowhen she had lain asleep with her head in my lap. She almost--Ithink I must say quite--believed that I did her good whenever I wasnear her. Now although this was such a fancy of the affectionategirl's that I am almost ashamed to mention it, still it might haveall the force of a fact when she was really ill. Therefore I setoff to Caddy, with my guardian's consent, post-haste; and she andPrince made so much of me that there never was anything like it.   Next day I went again to sit with her, and next day I went again.   It was a very easy journey, for I had only to rise a little earlierin the morning, and keep my accounts, and attend to housekeepingmatters before leaving home.   But when I had made these three visits, my guardian said to me, onmy return at night, "Now, little woman, little woman, this willnever do. Constant dropping will wear away a stone, and constantcoaching will wear out a Dame Durden. We will go to London for awhile and take possession of our old lodgings.""Not for me, dear guardian," said I, "for I never feel tired,"which was strictly true. I was only too happy to be in suchrequest.   "For me then," returned my guardian, "or for Ada, or for both ofus. It is somebody's birthday to-morrow, I think.""Truly I think it is," said I, kissing my darling, who would betwenty-one to-morrow.   "Well," observed my guardian, half pleasantly, half seriously,"that's a great occasion and will give my fair cousin somenecessary business to transact in assertion of her independence,and will make London a more convenient place for all of us. So toLondon we will go. That being settled, there is another thing--howhave you left Caddy?""Very unwell, guardian. I fear it will be some time before sheregains 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 hispockets, showing that he had been thinking as much. "Now, what doyou say about her doctor? Is he a good doctor, my love?"I felt obliged to confess that I knew nothing to the contrary butthat Prince and I had agreed only that evening that we would likehis opinion to be confirmed by some one.   "Well, you know," returned my guardian quickly, "there'sWoodcourt."I had not meant that, and was rather taken by surprise. For amoment 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 that, I had no doubt of her being prepared to have agreat reliance on him and to like him very much. I said that hewas no stranger to her personally, for she had seen him often inhis kind attendance on Miss Flite.   "Very good," said my guardian. "He has been here to-day, my dear,and I will see him about it to-morrow."I felt in this short conversation--though I did not know how, forshe was quiet, and we interchanged no look--that my dear girl wellremembered how merrily she had clasped me round the waist when noother hands than Caddy's had brought me the little parting token.   This caused me to feel that I ought to tell her, and Caddy too,that I was going to be the mistress of Bleak House and that if Iavoided that disclosure any longer I might become less worthy in myown eyes of its master's love. Therefore, when we went upstairsand had waited listening until the clock struck twelve in orderthat only I might be the first to wish my darling all good wisheson her birthday and to take her to my heart, I set before her, justas I had set before myself, the goodness and honour of her cousinJohn and the happy life that was in store for for me. If ever mydarling were fonder of me at one time than another in all ourintercourse, she was surely fondest of me that night. And I was sorejoiced to know it and so comforted by the sense of having doneright in casting this last idle reservation away that I was tentimes happier than I had been before. I had scarcely thought it areservation a few hours ago, but now that it was gone I felt as ifI understood its nature better.   Next day we went to London. We found our old lodging vacant, andin half an hour were quietly established there, as if we had nevergone away. Mr. Woodcourt dined with us to celebrate my darling'sbirthday, and we were as pleasant as we could be with the greatblank among us that Richard's absence naturally made on such anoccasion. After that day I was for some weeks--eight or nine as Iremember--very much with Caddy, and thus it fell out that I sawless of Ada at this time than any other since we had first cometogether, except the time of my own illness. She often came toCaddy's, but our function there was to amuse and cheer her, and wedid not talk in our usual confidential manner. Whenever I wenthome at night we were together, but Caddy's rest was broken bypain, and I often remained to nurse her.   With her husband and her poor little mite of a baby to love andtheir home to strive for, what a good creature Caddy was! So self-denying, so uncomplaining, so anxious to get well on their account,so afraid of giving trouble, and so thoughtful of the unassistedlabours of her husband and the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop; Ihad never known the best of her until now. And it seemed socurious that her pale face and helpless figure should be lyingthere day after day where dancing was the business of life, wherethe kit and the apprentices began early every morning in the ball-room, and where the untidy little boy waltzed by himself in thekitchen all the afternoon.   At Caddy's request I took the supreme direction of her apartment,trimmed it up, and pushed her, couch and all, into a lighter andmore airy and more cheerful corner than she had yet occupied; then,every day, when we were in our neatest array, I used to lay mysmall small namesake in her arms and sit down to chat or work orread to her. It was at one of the first of these quiet times thatI told Caddy about Bleak House.   We had other visitors besides Ada. First of all we had Prince, whoin his hurried intervals of teaching used to come softly in and sitsoftly down, with a face of loving anxiety for Caddy and the verylittle child. Whatever Caddy's condition really was, she neverfailed to declare to Prince that she was all but well--which I,heaven forgive me, never failed to confirm. This would put Princein such good spirits that he would sometimes take the kit from hispocket and play a chord or two to astonish the baby, which I neverknew it to do in the least degree, for my tiny namesake nevernoticed it at all.   Then there was Mrs. Jellyby. She would come occasionally, with herusual distraught manner, and sit calmly looking miles beyond hergrandchild as if her attention were absorbed by a youngBorrioboolan on its native shores. As bright-eyed as ever, asserene, and as untidy, she would say, "Well, Caddy, child, and howdo you do to-day?" And then would sit amiably smiling and takingno notice of the reply or would sweetly glide off into acalculation of the number of letters she had lately received andanswered or of the coffee-bearing power of Borrioboola-Gha. Thisshe would always do with a serene contempt for our limited sphereof action, not to be disguised.   Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop, who was from morning to nightand from night to morning the subject of innumerable precautions.   If the baby cried, it was nearly stifled lest the noise should makehim uncomfortable. If the fire wanted stirring in the night, itwas surreptitiously done lest his rest should be broken. If Caddyrequired any little comfort that the house contained, she firstcarefully discussed whether he was likely to require it too. Inreturn for this consideration he would come into the room once aday, all but blessing it--showing a condescension, and 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 hadnot known better) to have been the benefactor of Caddy's life.   "My Caroline," he would say, making the nearest approach that hecould 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 notqulte prostrated by fatigue?" Here he would crease up his eyelidsand kiss his fingers to me, though I am happy to say he had ceasedto 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 withinfinite generosity and protection--"want for nothing, my love.   Frame a wish and gratify it, my daughter. Everything this housecontains, everything my room contains, is at your service, my dear.   Do not," he would sometimes add in a burst of deportment, "evenallow my simple requirements to be considered if they should at anytime interfere with your own, my Caroline. Your necessities aregreater than mine."He had established such a long prescriptive right to thisdeportment (his son's inheritance from his mother) that I severaltimes knew both Caddy and her husband to be melted to tears bythese affectionate self-sacrifices.   "Nay, my dears," he would remonstrate; and when I saw Caddy's thinarm about his fat neck as he said it, I would be melted too, thoughnot by the same process. "Nay, nay! I have promised never toleave ye. Be dutiful and affectionate towards me, and I ask noother return. Now, bless ye! I am going to the Park."He would take the air there presently and get an appetite for hishotel dinner. I hope I do old Mr. Turveydrop no wrong, but I neversaw any better traits in him than these I faithfully record, exceptthat he certainly conceived a liking for Peepy and would take thechild out walking with great pomp, always on those occasionssending him home before he went to dinner himself, and occasionallywith a halfpenny in his pocket. But even this disinterestednesswas attended with no inconsiderable cost, to my knowledge, forbefore Peepy was sufficiently decorated to walk hand in hand withthe professor of deportment, he had to be newly dressed, at theexpense of Caddy and her husband, from top to toe.   Last of our visitors, there was Mr. Jellyby. Really when he usedto come in of an evening, and ask Caddy in his meek voice how shewas, and then sit down with his head against the wall, and make noattempt to say anything more, I liked him very much. If he foundme bustling about doing any little thing, he sometimes half tookhis coat off, as if with an intention of helping by a greatexertion; but he never got any further. His sole occupation was tosit with his head against the wall, looking hard at the thoughtfulbaby; and I could not quite divest my mind of a fancy that theyunderstood one another.   I have not counted Mr. Woodcourt among our visitors because he wasnow Caddy's regular attendant. She soon began to improve under hiscare, but he was so gentle, so skilful, so unwearying in the painshe took that it is not to be wondered at, I am sure. I saw a gooddeal of Mr. Woodcourt during this time, though not so much as mightbe supposed, for knowing Caddy to be safe in his hands, I oftenslipped home at about the hours when he was expected. Wefrequently met, notwithstanding. I was quite reconciled to myselfnow, but I still felt glad to think that he was sorry for me, andhe still WAS sorry for me I believed. He helped Mr. Badger in hisprofessional engagements, which were numerous, and had as yet nosettled projects for the future.   It was when Caddy began to recover that I began to notice a changein my dear girl. I cannot say how it first presented itself to me,because I observed it in many slight particulars which were nothingin themselves and only became something when they were piecedtogether. But I made it out, by putting them together, that Adawas not so frankly cheerful with me as she used to be. Hertenderness for me was as loving and true as ever; I did not for amoment doubt that; but there was a quiet sorrow about her which shedid not confide to me, and in which I traced some hidden regret.   Now, I could not understand this, and I was so anxious for thehappiness of my own pet that it caused me some uneasiness and setme thinking often. At length, feeling sure that Ada suppressedthis something from me lest it should make me unhappy too, it cameinto my head that she was a little grieved--for me--by what I hadtold her about Bleak House.   How I persuaded myself that this was likely, I don't know. I hadno idea that there was any selfish reference in my doing so. I wasnot grieved for myself: I was quite contented and quite happy.   Still, that Ada might be thinking--for me, though I had abandonedall such thoughts--of what once was, but 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 showher that I had no such feelings? Well! I could only be as briskand busy as possible, and that I had tried to be all along.   However, as Caddy's illness had certainly interfered, more or less,with my home duties--though I had always been there in the morningto make my guardian's breakfast, and he had a hundred times laughedand said there must be two little women, for his little woman wasnever missing--I resolved to be doubly diligent and gay. So I wentabout the house humming all the tunes I knew, and I sat working andworking in a desperate manner, and I talked and talked, morning,noon, and night.   And still there was the same shade between me and my darling.   "So, Dame Trot," observed my guardian, shutting up his book onenight when we were all three together, "so Woodcourt has restoredCaddy Jellyby to the full enjoyment of life again?""Yes," I said; "and to be repaid by such gratitude as hers is to bemade rich, guardian.""I wish it was," he returned, "with all my heart."So did I too, for that matter. I said so.   "Aye! We would make him as rich as a Jew if we knew how. Would wenot, little woman?"I laughed as I worked and replied that I was not sure about that,for it might spoil him, and he might not be so useful, and theremight be many who could ill spare him. As Miss Flite, and Caddyherself, and many others.   "True," said my guardian. "I had forgotten that. But we wouldagree to make him rich enough to live, I suppose? Rich enough towork with tolerable peace of mind? Rich enough to have his ownhappy home and his own household gods--and household goddess, too,perhaps?"That was quite another thing, I said. We must all agree in that.   "To be sure," said my guardian. "All of us. I have a great regardfor Woodcourt, a high esteem for him; and I have been sounding himdelicately about his plans. It is difficult to offer aid to anindependent 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. Heseems half inclined for another voyage. But that appears likecasting such a man away.""It might open a new world to him," said I.   ''So it might, little woman," my guardian assented. ''I doubt ifhe expects much of the old world. Do you know I have fancied thathe sometimes feels some particular disappointment or misfortuneencountered in it. You never heard of anything of that sort?"I shook my head.   "Humph," said my guardian. "I am mistaken, I dare say." As therewas a little pause here, which I thought, for my dear girl'ssatisfaction, had better be filled up, I hummed an air as I workedwhich was a favourite with my guardian.   "And do you think Mr. Woodcourt will make another voyage?" I askedhim when I had hummed it quietly all through.   "I don't quite know what to think, my dear, but I should say it waslikely at present that he will give a long trip to anothercountry.""I am sure he will take the best wishes of all our hearts with himwherever he goes," said I; "and though they are not riches, he willnever be the poorer for them, guardian, at least.""Never, little woman," he replied.   I was sitting in my usual place, which was now beside my guardian'schair. That had not been my usual place before the letter, but itwas now. I looked up to Ada, who was sitting opposite, and I saw,as she looked at me, that her eyes were filled with tears and thattears were falling down her face. I felt that I had only to beplacid and merry once for all to undeceive my dear and set herloving heart at rest. I really was so, and I had nothing to do butto be myself.   So I made my sweet girl lean upon my shoulder--how little thinkingwhat was heavy on her mind!--and I said she was not quite well, andput my arm about her, and took her upstairs. When we were in ourown room, and when she might perhaps have told me what I was sounprepared to hear, I gave her no encouragement to confide in me; Inever thought she stood in need of it.   "Oh, my dear good Esther," said Ada, "if I could only make up mymind to speak to you and my cousin John when you are together!""Why, my love!" I remonstrated. "Ada, why should you not speak tous!"Ada only dropped her head and pressed me closer to her heart.   "You surely don't forget, my beauty," said I, smiling, "what quiet,old-fashioned people we are and how I have settled down to be thediscreetest of dames? You don't forget how happily and peacefullymy life is all marked out for me, and by whom? I am certain thatyou don't forget by what a noble character, Ada. That can neverbe.""No, never, Esther.""Why then, my dear," said I, "there can be nothing amiss--and whyshould you not speak to us?""Nothing amiss, Esther?" returned Ada. "Oh, when I think of allthese years, and of his fatherly care and kindness, and of the oldrelations among us, and of you, what shall I do, what shall I do!"I looked at my child in some wonder, but I thought it better not toanswer otherwise than by cheering her, and so I turned off intomany little recollections of our life together and prevented herfrom saying more. When she lay down to sleep, and not before, Ireturned to my guardian to say good night, and then I came back toAda and sat near her for a little while.   She was asleep, and I thought as I looked at her that she was alittle changed. I had thought so more than once lately. I couldnot decide, even looking at her while she was unconscious, how shewas changed, but something in the familiar beauty of her facelooked different to me. My guardian's old hopes of her and Richardarose sorrowfully in my mind, and I said to myself, "She has beenanxious about him," and I wondered how that love would end.   When I had come home from Caddy's while she was ill, I had oftenfound Ada at work, and she had always put her work away, and I hadnever known what it was. Some of it now lay in a drawer near her,which was not quite closed. I did not open the drawer, but I stillrather wondered what the work could he, for it was evidentlynothing for herself.   And I noticed as I kissed my dear that she lay with one hand underher pillow so that it was hidden.   How much less amiable I must have been than they thought me, howmuch less amiable than I thought myself, to be so preoccupied withmy own cheerfulness and contentment as to think that it only restedwith me to put my dear girl right and set her mind at peace!   But I lay down, self-deceived, in that belief. And I awoke in itnext day to find that there was still the same shade between me andmy darling. Chapter 51 Enlightened When Mr. Woodcourt arrived in London, he went, that very same day,to Mr. Vholes's in Symond's Inn. For he never once, from themoment when I entreated him to be a friend to Richard, neglected orforgot his promise. He had told me that he accepted the charge asa sacred trust, and he was ever true to it in that spirit.   He found Mr. Vholes in his office and informed Mr. Vholes of hisagreement with Richard that he should call there to learn hisaddress.   "Just so, sir," said Mr. Vholes. "Mr. C.'s address is not ahundred miles from here, sir, Mr. C.'s address is not a hundredmiles from here. Would you take a seat, sir?"Mr. Woodcourt thanked Mr. Vholes, but he had no business with himbeyond what he had mentioned.   "Just so, sir. I believe, sir," said Mr. Vholes, still quietlyinsisting on the seat by not giving the address, "that you haveinfluence with Mr. C. Indeed I am aware that you have.""I was not aware of it myself," returned Mr. Woodcourt; "but Isuppose you know best.""Sir," rejoined Mr. Vholes, self-contained as usual, voice and all,"it is a part of my professional duty to know best. It is a partof my professional duty to study and to understand a gentleman whoconfides his interests to me. In my professional duty I shall notbe wanting, sir, if I know it. I may, with the best intentions, bewanting 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.   Sir, Mr. C. is playing for a considerable stake, and cannot playwithout--need I say what?""Money, I presume?""Sir," said Mr. Vholes, "to be honest with you (honesty being mygolden rule, whether I gain by it or lose, and I find that Igenerally lose), money is the word. Now, sir, upon the chances ofMr. C.'s game I express to you no opinion, NO opinion. It might behighly impolitic in Mr. C., after playing so long and so high, toleave off; it might be the reverse; I say nothing. No, sir," saidMr. Vholes, bringing his hand flat down upon his desk in a positivemanner, "nothing.""You seem to forget," returned Mr, Woodcourt, "that I ask you tosay nothing and have no interest in anything you say.""Pardon me, sir!" retorted Mr. Vholes. "You do yourself aninjustice. No, sir! Pardon me! You shall not--shall not in myoffice, if I know it--do yourself an injustice. You are interestedin anything, and in everything, that relates to your friend. Iknow human nature much better, sir, than to admit for an instantthat a gentleman of your appearance is not interested in whateverconcerns his friend.""Well," replied Mr. Woodcourt, "that may be. I am particularlyinterested in his address.""The number, sir," said Mr. Vholes parenthetically, "I believe Ihave already mentioned. If Mr. C. is to continue to play for thisconsiderable stake, sir, he must have funds. Understand me! Thereare funds in hand at present. I ask for nothing; there are fundsin hand. But for the onward play, more funds must be provided,unless Mr. C. is to throw away what he has already ventured, whichis wholly and solely a point for his consideration. This, sir, Itake 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 ofthe estate, not beyond that. I could not go beyond that, sir,without wronging some one. I must either wrong my three dear girlsor my venerable father, who is entirely dependent on me, in theVale of Taunton; or some one. Whereas, sir, my resolution is (callit 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. Vholes, "to leave a good name behind me.   Therefore I take every opportunity of openly stating to a friend ofMr. C. how Mr. C. is situated. As to myself, sir, the labourer isworthy of his hire. If I undertake to put my shoulder to thewheel, 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. Vholes, "as I believe I have already mentioned,it is next door. On the second story you will find Mr. C.'sapartments. 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 insearch of Richard, the change in whose appearance he began tounderstand now but too well.   He found him in a dull room, fadedly furnished, much as I had foundhim in his barrack-room but a little while before, except that hewas not writing but was sitting with a book before him, from whichhis eyes and thoughts were far astray. As the door chanced to bestanding open, Mr. Woodcourt was in his presence for some momentswithout being perceived, and he told me that he never could forgetthe haggardness of his face and the dejection of his manner beforehe was aroused from his dream.   "Woodcourt, my dear fellow," cried Richard, starting up withextended hands, "you come upon my vision like a ghost.""A friendly one," he replied, "and only waiting, as they say ghostsdo, to be addressed. How does the mortal world go?" They wereseated now, near together.   "Badly enough, and slowly enough," said Richard, "speaking at leastfor my part of it.""What part is that?""The Chancery part.""I never heard," returned Mr. Woodcourt, shaking his head, "of itsgoing well yet.""Nor I," said Richard moodily. "Who ever did?" He brightenedagain in a moment and said with his natural openness, "Woodcourt, Ishould be sorry to be misunderstood by you, even if I gained by itin your estimation. You must know that I have done no good thislong time. I have not intended to do much harm, but I seem to havebeen capable of nothing else. It may be that I should have donebetter by keeping out of the net into which my destiny has workedme, but I think not, though I dare say you will soon hear, if youhave not already heard, a very different opinion. To make short ofa long story, I am afraid I have wanted an object; but I have anobject now--or it has me--and it is too late to discuss it. Takeme as I am, and make the best of me.""A bargain," said Mr. Woodcourt. "Do as much by me in return.""Oh! You," returned Richard, "you can pursue your art for its ownsake, and can put your hand upon the plough and never turn, and canstrike a purpose out of anything. You and I are very differentcreatures."He spoke regretfully and lapsed for a moment into his wearycondition.   "Well, well!" he cried, shaking it off. "Everything has an end.   We shall see! So you will take me as I am, and make the best ofme?""Aye! Indeed I will." They shook hands upon it laughingly, but indeep earnestness. I can answer for one of them with my heart ofhearts.   "You come as a godsend," said Richard, "for I have seen nobody hereyet but Vholes. Woodcourt, there is one subject I should like tomention, for once and for all, in the beginning of our treaty. Youcan 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. "Nowpray," returned Richard, "don't think me a heap of selfishness.   Don't suppose that I am splitting my head and half breaking myheart over this miserable Chancery suit for my own rights andinterests alone. Ada's are bound up with mine; they can't beseparated; Vholes works for both of us. Do think of that!"He was so very solicitous on this head that Mr. Woodcourt gave himthe strongest assurances that he did him no injustice.   "You see," said Richard, with something pathetic in his manner oflingering on the point, though it was off-hand and unstudied, "toan upright fellow like you, bringing a friendly face like yourshere, I cannot bear the thought of appearing selfish and mean. Iwant to see Ada righted, Woodcourt, as well as myself; I want to domy utmost to right her, as well as myself; I venture what I canscrape together to extricate her, as well as myself. Do, I beseechyou, think of that!"Afterwards, when Mr. Woodcourt came to reflect on what had passed,he was so very much impressed by the strength of Richard's anxietyon this point that in telling me generally of his first visit toSymond's Inn he particularly dwelt upon it. It revived a fear Ihad had before that my dear girl's little property would beabsorbed by Mr. Vholes and that Richard's justification to himselfwould be sincerely this. It was just as I began to take care ofCaddy that the interview took place, and I now return to the timewhen Caddy had recovered and the shade was still between me and mydarling.   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 soradiantly willing as I had expected.   "My dear," said I, "you have not had any difference with Richardsince 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 eyes, and such love in her face. I could notmake my darling out. Should I go to Richard's by myself? I said.   No, Ada thought I had better not go by myself. Would she go withme? Yes, Ada thought she had better go with me. Should we go now?   Yes, let us go now. Well, I could not understand my darling, withthe tears in her eyes and the love in her face!   We were soon equipped and went out. It was a sombre day, and dropsof chill rain fell at intervals. It was one of those colourlessdays when everything looks heavy and harsh. The houses frowned atus, the dust rose at us, the smoke swooped at us, nothing made anycompromise about itself or wore a softened aspect. I fancied mybeautiful girl quite out of place in the rugged streets, and Ithought there were more funerals passing along the dismal pavementsthan I had ever seen before.   We had first to find out Symond's Inn. We were going to inquire ina shop when Ada said she thought it was near Chancery Lane. "Weare not likely to be far out, my love, if we go in that direction,"said I. So to Chancery Lane we went, and there, sure enough, wesaw it written up. Symond's Inn.   We had next to find out the number. "Or Mr. Vholes's office willdo," I recollected, "for Mr. Vholes's office is next door." Uponwhich Ada said, perhaps that was Mr. Vholes's office in the cornerthere. And it really was.   Then came the question, which of the two next doors? I was goingfor the one, and my darling was going for the other; and my darlingwas right again. So up we went to the second story, when we cameto Richard's name in great white letters on a hearse-like panel.   I should have knocked, but Ada said perhaps we had better turn thehandle and go in. Thus we came to Richard, poring over a tablecovered with dusty bundles of papers which seemed to me like dustymirrors reflecting his own mind. Wherever I looked I saw theominous words that ran in it repeated. Jarndyce and Jarndyce.   He received us very affectionately, and we sat down. "If you hadcome a little earlier," he said, "you would have found Woodcourthere. There never was such a good fellow as Woodcourt is. Hefinds time to look in between-whiles, when anybody else with halfhis work to do would be thinking about not being able to come. Andhe is so cheery, so fresh, so sensible, so earnest, so--everythingthat I am not, that the place brightens whenever he comes, anddarkens whenever he goes again.""God bless him," I thought, "for his truth to me!""He is not so sanguine, Ada," continued Richard, casting hisdejected look over the bundles of papers, "as Vholes and I areusually, 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 toknow much of such a labyrinth."As his look wandered over the papers again and he passed his twohands over his head, I noticed how sunken and how large his eyesappeared, how dry his lips were, and how his finger-nails were allbitten 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 sunshines here, you may lay a pretty heavy wager that it is shiningbrightly in an open spot. But it's well enough for the time. It'snear the offices and near Vholes.""Perhaps," I hinted, "a change from both--""Might do me good?" said Richard, forcing a laugh as he finishedthe sentence. "I shouldn't wonder! But it can only come in oneway now--in one of two ways, I should rather say. Either the suitmust be ended, Esther, or the suitor. But it shall be the suit, mydear girl, the suit, my dear girl!"These latter words were addressed to Ada, who was sitting nearestto him. Her face being turned away from me and towards him, Icould not see it.   "We are doing very well," pursued Richard. "Vholes will tell youso. We are really spinning along. Ask Vholes. We are giving themno rest. Vholes knows all their windings and turnings, and we areupon them everywhere. We have astonished them already. We shallrouse up that nest of sleepers, mark my words!"His hopefulness had long been more painful to me than hisdespondency; it was so unlike hopefulness, had something so fiercein its determination to be it, was so hungry and eager, and yet soconscious of being forced and unsustainable that it had longtouched me to the heart. But the commentary upon it now indeliblywritten in his handsome face made it far more distressing than itused to be. I say indelibly, for I felt persuaded that if thefatal cause could have been for ever terminated, according to hisbrightest visions, in that same hour, the traces of the prematureanxiety, self-reproach, and disappointment it had occasioned himwould have remained upon his features to the hour of his death.   "The sight of our dear little woman," said Richard, Ada stillremaining silent and quiet, "is so natural to me, and hercompassionate face is so like the face of old days--"Ah! No, no. I smiled and shook my head.   "--So exactly like the face of old days," said Richard in hiscordial voice, and taking my hand with the brotherly regard whichnothing ever changed, "that I can't make pretences with her. Ifluctuate a little; that's the truth. Sometimes I hope, my dear,and sometimes I--don't quite despair, but nearly. I get," saidRichard, relinquishing 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 weary, weary work!"He was leaning on his arm saying these words in a meditative voiceand looking at the ground when my darling rose, put off her bonnet,kneeled down beside him with her golden hair falling like sunlighton his head, clasped her two arms round his neck, and turned herface to me. Oh, what a loving and devoted face I saw!   "Esther, dear," she said very quietly, "I 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 havebeen married above two months. Go home without me, my own Esther;I shall never go home any more!" With those words my darling drewhis head down on her breast and held it there. And if ever in mylife I saw a love that nothing but death could change, I saw itthen before me.   "Speak to Esther, my dearest," said Richard, breaking the silencepresently. "Tell her how it was."I met her before she could come to me and folded her in my arms.   We neither of us spoke, but with her cheek against my own I wantedto hear nothing. "My pet," said I. "My love. My poor, poorgirl!" I pitied her so much. I was very fond of Richard, but theimpulse 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 I, "to doubt it for a moment is to do him a greatwrong. And as to me!" Why, as to me, what 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 thatso different night when they had first taken me into theirconfidence and had gone on in their own wild happy way, they toldme between them how it was.   "All I had was Richard's," Ada said; "and Richard would not takeit, Esther, and what could I do but be his wife when I loved himdearly!""And you were so fully and so kindly occupied, excellent DameDurden," said Richard, "that how could we speak to you at such atime! And besides, it was not a long-considered step. We went outone morning and were married.""And when it was done, Esther," said my darling, "I was alwaysthinking how to tell you and what to do for the best. Andsometimes I thought you ought to know it directly, and sometimes Ithought 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! Idon't know what I said now. I was so sorry, and yet I was so fondof them and so glad that they were fond of me; I pitied them somuch, and yet I felt a kind of pride in their loving one another.   I never had experienced such painful and pleasurable emotion at onetime, and in my own heart I did not know which predominated. But Iwas not there to darken their way; I did not do that.   When I was less foolish and more composed, my darling took herwedding-ring from her bosom, and kissed it, and put it on. Then Iremembered last night and told Richard that ever since her marriageshe had worn it at night when there was no one to see. Then Adablushingly asked me how did I know that, my dear. Then I told Adahow I had seen her hand concealed under her pillow and had littlethought why, my dear. Then they began telling me how it was allover again, and I began to be sorry and glad again, and foolishagain, and to hide my plain old face as much as I could lest Ishould put them out of heart.   Thus the time went on until it became necessary for me to think ofreturning. When that time arrived it was the worst of all, forthen my darling completely broke down. She clung round my neck,calling me by every dear name she could think of and saying whatshould she do without me! Nor was Richard much better; and as forme, I should have been the worst of the three if I had not severelysaid to myself, "Now Esther, if you do, I'll never speak to youagain!""Why, I declare," said I, "I never saw such a wife. I don't thinkshe loves her husband at all. Here, Richard, take my child, forgoodness' sake." But I held her tight all the while, and couldhave wept over her I don't know how long.   "I give this dear young couple notice," said I, "that I am onlygoing away to come back to-morrow and that I shall be always comingbackwards and forwards until Symond's Inn is tired of the sight ofme. So I shall not say good-bye, Richard. For what would be theuse of that, you know, when I am coming back so soon!"I had given my darling to him now, and I meant to go; but Ilingered for one more look of the precious face which it seemed torive my heart to turn from.   So I said (in a merry, bustling manner) that unless they gave mesome encouragement to come back, I was not sure that I could takethat liberty, upon which my dear girl looked up, faintly smilingthrough her tears, and I folded her lovely face between my hands,and gave it one last kiss, and laughed, and ran away.   And when I got downstairs, oh, how I cried! It almost seemed to methat I had lost my Ada for ever. I was so lonely and so blankwithout her, and it was so desolate to be going home with no hopeof seeing her there, that I could get no comfort for a little whileas I walked up and down in a dim corner sobbing and crying.   I came to myself by and by, after a little scolding, and took acoach home. The poor boy whom I had found at St. Albans hadreappeared a short time before and was lying at the point of death;indeed, was then dead, though I did not know it. My guardian hadgone out to inquire about him and did not return to dinner. Beingquite alone, I cried a little again, though on the whole I don'tthink I behaved so very, very ill.   It was only natural that I should not be quite accustomed to theloss of my darling yet. Three or four hours were not a long timeafter years. But my mind dwelt so much upon the uncongenial scenein which I had left her, and I pictured it as such an overshadowedstony-hearted one, and I so longed to be near her and taking somesort of care of her, that I determined to go back in the eveningonly to look up at her windows.   It was foolish, I dare say, but it did not then seem at all so tome, and it does not seem quite so even now. I took Charley into myconfidence, and we went out at dusk. It was dark when we came tothe new strange home of my dear girl, and there was a light behindthe yellow blinds. We walked past cautiously three or four times,looking up, and narrowly missed encountering Mr. Vholes, who cameout of his office while we were there and turned his head to lookup too before going home. The sight of his lank black figure andthe lonesome air of that nook in the dark were favourable to thestate of my mind. I thought of the youth and love and beauty of mydear girl, shut up in such an ill-assorted refuge, almost as if itwere a cruel place.   It was very solitary and very dull, and I did not doubt that Imight safely steal upstairs. I left Charley below and went up witha light foot, not distressed by any glare from the feeble oillanterns on the way. I listened for a few moments, and in themusty rotting silence of the house believed that I could hear themurmur of their young voices. I put my lips to the hearse-likepanel of the door as a kiss for my dear and came quietly downagain, thinking that one of these days I would confess to thevisit.   And it really did me good, for though nobody but Charley and I knewanything about it, I somehow felt as if it had diminished theseparation between Ada and me and had brought us together again forthose moments. I went back, not quite accustomed yet to thechange, but all the better for that hovering about my darling.   My guardian had come home and was standing thoughtfully by the darkwindow. When I went in, his face cleared and he came to his seat,but he caught the light upon my face as I took mine.   "Little woman," said he, "You have been crying.""Why, yes, guardian," said I, "I 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 chair, and I saw in his glance thatmy 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 referredto his forgiveness.   "She has no need of it," said he. "Heaven bless her and herhusband!" But just as my first impulse had been to pity her, sowas his. "Poor girl, poor girl! Poor Rick! Poor Ada!"Neither of us spoke after that, until he said with a sigh, "Well,well, my dear! Bleak House is thinning fast.""But its mistress remains, guardian." Though I was timid aboutsaying it, I ventured because of the sorrowful tone in which he hadspoken. "She will do all she can to make it happy," said I.   "She will succeed, my love!"The letter had made no difference between us except that the seatby his side had come to be mine; it made none now. He turned hisold bright fatherly look upon me, laid his hand on my hand in hisold way, and said again, "She 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 wasrather disappointed. I feared I might not quite have been all Ihad meant to be since the letter and the answer. Chapter 52 Obstinacy But one other day had intervened when, early in the morning as wewere going to breakfast, Mr. Woodcourt came in haste with theastounding news that a terrible murder had been committed for whichMr. George had been apprehended and was in custody. When he toldus that a large reward was offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock for themurderer's apprehension, I did not in my first consternationunderstand why; but a few more words explained to me that themurdered person was Sir Leicester's lawyer, and immediately mymother's dread of him rushed into my remembrance.   This unforeseen and violent removal of one whom she had longwatched and distrusted and who had long watched and distrusted her,one for whom she could have had few intervals of kindness, alwaysdreading in him a dangerous and secret enemy, appeared so awfulthat my first thoughts were of her. How appalling to hear of sucha death and be able to feel no pity! How dreadful to remember,perhaps, that she had sometimes even wished the old man away whowas so swiftly hurried out of life!   Such crowding reflections, increasing the distress and fear Ialways felt when the name was mentioned, made me so agitated that Icould scarcely hold my place at the table. I was quite unable tofollow the conversation until I had had a little time to recover.   But when I came to myself and saw how shocked my guardian was andfound that they were earnestly speaking of the suspected man andrecalling every favourable impression we had formed of him out ofthe good we had known of him, my interest and my fears were sostrongly 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 open-hearted and compassionate, who with the might of a giant has thegentleness of a child, who looks as brave a fellow as ever livedand is so simple and quiet with it, this man justly accused of sucha crime? I can't believe it. It's not that I don't or I won't. Ican't!""And I can't," said Mr. Woodcourt. "Still, whatever we believe orknow of him, we had better not forget that some appearances areagainst him. He bore an animosity towards the deceased gentleman.   He has openly mentioned it in many places. He is said to haveexpressed himself violently towards him, and he certainly did abouthim, to my knowledge. He admits that he was alone on the scene ofthe murder within a few minutes of its commission. I sincerelybelieve 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 added, turning to me, "It wouldbe doing him a very bad service, my dear, to shut our eyes to thetruth in any of these respects."I felt, of course, that we must admit, not only to ourselves but toothers, the full force of the circumstances against him. Yet Iknew withal (I could not help saying) that their weight would notinduce us to desert him in his need.   "Heaven forbid!" returned my guardian. "We will stand by him, ashe himself stood by the two poor creatures who are gone." He meantMr. Gridley and the boy, to both of whom Mr. George had givenshelter.   Mr. Woodcourt then told us that the trooper's man had been with himbefore day, after wandering about the streets all night like adistracted creature. That one of the trooper's first anxieties wasthat we should not suppose him guilty. That he had charged hismessenger to represent his perfect innocence with every solemnassurance be could send us. That Mr. Woodcourt had only quietedthe man by undertaking to come to our house very early in themorning with these representations. He added that he was now uponhis way to see the prisoner himself.   My guardian said directly he would go too. Now, besides that Iliked the retired soldier very much and that he liked me, I hadthat secret interest in what had happened which was only known tomy guardian. I felt as if it came close and near to me. It seemedto become personally important to myself that the truth should bediscovered and that no innocent people should be suspected, forsuspicion, once run wild, might run wilder.   In a word, I felt as if it were my duty and obligation to go withthem. My guardian did not seek to dissuade me, and I went.   It was a large prison with many courts and passages so like oneanother and so uniformly paved that I seemed to gain a newcomprehension, as I passed along, of the fondness that solitaryprisoners, shut 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. Inan arched room by himself, like a cellar upstairs, with walls soglaringly white that they made the massive iron window-bars andiron-bound door even more profoundly black than they were, we foundthe trooper standing in a corner. He had been sitting on a benchthere and had risen when he heard the locks and bolts turn.   When he saw us, he 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 him, he understood us in a moment.   "This is a load off my mind, I do assure you, miss and gentlemen,"said he, saluting us with great heartiness and drawing a longbreath. "And now I don't so much care how it ends."He scarcely seemed to be the prisoner. What with his coolness andhis soldierly bearing, he looked far more like the prison guard.   "This is even a rougher place than my gallery to receive a ladyin," said Mr. George, "but I know Miss Summerson will make the bestof it." As he handed me to the bench on which he had been sitting,I sat down, which seemed to give him great satisfaction.   "I thank you, miss," said he.   "Now, George," observed my guardian, "as we require no newassurances on your part, so I believe we need give you none onours.""Not at all, sir. I thank you with all my heart. If I was notinnocent of this crime, I couldn't look at you and keep my secretto myself under the condescension of the present visit. I feel thepresent visit very much. I am not one of the eloquent sort, but Ifeel it, Miss Summerson and gentlemen, deeply."He laid his hand for a moment on his broad chest and bent his beadto us. Although he squared himself again directly, he expressed agreat amount of natural emotion by these simple means.   "First," said my guardian, "can we do anything for your personalcomfort, George?""For which, sir?" he inquired, clearing his throat.   "For your personal comfort. Is there anything you want that wouldlessen the hardship of this confinement?""Well, sir," replied George, after a little cogitation, "I amequally obliged to you, but tobacco being against the rules, Ican'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 hissunburnt smiles, "a man who has been knocking about the world in avagabond kind of a way as long as I have gets on well enough in aplace like the present, so far as that goes.""Next, as to your case," observed my guardian.   "Exactly so, sir," returned Mr. George, folding his arms upon hisbreast with perfect self-possession and a little curiosity.   "How does it stand now?""Why, sir, it is under remand at present. Bucket gives me tounderstand that he will probably apply for a series of remands fromtime to time until the case is more complete. How it is to be mademore complete I don't myself see, but I dare say Bucket will manageit somehow.""Why, heaven save us, man," exclaimed my guardian, surprised intohis old oddity and vehemence, "you talk of yourself as if you weresomebody else!""No offence, sir," said Mr. George. "I am very sensible of yourkindness. But I don't see how an innocent man is to make up hismind to this kind of thing without knocking his head against thewalls unless he takes it in that point of view.   "That is true enough to a certain extent," returned my guardian,softened. "But my good fellow, even an innocent man must takeordinary precautions to defend himself.""Certainly, sir. And I have done so. I have stated to themagistrates, 'Gentlemen, I am as innocent of this charge asyourselves; what has been stated against me in the way of facts isperfectly true; I know no more about it.' I intend to continuestating 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. Georgegood-humouredly observed.   "You must have a lawyer," pursued my guardian. "We must engage agood one for you.""I ask your pardon, sir," said Mr. George with a step backward. "Iam equally obliged. But I must decidedly beg to be excused fromanything 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. "Gridleydidn't. And--if you'll excuse my saying so much--I should hardlyhave thought you did yourself, sir.""That's equity," my guardian explained, a little at a loss; "that'sequity, George.""Is it, indeed, sir?" returned the trooper in his off-hand manner.   "I am not acquainted with those shades of names myself, but in ageneral way I object to the breed."Unfolding his arms and changing his position, he stood with onemassive hand upon the table and the other on his hip, as complete apicture of a man who was not to be moved from a fixed purpose asever I saw. It was in vain that we all three talked to him andendeavoured to persuade him; he listened with that gentleness whichwent so well with his bluff bearing, but was evidently no moreshaken by our representations that his place of confinement was.   "Pray think, once more, Mr. George," said I. "Have you no wish inreference to your case?""I certainly could wish it to be tried, miss," he returned, "bycourt-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 acouple of minutes, miss, not more, I'll endeavour to explain myselfas clearly as I can."He looked at us all three in turn, shook his head a little as if hewere adjusting it in the stock and collar of a tight uniform, andafter a moment's reflection went on.   "You see, miss, I have been handcuffed and taken into custody andbrought here. I am a marked and disgraced man, and here I am. Myshooting gallery is rummaged, high and low, by Bucket; suchproperty as I have--'tis small--is turned this way and that till itdon't know itself; and (as aforesaid) here I am! I don'tparticular complain of that. Though I am in these present quartersthrough no immediately preceding fault of mine, I can very wellunderstand that if I hadn't gone into the vagabond way in my youth,this wouldn't have happened. It HAS happened. Then comes thequestion how to meet it"He rubbed his swarthy forehead for a moment with a good-humouredlook and said apologetically, "I am such a short-winded talker thatI must think a bit." Having thought a bit, he looked up again andresumed.   "How to meet it. Now, the unfortunate deceased was himself alawyer and had a pretty tight hold of me. I don't wish to rake uphis ashes, but he had, what I should call if he was living, a devilof 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 thisplace. But that's not what I mean. Now, suppose I had killed him.   Suppose I really had discharged into his body any one of thosepistols recently fired off that Bucket has found at my place, anddear 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 alawyer."He stopped on hearing some one at the locks and bolts and did notresume until the door had been opened and was shut again. For whatpurpose opened, I will mention presently.   "I should have got a lawyer, and he would have said (as I haveoften read in the newspapers), 'My client says nothing, my clientreserves his defence': my client this, that, and t'other. Well,'tis not the custom of that breed to go straight, according to myopinion, or to think that other men do. Say I am innocent and Iget 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 circumstancesback, chop the evidence small, quibble, and get me off perhaps!   But, Miss Summerson, do I care for getting off in that way; orwould I rather be hanged in my own way--if you'll excuse mymentioning anything so disagreeable to a lady?"He had warmed into his subject now, and was under no furthernecessity to wait a bit.   "I would rather be hanged in my own way. And I mean to be! Idon't intend to say," looking round upon us with his powerful armsakimbo and his dark eyebrows raised, "that I am more partial tobeing hanged than another man. What I say is, I must come offclear and full or not at all. Therefore, when I hear statedagainst 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; Imean it to be used. If they can't make me innocent out of thewhole truth, they are not likely to do it out of anything less, oranything else. And if they are, it's worth nothing to me."Taking a pace or two over the stone floor, he came back to thetable and finished what he had to say.   "I thank you, miss and gentlemen both, many times for yourattention, and many times more for your interest. That's the plainstate of the matter as it points itself out to a mere trooper witha blunt broadsword kind of a mind. I have never done well in lifebeyond my duty as a soldier, and if the worst comes after all, Ishall reap pretty much as I have sown. When I got over the firstcrash of being seized as a murderer--it don't take a rover who hasknocked about so much as myself so very long to recover from acrash--I worked my way round to what you find me now. As such Ishall remain. No relations will be disgraced by me or made unhappyfor me, and--and that's all I've got to say."The door had been opened to admit another soldier-looking man ofless prepossessing appearance at first sight and a weather-tanned,bright-eyed wholesome woman with a basket, who, from 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 hisaddress. He now shook them cordially by the hand and said, "MissSummerson and gentlemen, this is an old comrade of mine, MatthewBagnet. And this is his wife, Mrs. Bagnet."Mr. Bagnet made us a stiff military bow, and Mrs. Bagnet dropped usa curtsy.   "Real good friends of mine, they are," sald Mr. George. "It was attheir house I was taken.""With a second-hand wiolinceller," Mr. Bagnet put in, twitching hishead angrily. "Of a good tone. For a friend. That money was noobject to.""Mat," said Mr. George, "you have heard pretty well all I have beensaying to this lady and these two gentlemen. I know it meets yourapproval?"Mr. Bagnet, after considering, referred the point to his wife.   "Old girl," said he. "Tell him. Whether or not. It meets myapproval.""Why, George," exclaimed Mrs. Bagnet, who had been unpacking herbasket, in which there was a piece of cold pickled pork, a littletea and sugar, and a brown loaf, "you ought to know it don't. Youought to know it's enough to drive a person wild to hear you. Youwon't be got off this way, and you won't be got off that way--whatdo 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 thetrooper lightly.   "Oh! Bother your misfortunes," cried Mrs. Bagnet, "if they don'tmake you more reasonable than that comes to. I never was soashamed in my life to hear a man talk folly as I have been to hearyou talk this day to the present company. Lawyers? Why, what buttoo many cooks should hinder you from having a dozen lawyers if thegentleman recommended them to you""This is a very sensible woman," said my guardian. "I hope youwill persuade him, Mrs. Bagnet.""Persuade him, sir?" she returned. "Lord bless you, no. You don'tknow George. Now, there!" Mrs. Bagnet left her basket to pointhim out with both her bare brown hands. "There he stands! Asself-willed and as determined a man, in the wrong way, as ever puta human creature under heaven out of patience! You could as soontake up and shoulder an eight and forty pounder by your ownstrength as turn that man when he has got a thing into his head andfixed it there. Why, don't I know him!" cried Mrs. Bagnet. "Don'tI know you, George! You don't mean to set up for a new characterwith ME after all these years, I hope?"Her friendly indignation had an exemplary effect upon her husband,who shook his head at the trooper several times as a silentrecommendation to him to yield. Between whiles, Mrs. Bagnet lookedat me; and I understood from the play of her eyes that she wishedme to do something, though 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 aswell as I do, they'll give up talking to you too. If you are nottoo headstrong to accept of a bit of dinner, here it is.""I accept it with many thanks," returned the trooper.   "Do you though, indeed?" said Mrs. Bagnet, continuing to grumble ongood-humouredly. "I'm sure I'm surprised at that I wonder youdon't starve in your own way also. It would only be like you.   Perhaps you'll set your mind upon THAT next." Here she againlooked at me, and I now perceived from her glances at the door andat me, by turns, that she wished us to retire and to await herfollowing us outside the prison. Communicating this by similarmeans to my guardian and Mr. Woodcourt, I rose.   "We hope you will think better of it, Mr. George," said I, "and weshall 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 entreatyou to consider that the clearing up of this mystery and thediscovery of the real perpetrator of this deed may be of the lastimportance to others besides yourself."He heard me respectfully but without much heeding these words,which I spoke a little turned from him, already on my way to thedoor; he was observing (this they afterwards told me) my height andfigure, which 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 answered, "when my ill fortune took me to the deadman's staircase on the night of his murder, I saw a shape so likeMiss Summerson's go by me in the dark that I had half a mind tospeak to it."For an instant I felt such a shudder as I never felt before orsince and hope I shall never feel again.   "It came downstairs as I went up," said the trooper, "and crossedthe moonlighted window with a loose black mantle on; I noticed adeep fringe to it. However, it has nothing to do with the presentsubject, excepting that Miss Summerson looked so like it at themoment that it came into my head."I cannot separate and define the feelings that arose in me afterthis; it is enough that the vague duty and obligation I had feltupon me from the first of following the investigation was, withoutmy distinctly daring to ask myself any question, increased, andthat I was indignantly sure of there being no possibility of areason for my being afraid.   We three went out of the prison and walked up and down at some shortdistance from the gate, which was in a retired place. We had notwaited long when Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet came out too and quicklyjoined us.   There was a tear in each of Mrs. Bagnet's eyes, and her face wasflushed and hurried. "I didn't let George see what I thought aboutit, you know, miss," was her first remark when she came up, "buthe's in a bad way, poor old fellow!""Not with care and prudence and good help," said my guardian.   "A gentleman like you ought to know best, sir," returned Mrs.   Bagnet, hurriedly drying her eyes on the hem of her grey cloak,"but I am uneasy for him. He has been so careless and said so muchthat he never meant. The gentlemen of the juries might notunderstand him as Lignum and me do. And then such a number ofcircumstances have happened bad for him, and such a number ofpeople will be brought forward to speak against him, and Bucket isso 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 miss, Imean all! Just come into the corner of the wall and I'll tellyou!"Mrs. Bagnet hurried us into a more secluded place and was at firsttoo breathless to proceed, occasioning Mr. Bagnet to say, "Oldgirl! Tell 'em!""Why, then, miss," the old girl proceeded, untying the strings ofher bonnet for more air, "you could as soon move Dover Castle asmove George on this point unless you had got a new power to movehim with. And I have got it!""You are a jewel of a woman," said my guardian. "Go on!""Now, I tell you, miss," she proceeded, clapping her hands in herhurry and agitation a dozen times in every sentence, "that what hesays 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 thanto anybody else, and it warn't for nothing that he once spoke to myWoolwich about whitening and wrinkling mothers' heads. For fiftypounds he had seen his mother that day. She's alive and must bebrought here straight!"Instantly Mrs. Bagnet put some pins into her mouth and beganpinning up her skirts all round a little higher than the level ofher grey cloak, which she accomplished with surpassing dispatch anddexterity.   "Lignum," said Mrs. Bagnet, "you take care of the children, oldman, and give me the umbrella! I'm away to Lincolnshire to bringthat old lady here.""But, bless the woman," cried my guardian with his hand in hispocket, "how is she going? What money has she got?"Mrs. Bagnet made another application to her skirts and broughtforth a leathern purse in which she hastily counted over a fewshillings and which she then shut up with perfect satisfaction.   "Never you mind for me, miss. I'm a soldier's wife and accustomedto travel my own way. Lignum, old boy," kissing him, "one foryourself, three for the children. Now I'm away into Lincolnshireafter George's mother!"And she actually set off while we three stood looking at oneanother lost in amazement. She actually trudged away in her greycloak at a sturdy pace, and turned the corner, and was gone.   "Mr. Bagnet," said my guardian. "Do you mean to let her go in thatway?""Can't help it," he returned. "Made her way home once from anotherquarter of the world. With the same grey cloak. And sameumbrella. Whatever the old girl says, do. Do it! Whenever theold girl says, I'LL do it. She does it.""Then she is as honest and genuine as she looks," rejoined myguardian, "and it is impossible to say more for her.""She's Colour-Sergeant of the Nonpareil battalion," said Mr.   Bagnet, looking 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 53 The Track Mr. Bucket and his fat forefinger are much in consultation togetherunder existing circumstances. When Mr. Bucket has a matter of thispressing interest under his consideration, the fat forefinger seemsto rise, to the dignity of a familiar demon. He puts it to hisears, and it whispers information; he puts it to his lips, and itenjoins him to secrecy; he rubs it over his nose, and it sharpenshis scent; he shakes it before a guilty man, and it charms him tohis destruction. The Augurs of the Detective Temple invariablypredict that when Mr. Bucket and that finger are in muchconference, a terrible avenger will be heard of before long.   Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human nature, onthe whole a benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe uponthe follies of mankind, Mr. Bucket pervades a vast number of housesand strolls about an infinity of streets, to outward appearancerather languishing for want of an object. He is in the friendliestcondition towards his species and will drink with most of them. Heis free with his money, affable in his manners, innocent in hisconversation--but through the placid stream of his life thereglides 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--but, very unlike man indeed,he is here again the next day. This evening he will be casuallylooking into the iron extinguishers at the door of Sir LeicesterDedlock's house in town; and to-morrow morning he will be walkingon the leads at Chesney Wold, where erst the old man walked whoseghost is propitiated with a hundred guineas. Drawers, desks,pockets, all things belonging to him, Mr. Bucket examines. A fewhours afterwards, he and the Roman will be alone together comparingforefingers.   It is likely that these occupations are irreconcilable with homeenjoyment, but it is certain that Mr. Bucket at present does not gohome. Though in general he highly appreciates the society of Mrs.   Bucket--a lady of a natural detective genius, which if it had beenimproved by professional exercise, might have done great things,but which has paused at the level of a clever amateur--he holdshimself aloof from that dear solace. Mrs. Bucket is dependent ontheir lodger (fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes aninterest) for companionship and conversation.   A great crowd assembles in Lincoln's Inn Fields on the day of thefuneral. Sir Leicester Dedlock attends the ceremony in person;strictly speaking, there are only three other human followers, thatis to say, Lord Doodle, William Buffy, and the debilitated cousin(thrown in as a make-weight), but the amount of inconsolablecarriages is immense. The peerage contributes more four-wheeledaffliction than has ever been seen in that neighbourhood. Such isthe assemblage of armorial bearings on coach panels that theHerald's College might be supposed to have lost its father andmother at a blow. The Duke of Foodle sends a splendid pile of dustand ashes, with silver wheel-boxes, patent axles, all the lastimprovements, and three bereaved worms, six feet high, holding onbehind, in a bunch of woe. All the state coachmen in London seemplunged into mourning; and if that dead old man of the rusty garbbe not beyond a taste in horseflesh (which appears impossible), itmust be highly gratified this day.   Quiet among the undertakers and the equipages and the calves of somany legs all steeped in grief, Mr. Bucket sits concealed in one ofthe inconsolable carriages and at his ease surveys the crowdthrough the lattice blinds. He has a keen eye for a crowd--as forwhat not?--and looking here and there, now from this side of thecarriage, now from the other, now up at the house windows, nowalong the people's heads, nothing escapes him.   "And there you are, my partner, eh?" says Mr. Bucket to himself,apostrophizing Mrs. Bucket, stationed, by his favour, on the stepsof the deceased's house. "And so you are. And so you are! Andvery well indeed you are looking, Mrs. Bucket!"The procession has not started yet, but is waiting for the cause ofits assemblage to be brought out. Mr. Bucket, in the foremostemblazoned carriage, uses his two fat forefingers to hold thelattice a hair's breadth open while he looks.   And it says a great deal for his attachment, as a husband, that heis still occupied with Mrs. B. "There you are, my partner, eh?" hemurmuringly repeats. "And our lodger with you. I'm taking noticeof you, Mrs. Bucket; I hope you're all right in your health, mydear!"Not another word does Mr. Bucket say, but sits with most attentiveeyes until the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought down--Where are all those secrets now? Does he keep them yet? Did theyfly with him on that sudden journey?--and until the processionmoves, and Mr. Bucket's view is changed. After which he composeshimself for an easy ride and takes note of the fittings of thecarriage in case he should ever find such knowledge useful.   Contrast enough between Mr. Tulkinghorn shut up in his darkcarriage and Mr. Bucket shut up in HIS. Between the immeasurabletrack of space beyond the little wound that has thrown the one intothe fixed sleep which jolts so heavily over the stones of thestreets, and the narrow track of blood which keeps the other in thewatchful state expressed in every hair of his head! But it is allone to both; neither is troubled about that.   Mr. Bucket sits out the procession in his own easy manner andglides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled withhimself arrives. He makes for Sir Leicester Dedlock's, which is atpresent a sort of home to him, where he comes and goes as he likesat all hours', where he is always welcome and made much of, wherehe knows the whole establishment, and walks in an atmosphere ofmysterious greatness.   No knocking or ringing for Mr. Bucket. He has caused himself to beprovided with a key and can pass in at his pleasure. As he iscrossing the hall, Mercury informs him, "Here's another letter foryou, 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 curiosityas to Mr. Bucket's letters, that wary person is not the man togratify it. Mr. Bucket looks at him as if his face were a vista ofsome 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 thekind. Thankee!"Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed fromsomebody downstairs for the purpose, and having made a considerableshow of tasting it, first with one side of his nose and then withthe other, Mr. Bucket, with much deliberation, pronounces it of theright sort and goes on, letter in hand.   Now although Mr. Bucket walks upstairs to the little library withinthe larger one with the face of a man who receives some scores ofletters every day, it happens that much correspondence is notincidental to his life. He is no great scribe, rather handling hispen like the pocket-staff he carries about with him alwaysconvenient to his grasp, and discourages correspondence withhimself in others as being too artless and direct a way of doingdelicate business. Further, he often sees damaging lettersproduced in evidence and has occasion to reflect that it was agreen thing to write them. For these reasons he has very little todo with letters, either as sender or receiver. And yet he hasreceived a round half-dozen within the last twenty-four hours.   "And this," says Mr. Bucket, spreading it out on the table, "is inthe same hand, and consists of the same two words."What two words?   He turns the key in the door, ungirdles his black pocket-book (bookof fate to many), lays another letter by it, and reads, boldlywritten in each, "Lady Dedlock.""Yes, yes," says Mr. Bucket. "But I could have made the moneywithout 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 dinner, which isbrought upon a goodly tray with a decanter of sherry. Mr. Bucketfrequently observes, in friendly circles where there is norestraint, that he likes a toothful of your fine old brown EastInder sherry better than anything you can offer him. Consequentlyhe fills and empties his glass with a smack of his lips and isproceeding with his refreshment when an idea enters his mind.   Mr. Bucket softly opens the door of communication between that roomand the next and looks in. The library is deserted, and the fireis sinking low. Mr. Bucket's eye, after taking a pigeon-flightround the room, alights upon a table where letters are usually putas 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 canbreak it to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to-morrow."With that he returns to finish his dinner with a good appetite, andafter a light nap, is summoned into the drawing-room. SirLeicester has received him there these several evenings past toknow 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 threepeople. A bow of homage to Sir Leicester, a bow of gallantry toVolumnia, and a bow of recognition to the debilitated Cousin, towhom it airily says, "You are a swell about town, and you know me,and I know you." Having distributed these little specimens of histact, Mr. Bucket rubs his hands.   "Have you anything new to communicate, officer?" inquires SirLeicester. "Do you wish to hold any conversation with me inprivate?""Why--not tonight, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.""Because my time," pursues Sir Leicester, "is wholly at yourdisposal with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty ofthe law."Mr. Bucket coughs and glances at Volumnia, rouged and necklaced, asthough he would respectfully observe, "I do assure you, you're apretty creetur. I've seen hundreds worse looking at your time oflife, I have indeed."The fair Volumnia, not quite unconscious perhaps of the humanizinginfluence of her charms, pauses in the writing of cocked-hat notesand meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace. Mr. Bucket pricesthat decoration in his mind and thinks it as likely as not thatVolumnia is writing poetry.   "If I have not," pursues Sir Leicester, "in the most emphaticmanner, adjured you, officer, to exercise your utmost skill in thisatrocious case, I particularly desire to take the presentopportunity of rectifying any omission I may have made. Let noexpense be a consideration. I am prepared to defray all charges.   You can incur none in pursuit of the object you have undertakenthat I shall hesitate for a moment to bear."Mr. Bucket made Sir Leicester's bow again as a response to thisliberality.   "My mind," Sir Leicester adds with a generous warmth, "has not, asmay be easily supposed, recovered its tone since the latediabolical occurrence. It is not likely ever to recover its tone.   But it is full of indignation to-night after undergoing the ordealof consigning to the tomb the remains of a faithful, a zealous, adevoted adherent."Sir Leicester's voice trembles and his grey hair stirs upon hishead. Tears are in his eyes; the best part of his nature isaroused.   "I declare," he says, "I solemnly declare that until this crime isdiscovered and, in the course of justice, punished, I almost feelas if there were a stain upon my name. A gentleman who has devoteda large portion of his life to me, a gentleman who has devoted thelast day of his life to me, a gentleman who has constantly sat atmy 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. Icannot say but that he may have been followed from my house,watched at my house, even first marked because of his associationwith my house--which may have suggested his possessing greaterwealth and being altogether of greater importance than his ownretiring demeanour would have indicated. If I cannot with my meansand influence and my position bring all the perpetrators of such acrime to light, I fail in the assertion of my respect for thatgentleman's memory and of my fidelity towards one who was everfaithful to me."While he makes this protestation with great emotion andearnestness, looking round the room as if he were addressing anassembly, Mr. Bucket glances at him with an observant gravity inwhich there might be, but for the audacity of the thought, a touchof compassion.   "The ceremony of to-day," continues Sir Leicester, "strikinglyillustrative of the respect in which my deceased friend"--he lays astress upon the word, for death levels all distinctions--"was heldby the flower of the land, has, I say, aggravated the shock I havereceived from this most horrible and audacious crime. If it weremy brother who had committed it, I would not spare him."Mr. Bucket looks very grave. Volumnia remarks of the deceased thathe was the trustiest and dearest person!   "You must feel it as a deprivation to you, miss, replies Mr. Bucketsoothingly, "no doubt. He was calculated to BE a deprivation, I'msure he was."Volumnia gives Mr. Bucket to understand, in reply, that hersensitive mind is fully made up never to get the better of it aslong as she lives, that her nerves are unstrung for ever, and thatshe has not the least expectation of ever smiling again. Meanwhileshe 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. Bucketsympathetically, "but it'll wear off."Volumnia wishes of all things to know what is doing? Whether theyare going to convict, or whatever it is, that dreadful soldier?   Whether he had any accomplices, or whatever the thing is called inthe law? And a great deal more to the like artless purpose.   "Why you see, miss," returns Mr. Bucket, bringing the finger intopersuasive action--and such is his natural gallantry that he hadalmost said "my dear"--"it ain't easy to answer those questions atthe present moment. Not at the present moment. I've kept myselfon this case, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," whom Mr. Buckettakes into the conversation in right of his importance, "morning,noon, and night. But for a glass or two of sherry, I don't think Icould have had my mind so much upon the stretch as it has been. ICOULD answer your questions, miss, but duty forbids it. SirLeicester Dedlock, Baronet, will very soon be made acquainted withall 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 getman place ten thousand a year. Hasn't a doubt--zample--far betterhang wrong fler than no fler.   "YOU know life, you know, sir," says Mr. Bucket with acomplimentary twinkle of his eye and crook of his finger, "and youcan confirm what I've mentioned to this lady. YOU don't want to betold 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.   Bucket, quite reddening at another narrow escape from "my dear.""The officer, Volumnia," observes Sir Leicester, "is faithful tohis duty, and perfectly right."Mr. Bucket murmurs, "Glad to have the honour of your approbation,Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.""In fact, Volumnia," proceeds Sir Leicester, "it is not holding upa good model for imitation to ask the officer any such questions asyou have put to him. He is the best judge of his ownresponsibility; he acts upon his responsibility. And it does notbecome us, who assist in making the laws, to impede or interferewith those who carry them into execution. Or," says Sir Leicestersomewhat sternly, for Volumnia was going to cut in before he hadrounded his sentence, "or who vindicate their outraged majesty."Volumnia with all humility explains that she had not merely theplea of curiosity to urge (in common with the giddy youth of hersex in general) but that she is perfectly dying with regret andinterest for the darling man whose loss they all deplore.   "Very well, Volumnia," returns Sir Leicester. "Then you cannot betoo discreet."Mr. Bucket takes the opportunity of a pause to be heard again.   "Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I have no objections to tellingthis lady, with your leave and among ourselves, that I look uponthe case as pretty well complete. It is a beautiful case--abeautiful case--and what little is wanting to complete it, I expectto be able to supply in a few hours.""I am very glad indeed to hear it," says Sir Leicester. "Highlycreditable to you.""Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket veryseriously, "I hope it may at one and the same time do me credit andprove satisfactory to all. When I depict it as a beautiful case,you see, miss," Mr. Bucket goes on, glancing gravely at SirLeicester, "I mean from my point of view. As considered from otherpoints of view, such cases will always involve more or lessunpleasantness. Very strange things comes to our knowledge infamilies, miss; bless your heart, what you would think to bephenomenons, quite."Volumnia, with her innocent little scream, supposes so.   "Aye, and even in gen-teel families, in high families, in greatfamilies," says Mr. Bucket, again gravely eyeing Sir Leicesteraside. "I have had the honour of being employed in high familiesbefore, and you have no idea--come, I'll go so far as to say noteven YOU have any idea, sir," this to the debilitated cousin, "whatgames goes on!"The cousin, who has been casting sofa-pillows on his head, in aprostration of boredom yawns, "Vayli," being the used-up for "verylikely."Sir Leicester, deeming it time to dismiss the officer, heremajestically interposes with the words, "Very good. Thank you!"and also with a wave of his hand, implying not only that there isan end of the discourse, but that if high families fall into lowhabits they must take the consequences. "You will not forget,officer," he adds with condescension, "that I am at your disposalwhen you please."Mr. Bucket (still grave) inquires if to-morrow morning, now, wouldsuit, in case he should be as for'ard as he expects to be. SirLeicester replies, "All times are alike to me." Mr. Bucket makeshis three bows and is withdrawing when a forgotten point occurs tohim.   "Might I ask, by the by," he says in a low voice, cautiouslyreturning, "who 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. Ithink it cannot be too prominently kept before the wholeestablishment. I wish my people to be impressed with the enormityof the crime, the determination to punish it, and the hopelessnessof escape. At the same time, officer, if you in your betterknowledge of the subject see any objection--"Mr. Bucket sees none now; the bill having been put up, had betternot be taken down. Repeating his three bows he withdraws, closingthe door on Volumnia's little scream, which is a preliminary to herremarking that that charmingly horrible person is a perfect BlueChamber.   In his fondness for society and his adaptability to all grades, Mr.   Bucket is presently standing before the hall-fire--bright and warmon 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 proportionand don't look it. You're not one of the weak-legged ones, youain't. Was you ever modelled now?" Mr. Bucket asks, conveying theexpression 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 ofmine that you'll hear of one day as a Royal Academy sculptor wouldstand something handsome to make a drawing of your proportions forthe marble. My Lady's out, ain'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 asher, so handsome and so graceful and so elegant, is like a freshlemon on a dinner-table, ornamental wherever she goes. Was yourfather in the same way of life as yourself?"Answer in the negative.   "Mine was," says Mr. Bucket. "My father was first a page, then afootman, then a butler, then a steward, then an inn-keeper. Liveduniversally respected, and died lamented. Said with his lastbreath that he considered service the most honourable part of hiscareer, and so it was. I've a brother in service, AND a brother-in-law. My Lady a good temper?"Mercury replies, "As 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 it, don't we?"Mercury, with his hands in the pockets of his bright peach-blossomsmall-clothes, stretches his symmetrical silk legs with the air ofa man of gallantry and can't deny it. Come the roll of wheels anda violent ringing at the bell. "Talk of the angels," says Mr.   Bucket. "Here she is!"The doors are thrown open, and she passes through the hall. Stillvery pale, she is dressed in slight mourning and wears twobeautiful bracelets. Either their beauty or the beauty of her armsis particularly attractive to Mr. Bucket. He looks at them with aneager eye and rattles something in his pocket--halfpence perhaps.   Noticing him at his distance, she turns an inquiring look on theother Mercury who has brought her home.   "Mr. Bucket, my Lady."Mr. Bucket makes a leg and comes forward, passing his familiardemon 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 stop, and sweepsupstairs alone. Mr. Bucket, moving towards the staircase-foot,watches her as she goes up the steps the old man came down to hisgrave, past murderous groups of statuary repeated with theirshadowy weapons on the wall, past the printed bill, which she looksat going by, out of view.   "She's a lovely woman, too, she really is," says Mr. Bucket, comingback to Mercury. "Don't look quite healthy though."Is not quite healthy, Mercury informs him. Suffers much fromheadaches.   Really? That's a pity! Walking, Mr. Bucket would recommend forthat. Well, she tries walking, Mercury rejoins. Walks sometimesfor two hours when she has them bad. By night, too.   "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. Butthe household troops, though considered fine men, are built sostraggling. Walks by night, does she? When it's moonlight,though?"Oh, yes. When it's moonlight! Of course. Oh, of 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 it, I should say?"Besides which, Mercury don't like it. Prefers carriage exercise.   "To be sure," says Mr. Bucket. "That makes a difference. Now Ithink of it," says Mr. Bucket, warming his hands and lookingpleasantly at the blaze, "she went out walking the very night ofthis 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. Bucket, "for I was going tovisit a aunt of mine that lives at Chelsea--next door but two tothe old original Bun House--ninety year old the old lady is, asingle woman, and got a little property. Yes, I chanced to bepassing at the time. Let's see. What time might it be? It wasn'tten.""Half-past nine.""You're right. So it was. And if I don't deceive myself, my Ladywas 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 hasto get on with upstairs, but he must shake hands with Mercury inacknowledgment of his agreeable conversation, and will he--this isall he asks--will he, when he has a leisure half-hour, think ofbestowing it on that Royal Academy sculptor, for the advantage ofboth parties? Chapter 54 Springing a Mine Refreshed by sleep, Mr. Bucket rises betimes in the morning andprepares for a field-day. Smartened up by the aid of a clean shirtand a wet hairbrush, with which instrument, on occasions ofceremony, he lubricates such thin locks as remain to him after hislife of severe study, Mr. Bucket lays in a breakfast of two muttonchops as a foundation to work upon, together with tea, eggs, toast,and marmalade on a corresponding scale. Having much enjoyed thesestrengthening matters and having held subtle conference with hisfamiliar demon, he confidently instructs Mercury "just to mentionquietly to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, that whenever he's readyfor me, I'm ready for him." A gracious message being returned thatSir Leicester will expedite his dressing and join Mr. Bucket in thelibrary within ten minutes, Mr. Bucket repairs to that apartmentand stands before the fire with his finger on his chin, looking atthe blazing coals.   Thoughtful Mr. Bucket is, as a man may be with weighty work to do,but composed, sure, confident. From the expression of his face hemight be a famous whist-player for a large stake--say a hundredguineas certain--with the game in his hand, but with a highreputation involved in his playing his hand out to the last card ina masterly way. Not in the least anxious or disturbed is Mr.   Bucket when Sir Leicester appears, but he eyes the baronet aside ashe comes slowly to his easy-chair with that observant gravity ofyesterday in which there might have been yesterday, but for theaudacity of the idea, a touch of compassion.   "I am sorry to have kept you waiting, officer, but I am ratherlater than my usual hour this morning. I am not well. Theagitation and the indignation from which I have recently sufferedhave been too much for me. I am subject to--gout"--Sir Leicesterwas going to say indisposition and would have said it to anybodyelse, but Mr. Bucket palpably knows all about it--"and recentcircumstances have brought it on."As he takes his seat with some difficulty and with an air of pain,Mr. Bucket draws a little nearer, standing with one of his largehands on the library-table.   "I am not aware, officer," Sir Leicester observes; raising his eyesto his face, "whether you wish us to be alone, but that is entirelyas you please. If you do, well and good. If not, Miss Dedlockwould be interested--""Why, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket with hishead persuasively on one side and his forefinger pendant at one earlike an earring, "we can't be too private just at present. Youwill presently see that we can't be too private. A lady, under thecircumstances, and especially in Miss Dedlock's elevated station ofsociety, can't but be agreeable to me, but speaking without a viewto myself, I will take the liberty of assuring you that I know wecan'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 keyin the door.""By all means." Mr. Bucket skilfully and softly takes thatprecaution, stooping on his knee for a moment from mere force ofhabit so to adjust the key in the lock as that no one shall peep infrom the outerside.   "Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I mentioned yesterday evening thatI wanted but a very little to complete this case. I have nowcompleted it and collected proof against the person who did thiscrime.""Against the soldier?""No, Sir Leicester Dedlock; not the soldier."Sir Leicester looks astounded and inquires, "Is the man incustody?"Mr. Bucket tells him, after a pause, "It was a woman."Sir Leicester leans back in his chair, and breathlessly ejaculates,"Good heaven!""Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," Mr. Bucket begins, standingover him with one hand spread out on the library-table and theforefinger of the other in impressive use, "it's my duty to prepareyou for a train of circumstances that may, and I go so far as tosay that will, give you a shock. But Sir Leicester Dedlock,Baronet, you are a gentleman, and I know what a gentleman is andwhat a gentleman is capable of. A gentleman can bear a shock whenit must come, boldly and steadily. A gentleman can make up hismind to stand up against almost any blow. Why, take yourself, SirLeicester Dedlock, Baronet. If there's a blow to be inflicted onyou, you naturally think of your family. You ask yourself, howwould all them ancestors of yours, away to Julius Caesar--not to gobeyond him at present--have borne that blow; you remember scores ofthem that would have borne it well; and you bear it well on theiraccounts, and to maintain the family credit. That's the way youargue, and that's the way you act, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet."Sir Leicester, leaning back in his chair and grasping the elbows,sits looking at him with a stony face.   "Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock," proceeds Mr. Bucket, "thus preparingyou, let me beg of you not to trouble your mind for a moment as toanything having come to MY knowledge. I know so much about so manycharacters, high and low, that a piece of information more or lessdon't signify a straw. I don't suppose there's a move on the boardthat would surprise ME, and as to this or that move having takenplace, why my knowing it is no odds at all, any possible movewhatever (provided it's in a wrong direction) being a probable moveaccording to my experience. Therefore, what I say to you, SirLeicester Dedlock, Baronet, is, don't you go and let yourself beput out of the way because of my knowing anything of your familyaffairs.""I thank you for your preparation," returns Sir Leicester after asilence, without moving hand, foot, or feature, "which I hope isnot necessary; though I give it credit for being well intended. Beso good as to go on. Also"--Sir Leicester seems to shrink in theshadow of his figure--"also, to take a seat, if you have noobjection."None at all. Mr. Bucket brings a chair and diminishes his shadow.   "Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, with this short preface Icome to the point. Lady Dedlock--"Sir Leicester raises himself in his seat and stares at himfiercely. Mr. Bucket brings the finger into play as an emollient.   "Lady Dedlock, you see she's universally admired. That's what herladyship 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. WhatI have got to say is about her ladyship. She is the pivot it allturns on.""Officer," retorts Sir Leicester with a fiery eye and a quiveringlip, "you know your duty. Do your duty, but be careful not tooverstep it. I would not suffer it. I would not endure it. Youbring my Lady's name into this communication upon yourresponsibility--upon your responsibility. My Lady's name is not aname for common persons to trifle with!""Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I say what I must say, and nomore.""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 angryfigure trembling from head to foot, yet striving to be still, Mr.   Bucket feels his way with his forefinger and in a low voiceproceeds.   "Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it becomes my duty to tell youthat the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn long entertained mistrusts andsuspicions of Lady Dedlock.""If he had dared to breathe them to me, sir--which he never did--Iwould have killed him myself!" exclaims Sir Leicester, striking hishand upon the table. But in the very heat and fury of the act hestops, fixed by the knowing eyes of Mr. Bucket, whose forefinger isslowly going and who, with mingled confidence and patience, shakeshis head.   "Sir Leicester Dedlock, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn was deep andclose, and what he fully had in his mind in the very beginning Ican't quite take upon myself to say. But I know from his lips thathe long ago suspected Lady Dedlock of having discovered, throughthe sight of some handwriting--in this very house, and when youyourself, Sir Leicester Dedlock, were present--the existence, ingreat poverty, of a certain person who had been her lover beforeyou courted her and who ought to have been her husband." Mr.   Bucket stops and deliberately repeats, "Ought to have been herhusband, not a doubt about it. I know from his lips that when thatperson soon afterwards died, he suspected Lady Dedlock of visitinghis wretched lodging and his wretched grave, alone and in secret.   I know from my own inquiries and through my eyes and ears that LadyDedlock did make such visit in the dress of her own maid, for thedeceased Mr. Tulkinghorn employed me to reckon up her ladyship--ifyou'll excuse my making use of the term we commonly employ--and Ireckoned her up, so far, completely. I confronted the maid in thechambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields with a witness who had been LadyDedlock's guide, and there couldn't be the shadow of a doubt thatshe had worn the young woman's dress, unknown to her. SirLeicester Dedlock, Baronet, I did endeavour to pave the way alittle towards these unpleasant disclosures yesterday by sayingthat very strange things happened even in high families sometimes.   All this, and more, has happened in your own family, and to andthrough your own Lady. It's my belief that the deceased Mr.   Tulkinghorn followed up these inquiries to the hour of his deathand that he and Lady Dedlock even had bad blood between them uponthe matter that very night. Now, only you put that to LadyDedlock, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and ask her ladyshipwhether, even after he had left here, she didn't go down to hischambers 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 statue, gazing at the cruel finger thatis probing the life-blood of his heart.   "You put that to her ladyship, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, fromme, Inspector Bucket of the Detective. And if her ladyship makesany difficulty about admitting of it, you tell her that it's nouse, that Inspector Bucket knows it and knows that she passed thesoldier as you called him (though he's not in the army now) andknows that she knows she passed him on the staircase. Now, SirLeicester Dedlock, Baronet, why do I relate all this?"Sir Leicester, who has covered his face with his hands, uttering asingle groan, requests him to pause for a moment. By and by hetakes his hands away, and so preserves his dignity and outwardcalmness, though there is no more colour in his face than in hiswhite hair, that Mr. Bucket is a little awed by him. Somethingfrozen and fixed is upon his manner, over and above its usual shellof haughtiness, and Mr. Bucket soon detects an unusual slowness inhis speech, with now and then a curious trouble in beginning, whichoccasions him to utter inarticulate sounds. With such sounds henow breaks silence, soon, however, controlling himself to say thathe does not comprehend why a gentleman so faithful and zealous asthe late Mr. Tulkinghorn should have communicated to him nothing ofthis painful, this distressing, this unlooked-for, thisoverwhelming, this incredible intelligence.   "Again, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket, "putit to her ladyship to clear that up. Put it to her ladyship, ifyou think it right, from Inspector Bucket of the Detective. You'llfind, or I'm much mistaken, that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn hadthe intention of communicating the whole to you as soon as heconsidered it ripe, and further, that he had given her ladyship soto understand. Why, he might have been going to reveal it the verymorning when I examined the body! You don't know what I'm going tosay and do five minutes from this present time, Sir LeicesterDedlock, Baronet; and supposing I was to be picked off now, youmight wonder why I hadn't done it, don't you see?"True. Sir Leicester, avoiding, with some trouble those obtrusivesounds, says, "True." At this juncture a considerable noise ofvoices is heard in the hall. Mr. Bucket, after listening, goes tothe library-door, softly unlocks and opens it, and listens again.   Then he draws in his head and whispers hurriedly but composedly,"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, this unfortunate family affair hastaken air, as I expected it might, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghornbeing cut down so sudden. The chance to hush it is to let in thesepeople now in a wrangle with your footmen. Would you mind sittingquiet--on the family account--while I reckon 'em up? And would youjust throw in a nod when I seem to ask you for it?"Sir Leicester indistinctly answers, "Officer. The best you can,the best you can!" and Mr. Bucket, with a nod and a sagacious crookof the forefinger, slips down into the hall, where the voicesquickly die away. He is not long in returning; a few paces aheadof Mercury and a brother deity also powdered and in peach-blossomedsmalls, who bear between them a chair in which is an incapable oldman. Another man and two women come behind. Directing thepitching of the chair in an affable and easy manner, Mr. Bucketdismisses the Mercuries and locks the door again. Sir Leicesterlooks on at this invasion of the sacred precincts with an icystare.   "Now, perhaps you may know me, ladies and gentlemen," says Mr.   Bucket in a confidential voice. "I am Inspector Bucket of theDetective, I am; and this," producing the tip of his convenientlittle staff from his breast-pocket, "is my authority. Now, youwanted to see Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Well! You do seehim, and mind you, it ain't every one as is admitted to thathonour. Your name, old gentleman, is Smallweed; that's what yourname is; I know it well.""Well, and you never heard any harm of it!" cries Mr. Smallweed ina shrill loud voice.   "You don't happen to know why they killed the pig, do you?" retortsMr. Bucket with a steadfast look, but without loss of temper.   "No!""Why, they killed him," says Mr. Bucket, "on account of his havingso much cheek. Don't YOU get into the same position, because itisn't worthy of you. You ain't in the habit of conversing with adeaf person, are you?""Yes," snarls Mr. Smallweed, "my wife's deaf.""That accounts for your pitching your voice so high. But as sheain't here; just pitch it an octave or two lower, will you, andI'll not only be obliged to you, but it'll do you more credit,"says Mr. Bucket. "This other gentleman is in the preaching line, Ithink?""Name of Chadband," Mr. Smallweed puts in, speaking henceforth in amuch lower key.   "Once had a friend and brother serjeant of the same name," says Mr.   Bucket, offering his hand, "and 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 inpresence of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Come."Mr. Smallweed, beckoning Mr. Chadband, takes a moment's counselwith him in a whisper. Mr. Chadband, expressing a considerableamount of oil from the pores of his forehead and the palms of hishands, says aloud, "Yes. You first!" and retires to his formerplace.   "I was the client and friend of Mr. Tulkinghorn," pipes GrandfatherSmallweed then; "I did business with him. I was useful to him, andhe was useful to me. Krook, dead and gone, was 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 allhis effects. They was all dug out under my eyes. There was abundle of letters belonging to a dead and gone lodger as was hidaway at the back of a shelf in the side of Lady Jane's bed--hiscat's bed. He hid all manner of things away, everywheres. Mr.   Tulkinghorn wanted 'em and got 'em, but I looked 'em over first.   I'm a man of business, and I took a squint at 'em. They wasletters from the lodger's sweetheart, and she signed Honoria. Dearme, that's not a common name, Honoria, is it? There's no lady inthis house that signs Honoria is there? Oh, no, I don't think so!   Oh, no, I don't think so! And not in the same hand, perhaps? Oh,no, I don't think so!"Here Mr. Smallweed, seized with a fit of coughing in the midst ofhis triumph, breaks off to ejaculate, "Oh, dear me! Oh, Lord! I'mshaken all to pieces!""Now, when you're ready," says Mr. Bucket after awaiting hisrecovery, "to 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, andhis ever affectionate Honoria, and their child into the bargain?   Come, then, I want to know where those letters are. That concernsme, if it don't concern Sir Leicester Dedlock. I will know wherethey are. I won't have 'em disappear so quietly. I handed 'emover to my friend and solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, not to anybodyelse.""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 tellyou what we want--what we all here want, Mr. Bucket. We want morepainstaking and search-making into this murder. We know where theinterest and the motive was, and you have not done enough. IfGeorge the vagabond dragoon had any hand in it, he was only anaccomplice, and was set on. You know what I mean as well as anyman.""Now I tell you what," says Mr. Bucket, instantaneously alteringhis manner, coming close to him, and communicating an extraordinaryfascination to the forefinger, "I am damned if I am a-going to havemy case spoilt, or interfered with, or anticipated by so much ashalf a second of time by any human being in creation. YOU wantmore 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 outand put it on the arm that fired that shot?"Such is the dread power of the man, and so terribly evident it isthat he makes no idle boast, that Mr. Smallweed begins toapologize. Mr. Bucket, dismissing his sudden anger, checks him.   "The advice I give you is, don't you trouble your head about themurder. 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 beforelong, if you look sharp. I know my business, and that's all I'vegot to say to you on that subject. Now about those letters. Youwant to know who's got 'em. I don't mind telling you. I have got'em. Is that the packet?"Mr. Smallweed looks, with greedy eyes, at the little bundle Mr.   Bucket produces from a mysterious part of his coat, and identiflesit as the same.   "What have you got to say next?" asks Mr. Bucket. "Now, don't openyour mouth too wide, because you don't look handsome when you doit.""I want five hundred pound.""No, you don't; you mean fifty," says Mr. Bucket humorously.   It appears, however, that Mr. Smallweed means five hundred.   "That is, I am deputed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, toconsider (without admitting or promising anything) this bit ofbusiness," says Mr. Bucket--Sir Leicester mechanically bows hishead--"and you ask me to consider a proposal of five hundredpounds. Why, it's an unreasonable proposal! Two fifty would bebad enough, but better than that. Hadn't you better say twofifty?"Mr. Smallweed is quite clear that he had better not.   "Then," says Mr. Bucket, "let's hear Mr. Chadband. Lord! Many atime I've heard my old fellow-serjeant of that name; and a moderateman he was in all respects, as ever I come across!"Thus invited, Mr. Chadband steps forth, and after a little sleeksmiling and a little oil-grinding with the palms of his hands,delivers himself as follows, "My friends, we are now--Rachael, mywife, and I--in the mansions of the rich and great. Why are we nowin the mansions of the rich and great, my friends? Is it becausewe are invited? Because we are bidden to feast with them, becausewe are bidden to rejoice with them, because we are bidden to playthe 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 sinfulsecret, and do we require corn, and wine, and oil, or what is muchthe same thing, money, for the keeping thereof? Probably so, myfriends.""You're a man of business, you are," returns Mr. Bucket, veryattentive, "and consequently you're going on to mention what thenature of your secret is. You are right. You couldn't do better.""Let us then, my brother, in a spirit of love," says Mr. Chadbandwith a cunning eye, "proceed unto it. Rachael, my wife, advance!"Mrs. Chadband, more than ready, so advances as to jostle herhusband into the background and confronts Mr. Bucket with a hard,frowning smile.   "Since you want to know what we know," says she, "I'll tell you. Ihelped to bring up Miss Hawdon, her ladyship's daughter. I was inthe service of her ladyship's sister, who was very sensitive to thedisgrace her ladyship brought upon her, and gave out, even to herladyship, that the child was dead--she WAS very nearly so--when shewas born. But she's alive, and I know her." With these words, anda laugh, and 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 atwenty-pound note or a present of about that figure?"Mrs. Chadband merely laughs and contemptuously tells him he can"offer" twenty pence.   "My friend the law-stationer's good lady, over there," says Mr.   Bucket, luring Mrs. Snagsby forward with the finger. "What mayYOUR game be, ma'am?"Mrs. Snagsby is at first prevented, by tears and lamentations, fromstating the nature of her game, but by degrees it confusedly comesto light that she is a woman overwhelmed with injuries and wrongs,whom Mr. Snagsby has habitually deceived, abandoned, and sought tokeep in darkness, and whose chief comfort, under her afflictions,has been the sympathy of the late Mr. Tulkinghorn, who showed somuch commiseration for her on one occasion of his calling in Cook'sCourt in the absence of her perjured husband that she has of latehabitually carried to him all her woes. Everybody it appears, thepresent company excepted, has plotted against Mrs. Snagsby's peace.   There is Mr. Guppy, clerk to Kenge and Carboy, who was at first asopen as the sun at noon, but who suddenly shut up as close asmidnight, under the influence--no doubt--of Mr. Snagsby's suborningand tampering. There is Mr. Weevle, friend of Mr. Guppy, who livedmysteriously up a court, owing to the like coherent causes. Therewas Krook, deceased; there was Nimrod, deceased; and there was Jo,deceased; and they were "all in it." In what, Mrs. Snagsby doesnot with particularity express, but she knows that Jo was Mr.   Snagsby's son, "as well as if a trumpet had spoken it," and shefollowed Mr. Snagsby when he went on his last visit to the boy, andif he was not his son why did he go? The one occupation of herlife has been, for some time back, to follow Mr. Snagsby to andfro, and up and down, and to piece suspicious circumstancestogether--and every circumstance that has happened has been mostsuspicious; and in this way she has pursued her object of detectingand confounding her false husband, night and day. Thus did it cometo pass that she brought the Chadbands and Mr. Tulkinghorntogether, and conferred with Mr. Tulkinghorn on the change in Mr.   Guppy, and helped to turn up the circumstances in which the presentcompany are interested, casually, by the wayside, being still andever on the great high road that is to terminate in Mr. Snagsby'sfull exposure and a matrimonial separation. All this, Mrs.   Snagsby, as an injured woman, and the friend of Mrs. Chadband, andthe follower of Mr. Chadband, and the mourner of the late Mr.   Tulkinghorn, is here to certify under the seal of confidence, withevery possible confusion and involvement possible and impossible,having no pecuniary motive whatever, no scheme or project but theone mentioned, and bringing here, and taking everywhere, her owndense atmosphere of dust, arising from the ceaseless working of hermill 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 ata glance, confers with his familiar demon and bestows his shrewdattention on the Chadbands and Mr. Smallweed. Sir LeicesterDedlock remains immovable, with the same icy surface upon him,except that he once or twice looks towards Mr. Bucket, as relyingon that officer alone of all mankind.   "Very good," says Mr. Bucket. "Now I understand you, you know, andbeing deputed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to look into thislittle matter," again Sir Leicester mechanically bows inconfirmation of the statement, "can give it my fair and fullattention. Now I won't allude to conspiring to extort money oranything of that sort, because we are men and women of the worldhere, and our object is to make things pleasant. But I tell youwhat I DO wonder at; I am surprised that you should think of makinga 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 withcheerfulness; "but for a old gentleman at your time of life--what Icall truly venerable, mind you!--with his wits sharpened, as I haveno doubt they are, by the loss of the use of his limbs, whichoccasions all his animation to mount up into his head, not toconsider that if he don't keep such a business as the present asclose as possible it can't be worth a mag to him, is so curious!   You see your temper got the better of you; that's where you lostground," says Mr. Bucket in an argumentative and friendly way.   "I only said I wouldn't go without one of the servants came up toSir 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. ShallI 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, yourdelightful sex is!" replies Mr. Bucket with gallantry. "I shallhave the pleasure of giving you a call to-morrow or next day--notforgetting Mr. Smallweed and his proposal of two fifty.""Five hundred!" exclaims Mr. Smallweed.   "All right! Nominally five hundred." Mr. Bucket has his hand onthe bell-rope. "SHALL I wish you good day for the present on thepart of myself and the gentleman of the house?" he asks in aninsinuating tone.   Nobody having the hardihood to object to his doing so, he does it,and the party retire as they came up. Mr. Bucket follows them tothe door, and returning, says with an air of serious business, "SirLeicester Dedlock, Baronet, it's for you to consider whether or notto buy this up. I should recommend, on the whole, it's beingbought up myself; and I think it may be bought pretty cheap. Yousee, that little pickled cowcumber of a Mrs. Snagsby has been usedby all sides of the speculation and has done a deal more harm inbringing odds and ends together than if she had meant it. Mr.   Tulkinghorn, deceased, he held all these horses in his hand andcould have drove 'em his own way, I haven't a doubt; but he wasfetched off the box head-foremost, and now they have got their legsover 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 theyplay; the frost breaks up, and the water runs. Now, with regard tothe party to be apprehended."Sir Leicester seems to wake, though his eyes have been wide open,and he looks intently at Mr. Bucket as Mr. Bucket refers to hiswatch.   "The party to be apprehended is now in this house," proceeds Mr.   Bucket, putting up his watch with a steady hand and with risingspirits, "and 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 inthe course of the evening, if agreeable to you, and endeavour tomeet your wishes respecting this unfortunate family matter and thenobbiest way of keeping it quiet. Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock,Baronet, don't you be nervous on account of the apprehension atpresent coming off. You shall see the whole case clear, from firstto last."Mr. Bucket rings, goes to the door, briefly whispers Mercury, shutsthe door, and stands behind it with his arms folded. After asuspense of a minute or two the door slowly opens and a Frenchwomanenters. Mademoiselle Hortense.   The moment she is in the room Mr. Bucket claps the door to and putshis back against it. The suddenness of the noise occasions her toturn, and then for the first time she sees Sir Leicester Dedlock inhis chair.   "I ask you pardon," she mutters hurriedly. "They tell me there wasno one here."Her step towards the door brings her front to front with Mr.   Bucket. Suddenly a spasm shoots across her face and she turnsdeadly pale.   "This is my lodger, Sir Leicester Dedlock," says Mr. Bucket,nodding at her. "This foreign young woman has been my lodger forsome weeks back.""What do Sir Leicester care for that, you think, my angel?" returnsmademoiselle in a jocular strain.   "Why, my angel," returns Mr. Bucket, "we shall see."Mademoiselle Hortense eyes him with a scowl upon her tight face,which gradually changes into a smile of scorn, "You are verymysterieuse. 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 downstairsthat your wife is here. I come here, and your wife is not here.   What is the intention of this fool's play, say then?" mademoiselledemands, with her arms composedly crossed, but with something inher 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 atoss of her head and a laugh. "Leave me to pass downstairs, greatpig." With a stamp of her foot and a menace.   "Now, mademoiselle," says Mr. Bucket in a cool determined way, "yougo and sit down upon that sofy.""I will not sit down upon nothing," she replies with a shower ofnods.   "Now, mademoiselle," repeats Mr. Bucket, making no demonstrationexcept with the finger, "you sit down upon that sofy.""Why?""Because I take you into custody on a charge of murder, and youdon't need to be told it. Now, I want to be polite to one of yoursex and a foreigner if I can. If I can't, I must be rough, andthere's rougher ones outside. What I am to be depends on you. SoI recommend you, as a friend, afore another half a blessed momenthas passed over your head, to go and sit down upon that sofy."Mademoiselle complies, saying in a concentrated voice while thatsomething in her cheek beats fast and hard, "You are a devil.""Now, you see," Mr. Bucket proceeds approvingly, "you'recomfortable and conducting yourself as I should expect a foreignyoung woman of your sense to do. So I'll give you a piece ofadvice, and it's this, don't you talk too much. You're notexpected to say anything here, and you can't keep too quiet atongue in your head. In short, the less you PARLAY, the better,you know." Mr. Bucket is very complacent over this Frenchexplanation.   Mademoiselle, with that tigerish expansion of the mouth and herblack eyes darting fire upon him, sits upright on the sofa in arigid state, with her hands clenched--and her feet too, one mightsuppose--muttering, "Oh, you Bucket, you are a devil!""Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," says Mr. Bucket, and fromthis time forth the finger never rests, "this young woman, mylodger, was her ladyship's maid at the time I have mentioned toyou; and this young woman, besides being extraordinary vehement andpassionate against her ladyship after being discharged--""Lie!" cries mademoiselle. "I discharge myself.""Now, why don't you take my advice?" returns Mr. Bucket in animpressive, almost in an imploring, tone. "I'm surprised at theindiscreetness you commit. You'll say something that'll be usedagainst you, you know. You're sure to come to it. Never you mindwhat I say till it's given in evidence. It is not addressed toyou.""Discharge, too," cries mademoiselle furiously, "by her ladyship!   Eh, my faith, a pretty ladyship! Why, I r-r-r-ruin my character hyremaining with a ladyship so infame!""Upon my soul I wonder at you!" Mr. Bucket remonstrates. "Ithought the French were a polite nation, I did, really. Yet tohear 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 name, upon his imbecility," all of which she makes thecarpet represent. "Oh, that he is a great man! Oh, yes, superb!   Oh, heaven! Bah!""Well, Sir Leicester Dedlock," proceeds Mr. Bucket, "thisintemperate foreigner also angrily took it into her head that shehad established a claim upon Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, byattending on the occasion I told you of at his chambers, though shewas 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 mylodger, Sir Leicester Dedlock, with any deliberate intention thenof doing this deed and blinding me, I give no opinion on; but shelived in my house in that capacity at the time that she washovering about the chambers of the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn with aview to a wrangle, and likewise persecuting and half frighteningthe life out of an unfortunate stationer.""Lie!" cries mademoiselle. "All lie!""The murder was commttted, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and youknow under what circumstances. Now, I beg of you to follow meclose with your attention for a minute or two. I was sent for, andthe case was entrusted to me. I examined the place, and the body,and the papers, and everything. From information I received (froma clerk in the same house) I took George into custody as havingbeen seen hanging about there on the night, and at very nigh thetime of the murder, also as having been overheard in high wordswith the deceased on former occasions--even threatening him, as thewitness made out. If you ask me, Sir Leicester Dedlock, whetherfrom the first I believed George to be the murderer, I tell youcandidly no, but he might be, notwithstanding, and there was enoughagainst him to make it my duty to take him and get him kept underremand. Now, observe!"As Mr. Bucket bends forward in some excitement--for him--andinaugurates what he is going to say with one ghostly beat of hisforefinger in the air, Mademoiselle Hortense fixes her black eyesupon him with a dark frown and sets her dry lips closely and firmlytogether.   "I went home, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, at night and foundthis young woman having supper with my wife, Mrs. Bucket. She hadmade a mighty show of being fond of Mrs. Bucket from her firstoffering herself as our lodger, but that night she made more thanever--in fact, overdid it. Likewise she overdid her respect, andall that, for the lamented memory of the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn.   By the living Lord it flashed upon me, as I sat opposite to her atthe table and saw her with a knife in her hand, that she had doneit!"Mademoiselle is hardly audible in straining through her teeth andlips the words, "You are a devil.""Now where," pursues Mr. Bucket, "had she been on the night of themurder? She had been to the theayter. (She really was there, Ihave since found, both before the deed and after it.) I knew I hadan artful customer to deal with and that proof would be verydifficult; and I laid a trap for her--such a trap as I never laidyet, and such a venture as I never made yet. I worked it out in mymind while I was talking to her at supper. When I went upstairs tobed, our house being small and this young woman's ears sharp, Istuffed the sheet into Mrs. Bucket's mouth that she shouldn't say aword of surprise and told her all about it. My dear, don't yougive your mind to that again, or I shall link your feet together atthe ankles." Mr. Bucket, breaking off, has made a noiselessdescent upon mademoiselle and laid his heavy hand upon hershoulder.   "What is the matter with you now?" she asks him.   "Don't you think any more," returns Mr. Bucket with admonitoryfinger, "of throwing yourself out of window. That's what's thematter with me. Come! Just take my arm. You needn't get up; I'llsit 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 lips, with a painful soundshe struggles with herself and complies.   "Now we're all right again. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, thiscase could never have been the case it is but for Mrs. Bucket, whois a woman in fifty thousand--in a hundred and fifty thousand! Tothrow this young woman off her guard, I have never set foot in ourhouse since, though I've communicated with Mrs. Bucket in thebaker's loaves and in the milk as often as required. My whisperedwords to Mrs. Bucket when she had the sheet in her mouth were, 'Mydear, can you throw her off continually with natural accounts of mysuspicions against George, and this, and that, and t'other? Canyou do without rest and keep watch upon her night and day? Can youundertake to say, "She shall do nothing without my knowledge, sheshall be my prisoner without suspecting it, she shall no moreescape from me than from death, and her life shall be my life, andher soul my soul, till I have got her, if she did this murder?"'   Mrs. Bucket says to me, as well as she could speak on account ofthe sheet, 'Bucket, I can!' And she has acted up to it glorious!""Lies!" mademoiselle interposes. "All lies, my friend!""Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, how did my calculations come outunder these circumstances? When I calculated that this impetuousyoung woman would overdo it in new directions, was I wrong orright? I was right. What does she try to do? Don't let it giveyou 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 alwayshere, which was done a-purpose. Now, open that pocket-book ofmine, Sir Leicester Dedlock, if I may take the liberty of throwingit towards you, and look at the letters sent to me, each with thetwo words 'Lady Dedlock' in it. Open the one directed to yourself,which I stopped this very morning, and read the three words 'LadyDedlock, Murderess' in it. These letters have been falling aboutlike a shower of lady-birds. What do you say now to Mrs. Bucket,from her spy-place having seen them all 'written by this youngwoman? What do you say to Mrs. Bucket having, within this half-hour, secured the corresponding ink and paper, fellow half-sheetsand what not? What do you say to Mrs. Bucket having watched theposting of 'em every one by this young woman, Sir LeicesterDedlock, Baronet?" Mr. Bucket asks, triumphant in his admirationof his lady's genius.   Two things are especially observable as Mr. Bucket proceeds to aconclusion. First, that he seems imperceptibly to establish adreadful right of property in mademoiselle. Secondly, that thevery atmosphere she breathes seems to narrow and contract about heras if a close net or a pall were being drawn nearer and yet neareraround her breathless figure.   "There is no doubt that her ladyship was on the spot at theeventful period," says Mr. Bucket, "and my foreign friend here sawher, I believe, from the upper part of the staircase. Her ladyshipand George and my foreign friend were all pretty close on oneanother's heels. But that don't signify any more, so I'll not gointo it. I found the wadding of the pistol with which the deceasedMr. Tulkinghorn was shot. It was a bit of the printed descriptionof your house at Chesney Wold. Not much in that, you'll say, SirLeicester Dedlock, Baronet. No. But when my foreign friend hereis so thoroughly off her guard as to think it a safe time to tearup the rest of that leaf, and when Mrs. Bucket puts the piecestogether and finds the wadding wanting, it begins to look likeQueer Street.""These are very long lies," mademoiselle interposes. "You prosegreat deal. Is it that you have almost all finished, or are youspeaking always?""Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," proceeds Mr. Bucket, who delightsin a full title and does violence to himself when he dispenses withany fragment of it, "the last point in the case which I am nowgoing to mention shows the necessity of patience in our business,and never doing a thing in a hurry. I watched this young womanyesterday without her knowledge when she was looking at thefuneral, 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 inher face, and my mind so rose against her malice towards herladyship, and the time was altogether such a time for bringing downwhat you may call retribution upon her, that if I had been ayounger hand with less experience, I should have taken her,certain. Equally, last night, when her ladyship, as is souniversally admired I am sure, come home looking--why, Lord, a manmight almost say like Venus rising from the ocean--it was sounpleasant and inconsistent to think of her being charged with amurder of which she was innocent that I felt quite to want to putan end to the job. What should I have lost? Sir LeicesterDedlock, Baronet, I should have lost the weapon. My prisoner hereproposed to Mrs. Bucket, after the departure of the funeral, thatthey should go per bus a little ways into the country and take teaat a very decent house of entertainment. Now, near that house ofentertainment there's a piece of water. At tea, my prisoner got upto fetch her pocket handkercher from the bedroom where the bonnetswas; she was rather a long time gone and came back a little out ofwind. As soon as they came home this was reported to me by Mrs.   Bucket, along with her observations and suspicions. I had thepiece of water dragged by moonlight, in presence of a couple of ourmen, and the pocket pistol was brought up before it had been therehalf-a-dozen hours. Now, my dear, put your arm a little furtherthrough 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 other, darling. Two, and all told!"He rises; she rises too. "Where," she asks him, darkening herlarge eyes until their drooping lids almost conceal them--and yetthey stare, "where is your false, your treacherous, and cursedwife?""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 Hortense, pantingtigress-like.   "You'd bite her, I suspect," says Mr. Bucket.   "I would!" making her eyes very large. "I would love to tear herlimb from limb.""Bless you, darling," says Mr. Bucket with the greatest composure,"I'm fully prepared to hear that. Your sex have such a surprisinganimosity against one another when you do differ. You don't mindme 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 myregular employment, you must consider. Let me put your shawl tidy.   I've been lady's maid to a good many before now. Anything wantingto the bonnet? There's a cab at the door."Mademoiselle Hortense, casting an indignant eye at the glass,shakes herself perfectly neat in one shake and looks, to do herjustice, uncommonly 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 answers, "Not exactly.""That is droll. Listen yet one time. You are very spiritual. Canyou make a honourahle lady of her?""Don't be so malicious," says Mr. Bucket.   "Or a haughty gentleman of HIM?" cries mademoiselle, referring toSir Leicester with ineffable disdain. "Eh! Oh, then 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 withme. 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 mouthclosed with a spring. It is impossible to describe how Mr. Bucketgets her out, but he accomplishes that feat in a manner so peculiarto himself, enfolding and pervading her like a cloud, and hoveringaway with her as if he were a homely Jupiter and she the object ofhis affections.   Sir Leicester, left alone, remains in the same attitude, as thoughhe were still listening and his attention were still occupied. Atlength he gazes round the empty room, and finding it deserted,rises unsteadily to his feet, pushes back his chair, and walks afew steps, supporting himself by the table. Then he stops, andwith more of those inarticulate sounds, lifts up his eyes and seemsto stare at something.   Heaven knows what he sees. The green, green woods of Chesney Wold,the noble house, the pictures of his forefathers, strangersdefacing them, officers of police coarsely handling his mostprecious heirlooms, thousands of fingers pointing at him, thousandsof faces sneering at him. But if such shadows flit before him tohis bewilderment, there is one other shadow which he can name withsomething like distinctness even yet and to which alone headdresses his tearing of his white hair and his extended arms.   It is she in association with whom, saving that she has been foryears a main fibre of the root of his dignity and pride, he hasnever had a selfish thought. It is she whom he has loved, admired,honoured, and set up for the world to respect. It is she who, atthe core of all the constrained formalities and conventionalitiesof his life, has been a stock of living tenderness and love,susceptible as nothing else is of being struck with the agony hefeels. He sees her, almost to the exclusion of himself, and cannotbear to look upon her cast down from the high place she has gracedso well.   And even to the point of his sinking on the ground, oblivious ofhis suffering, he can yet pronounce her name with something likedistinctness in the midst of those intrusive sounds, and in a toneof mourning and compassion rather than reproach. Chapter 55 Flight Inspector Bucket of the Detective has not yet struck his greatblow, as just now chronicled, but is yet refreshing himself withsleep preparatory to his field-day, when through the night andalong the freezing wintry roads a chaise and pair comes out ofLincolnshire, making its way towards London.   Railroads shall soon traverse all this country, and with a rattleand a glare the engine and train shall shoot like a meteor over thewide night-landscape, turning the moon paler; but as yet suchthings are non-existent in these parts, though not whollyunexpected. Preparations are afoot, measurements are made, groundis staked out. Bridges are begun, and their not yet united piersdesolately look at one another over roads and streams like brickand mortar couples with an obstacle to their union; fragments ofembankments are thrown up and left as precipices with torrents ofrusty carts and barrows tumbling over them; tripods of tall polesappear on hilltops, where there are rumours of tunnels; everythinglooks chaotic and abandoned in full hopelessness. Along thefreezing roads, and through the night, the post-chaise makes itsway without a railroad on its mind.   Mrs. Rouncewell, so many years housekeeper at Chesney Wold, sitswithin the chaise; and by her side sits Mrs. Bagnet with her greycloak and umbrella. The old girl would prefer the bar in front, asbeing exposed to the weather and a primitive sort of perch more inaccordance with her usual course of travelling, but Mrs. Rouncewellis too thoughtful of her comfort to admit of her proposing it. Theold lady cannot make enough of the old girl. She sits, in herstately manner, holding her hand, and regardless of its roughness,puts it often to her lips. "You are a mother, my dear soul," saysshe many times, "and you found out my George's mother!""Why, George," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "was always free with me,ma'am, and when he said at our house to my Woolwich that of all thethings my Woolwich could have to think of when he grew to be a man,the comfortablest would be that he had never brought a sorrowfulline into his mother's face or turned a hair of her head grey, thenI felt sure, from his way, that something fresh had brought his ownmother into his mind. I had often known him say to me, in pasttimes, that he had behaved bad to her.""Never, my dear!" returns Mrs. Rouncewell, bursting into tears.   "My blessing on him, never! He was always fond of me, and lovingto me, was my George! But he had a bold spirit, and he ran alittle 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 anofficer; and when he didn't rise, I know he considered himselfbeneath us, and wouldn't be a disgrace to us. For he had a lionheart, had my George, always from a baby!"The old lady's hands stray about her as of yore, while she recalls,all in a tremble, what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gaygood-humoured clever lad he was; how they all took to him down atChesney Wold; how Sir Leicester took to him when he was a younggentleman; how the dogs took to him; how even the people who hadbeen angry with him forgave him the moment he was gone, poor boy.   And now to see him after all, and in a prison too! And the broadstomacher heaves, and the quaint upright old-fashioned figure bendsunder its load of affectionate distress.   Mrs. Bagnet, with the instinctive skill of a good warm heart,leaves the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while--notwithout passing the back of her hand across her own motherly eyes--and presently chirps up in her cheery manner, "So I says to Georgewhen I goes to call him in to tea (he pretended to be smoking hispipe outside), 'What ails you this afternoon, George, for gracioussake? I have seen all sorts, and I have seen you pretty often inseason and out of season, abroad and at home, and I never see youso melancholy penitent.' 'Why, Mrs. Bagnet,' says George, 'it'sbecause I AM melancholy and penitent both, this afternoon, that yousee me so.' 'What have you done, old fellow?' I says. 'Why, Mrs.   Bagnet,' says George, shaking his head, 'what I have done has beendone 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 awidowed mother; I say no more.' Now, ma'am, when George says to methat it's best not tried to be undone now, I have my thoughts as Ihave often had before, and I draw it out of George how he comes tohave such things on him that afternoon. Then George tells me thathe has seen by chance, at the lawyer's office, a fine old lady thathas brought his mother plain before him, and he runs on about thatold lady till he quite forgets himself and paints her picture to meas she used to be, years upon years back. So I says to George whenhe has done, who is this old lady he has seen? And George tells meit's Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper for more than half a century tothe Dedlock family down at Chesney Wold in Lincolnshire. Georgehas frequently told me before that he's a Lincolnshire man, and Isays to my old Lignum that night, 'Lignum, that's his mother forfive and for-ty pound!'"All this Mrs. Bagnet now relates for the twentieth time at leastwithin the last four hours. Trilling it out like a kind of bird,with a pretty high note, that it may be audible to the old ladyabove the hum of the wheels.   "Bless you, and thank you," says Mrs. Rouncewell. "Bless you, andthank you, my worthy soul!""Dear heart!" cries Mrs. Bagnet in the most natural manner. "Nothanks to me, I am sure. Thanks to yourself, ma'am, for being soready to pay 'em! And mind once more, ma'am, what you had best doon 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 clearhimself of a charge of which he is as innocent as you or me. Itwon't do to have truth and justice on his side; he must have lawand lawyers," exclaims the old girl, apparently persuaded that thelatter form a separate establishment and have dissolved partnershipwith truth and justice for ever and a day.   "He shall have," says Mrs. Rouncewell, "all the help that can begot for him in the world, my dear. I will spend all I have, andthankfully, to procure it. Sir Leicester will do his best, thewhole family will do their best. I--I know something, my dear; andwill make my own appeal, as his mother parted from him all theseyears, and finding him in a jail at last."The extreme disquietude of the old housekeeper's manner in sayingthis, her broken words, and her wringing of her hands make apowerful impression on Mrs. Bagnet and would astonish her but thatshe refers them all to her sorrow for her son's condition. And yetMrs. Bagnet wonders too why Mrs. Rouncewell should murmur sodistractedly, "My Lady, my Lady, my Lady!" over and over again.   The frosty night wears away, and the dawn breaks, and the post-chaise comes rolling on through the early mist like the ghost of achaise departed. It has plenty of spectral company in ghosts oftrees and hedges, slowly vanishing and giving place to therealities of day. London reached, the travellers alight, the oldhousekeeper in great tribulation and confusion, Mrs. Bagnet quitefresh and collected--as she would be if her next point, with no newequipage and outfit, were the Cape of Good Hope, the Island ofAscension, Hong Kong, or any other military station.   But when they set out for the prison where the trooper is confined,the old lady has managed to draw about her, with her lavender-coloured dress, much of the staid calmness which is its usualaccompaniment. A wonderfully grave, precise, and handsome piece ofold china she looks, though her heart beats fast and her stomacheris ruffled more than even the remembrance of this wayward son hasruffled it these many years.   Approaching the cell, they find the door opening and a warder inthe act of coming out. The old girl promptly makes a sign ofentreaty to him to say nothing; assenting with a nod, he suffersthem to enter as he shuts the door.   So George, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to bealone, does not raise his eyes, but remains absorbed. The oldhousekeeper looks at him, and those wandering hands of hers arequite enough for Mrs. Bagnet's confirmation, even if she could seethe mother and the son together, knowing what she knows, and doubttheir relationship.   Not a rustle of the housekeeper's dress, not a gesture, not a wordbetrays her. She stands looking at him as he writes on, allunconscious, and only her fluttering hands give utterance to heremotions. But they are very eloquent, very, very eloquent. Mrs.   Bagnet understands them. They speak of gratitude, of joy, ofgrief, of hope; of inextinguishable affection, cherished with noreturn since this stalwart man was a stripling; of a better sonloved less, and this son loved so fondly and so proudly; and theyspeak in such touching language that Mrs. Bagnet's eyes brim upwith tears and they run glistening down her sun-brown face.   "George Rouncewell! Oh, my dear child, turn and look at me!"The trooper starts up, clasps his mother round the neck, and fallsdown on his knees before her. Whether in a late repentance,whether in the first association that comes back upon him, he putshis hands together as a child does when it says its prayers, andraising them towards her breast, bows down his head, and cries.   "My George, my dearest son! Always my favourite, and my favouritestill, where have you been these cruel years and years? Grown sucha man too, grown such a fine strong man. Grown so like what I knewhe must be, if it pleased God he was alive!"She can ask, and he can answer, nothing connected for a time. Allthat time the old girl, turned away, leans one arm against thewhitened wall, leans her honest forehead upon it, wipes her eyeswith her serviceable grey cloak, and quite enjoys herself like thebest of old girls as she is.   "Mother," says the trooper when they are more composed, "forgive mefirst of all, for I know my need of it."Forgive him! She does it with all her heart and soul. She alwayshas done it. She tells him how she has had it written in her will,these many years, that he was her beloved son George. She hasnever believed any ill of him, never. If she had died without thishappiness--and she is an old woman now and can't look to live verylong--she would have blessed him with her last breath, if she hadhad her senses, as her beloved son George.   "Mother, I have been an undutiful trouble to you, and I have myreward; but of late years I have had a kind of glimmering of apurpose in me too. When I left home I didn't care much, mother--Iam afraid not a great deal--for leaving; and went away and 'listed,harum-scarum, making believe to think that I cared for nobody, nonot I, and that nobody cared for me."The trooper has dried his eyes and put away his handkerchief, butthere is an extraordinary contrast between his habitual manner ofexpressing himself and carrying himself and the softened tone inwhich he speaks, interrupted 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 timeI 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 toask 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 afresh, but he sets himself upwith a great, rough, sounding clearance of his throat.   "Heaven forgive me, mother, but I thought there would be smallconsolation then in hearing anything about me. There were you,respected and esteemed. There was my brother, as I read in chanceNorth Country papers now and then, rising to be prosperous andfamous. There was I a dragoon, roving, unsettled, not self-madelike him, but self-unmade--all my earlier advantages thrown away,all my little learning unlearnt, nothing picked up but whatunfitted me for most things that I could think of. What businesshad 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, andwept for me, and prayed for me; and the pain was over, or wassoftened down, and I was better in your mind as it was."The old lady sorrowfully shakes her head, and taking one of hispowerful hands, lays it lovingly upon her shoulder.   "No, I don't say that it was so, mother, but that I made it out tobe so. I said just now, what good could come of it? Well, my dearmother, some good might have come of it to myself--and there wasthe meanness of it. You would have sought me out; you would havepurchased my discharge; you would have taken me down to ChesneyWold; you would have brought me and my brother and my brother'sfamily together; you would all have considered anxiously how to dosomething for me and set me up as a respectable civilian. But howcould any of you feel sure of me when I couldn't so much as feelsure of myself? How could you help regarding as an incumbrance anda discredit to you an idle dragooning chap who was an incumbranceand a discredit to himself, excepting under discipline? How couldI look my brother's children in the face and pretend to set them anexample--I, the vagabond boy who had run away from home and beenthe grief and unhappiness of my mother's life? 'No, George.' Suchwere my words, mother, when I passed this in review before me: 'Youhave made your bed. Now, lie upon it.'"Mrs. Rouncewell, drawing up her stately form, shakes her head atthe old girl with a swelling pride upon her, as much as to say, "Itold you so!" The old girl relieves her feelings and testifies herinterest in the conversation by giving the trooper a great pokebetween the shoulders with her umbrella; this action she afterwardsrepeats, at intervals, in a species of affectionate lunacy, neverfailing, after 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 bestamends was to lie upon that bed I had made, and die upon it. And Ishould have done it (though I have been to see you more than oncedown at Chesney Wold, when you little thought of me) but for my oldcomrade's wife here, who I find has been too many for me. But Ithank her for it. I thank you for it, Mrs. Bagnet, with all myheart and might."To which Mrs. Bagnet responds with two pokes.   And now the old lady impresses upon her son George, her own dearrecovered boy, her joy and pride, the light of her eyes, the happyclose of her life, and every fond name she can think of, that hemust be governed by the best advice obtainable by money andinfluence, that he must yield up his case to the greatest lawyersthat can be got, that he must act in this serious plight as heshall be advised to act and must not be self-willed, however right,but must promise to think only of his poor old mother's anxiety andsuffering until he is released, or 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 do, and I'll make alate beginning and do it. Mrs. Bagnet, you'll take care of mymother, I know?"A very hard poke from the old girl's umbrella.   "If you'll bring her acquainted with Mr. Jarndyce and MissSummerson, she will find them of her way of thinking, and they willgive her the best advice and assistance.""And, George," says the old lady, "we must send with all haste foryour brother. He is a sensible sound man as they tell me--out inthe world beyond Chesney Wold, my dear, though I don't know much ofit myself--and will be of great service.""Mother," returns the trooper, "is 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 upmy mmd to it. He has proved himself so different from me and hasdone so much to raise himself while I've been soldiering that Ihaven't brass enough in my composition to see him in this place andunder this charge. How could a man like him be expected to haveany pleasure in such a discovery? It's impossible. No, keep mysecret from him, mother; do me a greater kindness than I deserveand 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 toask that too--but keep it now, I do entreat you. If it's everbroke to him that his rip of a brother has turned up, I couldwish," says the trooper, shaking his head very doubtfully, "tobreak it myself and be governed as to advancing or retreating bythe way in which he seems to take it."As he evidently has a rooted feeling on this point, and as thedepth of it is recognized in Mrs. Bagnet's face, his mother yieldsher implicit assent to what he asks. For this he thanks herkindly.   "In all other respects, my dear mother, I'll be as tractable andobedient as you can wish; on this one alone, I stand out. So now Iam ready even for the lawyers. I have been drawing up," he glancesat his writing on the table, "an exact account of what I knew ofthe deceased and how I came to be involved in this unfortunateaffair. It's entered, plain and regular, like an orderly-book; nota word in it but what's wanted for the facts. I did intend to readit, straight on end, whensoever I was called upon to say anythingin my defence. I hope I may be let to do it still; but I have nolonger 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 pass, and timebeing on the wane, Mrs. Bagnet proposes a departure. Again andagain the old lady hangs upon her son's neck, and again and againthe 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 havesome business there that must be looked to directly," Mrs.   Rouncewell answers.   "Will you see my mother safe there in a coach, Mrs. Bagnet? But ofcourse I know you will. Why should I ask it!"Why indeed, Mrs. 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 ofthe hand to Lignum, and this for yourself, and I wish it was tenthousand pound in gold, my dear!" So saying, the trooper puts hislips to the old girl's tanned forehead, and the door shuts upon himin his cell.   No entreaties on the part of the good old housekeeper will induceMrs. Bagnet to retain the coach for her own conveyance home.   Jumping out cheerfully at the door of the Dedlock mansion andhanding Mrs. Rouncewell up the steps, the old girl shakes hands andtrudges off, arriving soon afterwards in the bosom of the Bagnetfamily and falling to washing the greens as if nothing hadhappened.   My Lady is in that room in which she held her last conference withthe murdered man, and is sitting where she sat that night, and islooking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth studying her soleisurely, when a tap comes at the door. Who is it? Mrs.   Rouncewell. What has brought Mrs. Rouncewell to town sounexpectedly?   "Trouble, my Lady. Sad trouble. Oh, my Lady, may I beg a wordwith you?"What new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old womantremble so? Far happier than her Lady, as her Lady has oftenthought, why does she falter in this manner and look at her withsuch 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 wentaway 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--asI am. Accused of the murder of Mr. Tulkinghorn."What does she mean by this look and this imploring gesture? Whydoes she come so close? What is the letter that she holds?   "Lady Dedlock, my dear Lady, my good Lady, my kind Lady! You musthave 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 indanger. Oh, Lady Dedlock, if you can say but a word to help toclear him, say it!"What delusion can this be? What power does she suppose is in theperson she petitions to avert this unjust suspicion, if it beunjust? 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 sonin my old age, and the step upon the Ghost's Walk was so constantand so solemn that I never heard the like in all these years.   Night after night, as it has fallen dark, the sound has echoedthrough your rooms, but last night it was awfullest. And as itfell dark last night, my Lady, I got this letter.""What letter is it?""Hush! Hush!" The housekeeper looks round and answers in afrightened whisper, "My Lady, I have not breathed a word of it, Idon't believe what's written in it, I know it can't be true, I amsure and certain that it is not true. But my son is in danger, andyou must have a heart to pity me. If you know of anything that isnot known to others, if you have any suspicion, if you have anyclue 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 beknown! This is the most I consider possible. I know you are not ahard lady, but you go your own way always without help, and you arenot 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 fromthemselves who can't be approached close. My Lady, you may havesome proud or angry reasons for disdaining to utter something thatyou know; if so, pray, oh, pray, think of a faithful servant whosewhole life has been passed in this family which she dearly loves,and relent, and help to clear my son! My Lady, my good Lady," theold housekeeper pleads with genuine simplicity, "I am so humble inmy place and you are by nature so high and distant that you may notthink what I feel for my child, but I feel so much that I have comehere to make so bold as to beg and pray you not to be scornful ofus if you can do us any right or justice at this fearful time!"Lady Dedlock raises her without one word, until she takes theletter from her hand.   "Am I to read this?""When I am gone, my Lady, if you please, and then remembering themost that I consider possible.""I know of nothing I can do. I know of nothing I reserve that canaffect your son. I have never accused him.""My Lady, you may pity him the more under a false accusation afterreading the letter."The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. Intruth she is not a hard lady naturally, and the time has been whenthe sight of the venerable figure suing to her with such strongearnestness would have moved her to great compassion. But so longaccustomed to suppress emotion and keep down reality, so longschooled for her own purposes in that destructive school whichshuts up the natural feelings of the heart like flies in amber andspreads one uniform and dreary gloss over the good and bad, thefeeling and the unfeeling, the sensible and the senseless, she hadsubdued even her wonder until now.   She opens the letter. Spread out upon the paper is a printedaccount of the discovery of the body as it lay face downward on thefloor, shot through the heart; and underneath is written her ownname, with the word "murderess" attached.   It falls out of her hand. How long it may have lain upon theground she knows not, but it lies where it fell when a servantstands before her announcing the young man of the name of Guppy.   The words have probably been repeated several times, for they areringing in her head before she begins to understand them.   "Let him come in!"He comes in. Holding the letter in her hand, which she has takenfrom the floor, she tries to collect her thoughts. In the eyes ofMr. Guppy she is the same Lady Dedlock, holding the same prepared,proud, chilling state.   "Your ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visitfrom one who has never been welcome to your ladyship"--which hedon't complain of, for he is bound to confess that there never hasbeen 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 notfind 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 thecarpet at his feet, "that Miss Summerson, whose image, as Iformerly mentioned to your ladyship, was at one period of my lifeimprinted on my 'eart until erased by circumstances over which Ihad no control, communicated to me, after I had the pleasure ofwaiting on your ladyship last, that she particularly wished me totake no steps whatever in any manner at all relating to her. AndMiss Summerson's wishes being to me a law (except as connected withcircumstances over which I have no control), I consequently neverexpected to have the distinguished honour of waiting on yourladyship again."And yet he is here now, Lady Dedlock moodily reminds him.   "And yet I am here now," Mr. Guppy admits. "My object being tocommunicate to your ladyship, under the seal of confidence, why Iam here."He cannot do so, she tells him, too plainly or too briefly. "Norcan I," Mr. Guppy returns with a sense of injury upon him, "tooparticularly request your ladyship to take particular notice thatit's no personal affair of mine that brings me here. I have nointerested views of my own to serve in coming here. If it was notfor my promise to Miss Summerson and my keeping of it sacred--I, inpoint of fact, shouldn't have darkened these doors again, butshould have seen 'em further first."Mr. Guppy considers this a favourable moment for sticking up hishair with both hands.   "Your ladyship will remember when I mention it that the last time Iwas here I run against a party very eminent in our profession andwhose loss we all deplore. That party certainly did from that timeapply himself to cutting in against me in a way that I will callsharp practice, and did make it, at every turn and point, extremelydifficult for me to be sure that I hadn't inadvertently led up tosomething contrary to Miss Summerson's wishes. Self-praise is norecommendation, but I may say for myself that I am not so bad a manof business neither."Lady Dedlock looks at him in stern inquiry. Mr. Guppy immediatelywithdraws his eyes from her face and looks anywhere else.   "Indeed, it has been made so hard," he goes on, "to have any ideawhat that party was up to in combination with others that until theloss which we all deplore I was gravelled--an expression which yourladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be so good as toconsider tantamount to knocked over. Small likewise--a name bywhich I refer to another party, a friend of mine that your ladyshipis not acquainted with--got to be so close and double-faced that attimes it wasn't easy to keep one's hands off his 'ead. However,what with the exertion of my humble abilities, and what with thehelp of a mutual friend by the name of Mr. Tony Weevle (who is of ahigh aristocratic turn and has your ladyship's portrait alwayshanging up in his room), I have now reasons for an apprehension asto which I come to put your ladyship upon your guard. First, willyour ladyship allow me to ask you whether you have had any strangevisitors this morning? I don't mean fashionable visitors, but suchvisitors, for instance, as Miss Barbary's old servant, or as aperson without the use of his lower extremities, carried upstairssimilarly to a guy?""No!""Then I assure your ladyship that such visitors have been here andhave been received here. Because I saw them at the door, andwaited at the corner of the square till they came out, and tookhalf an hour's turn afterwards to avoid them.""What have I to do with that, or what have you? I do notunderstand you. What do you mean?""Your ladyship, I come to put you on your guard. There may be nooccasion for it. Very well. Then I have only done my best to keepmy promise to Miss Summerson. I strongly suspect (from what Smallhas dropped, and from what we have corkscrewed out of him) thatthose letters I was to have brought to your ladyship were notdestroyed when I supposed they were. That if there was anything tobe blown upon, it IS blown upon. That the visitors I have alludedto have been here this morning to make money of it. And that themoney is made, or making."Mr. Guppy picks up his hat and rises.   "Your ladyship, you know best whether there's anything in what Isay or whether there's nothing. Something or nothing, I have actedup to Miss Summerson's wishes in letting things alone and inundoing what I had begun to do, as far as possible; that'ssufficient for me. In case I should be taking a liberty in puttingyour ladyship on your guard when there's no necessity for it, youwill endeavour, I should hope, to outlive my presumption, and Ishall endeavour to outlive your disapprobation. I now take myfarewell of your ladyship, and assure you that there's no danger ofyour ever being waited on by me again."She scarcely acknowledges these parting words by any look, but whenhe has been gone a little while, she 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?"Several, on 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 mouths, herhusband knows his wrongs, her shame will be published--may bespreading while she thinks about it--and in addition to thethunderbolt so long foreseen by her, so unforeseen by him, she isdenounced by an invisible accuser as the murderess of her enemy.   Her enemy he was, and she has often, often, often wished him dead.   Her enemy he is, even in his grave. This dreadful accusation comesupon her like a new torment at his lifeless hand. And when sherecalls how she was secretly at his door that night, and how shemay be represented to have sent her favourite girl away so soonbefore merely to release herself from observation, she shudders asif the hangman's hands were at her neck.   She has thrown herself upon the floor and lies with her hair allwildly scattered and her face buried in the cushions of a couch.   She rises up, hurries to and fro, flings herself down again, androcks and moans. The horror that is upon her is unutterable. Ifshe really were the murderess, it could hardly be, for the moment,more intense.   For as her murderous perspective, before the doing of the deed,however subtle the precautions for its commission, would have beenclosed up by a gigantic dilatation of the hateful figure,preventing her from seeing any consequences beyond it; and as thoseconsequences would have rushed in, in an unimagined flood, themoment the figure was laid low--which always happens when a murderis done; so, now she sees that when he used to be on the watchbefore her, and she used to think, "if some mortal stroke would butfall on this old man and take him from my way!" it was but wishingthat all he held against her in his hand might be flung to thewinds and chance-sown in many places. So, too, with the wickedrelief she has felt in his death. What was his death but the key-stone of a gloomy arch removed, and now the arch begins to fall ina thousand fragments, each crushing and mangling piecemeal!   Thus, a terrible impression steals upon and overshadows her thatfrom this pursuer, living or dead--obdurate and imperturbablebefore her in his well-remembered shape, or not more obdurate andimperturbable in his coffin-bed--there is no escape but in death.   Hunted, she flies. The complication of her shame, her dread,remorse, and misery, overwhelms her at its height; and even herstrength of self-reliance is overturned and whirled away like aleaf before a mighty wind.   She hurriedly addresses these lines to her husband, seals, andleaves them on her table:   If I am sought for, or accused of, his murder, believe that I amwholly innocent. Believe no other good of me, for I am innocent ofnothing else that you have heard, or will hear, laid to my charge.   He prepared me, on that fatal night, for his disclosure of my guiltto you. After he had left me, I went out on pretence of walking inthe garden where I sometimes walk, but really to follow him andmake one last petition that he would not protract the dreadfulsuspense on which I have been racked by him, you do not know howlong, but would mercifully strike next morning.   I found his house dark and silent. I rang twice at his door, butthere was no reply, and I came home.   I have no home left. I will encumber you no more. May you, inyour just resentment, be able to forget the unworthy woman on whomyou have wasted a most generous devotion--who avoids you only witha deeper shame than that with which she hurries from herself--andwho writes this last adieu.   She veils and dresses quickly, leaves all her jewels and her money,listens, goes downstairs at a moment when the hall is empty, opensand shuts the great door, flutters away in the shrill frosty wind. Chapter 56 Pursuit Impassive, as behoves its high breeding, the Dedlock town housestares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur andgives no outward sign of anything going wrong within. Carriagesrattle, doors are battered at, the world exchanges calls; ancientcharmers with skeleton throats and peachy cheeks that have a ratherghastly bloom upon them seen by daylight, when indeed thesefascinating creatures look like Death and the Lady fused together,dazzle the eyes of men. Forth from the frigid mews come easilyswinging carriages guided by short-legged coachmen in flaxen wigs,deep sunk into downy hammercloths, and up behind mount lusciousMercuries bearing sticks of state and wearing cocked hatsbroadwise, a spectacle for the angels.   The Dedlock town house changes not externally, and hours passbefore its exalted dullness is disturbed within. But Volumnia thefair, being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom andfinding 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 response, she opens itand peeps in; seeing no one there, takes possession.   The sprightly Dedlock is reputed, in that grass-grown city of theancients, Bath, to be stimulated by an urgent curiosity whichimpels her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions to sidleabout with a golden glass at her eye, peering into objects of everydescription. Certain it is that she avails herself of the presentopportunity of hovering over her kinsman's letters and papers likea bird, taking a short peck at this document and a blink with herhead on one side at that document, and hopping about from table totable with her glass at her eye in an inquisitive and restlessmanner. In the course of these researches she stumbles oversomething, and turning her glass in that direction, sees herkinsman lying on the ground like a felled tree.   Volumnia's pet little scream acquires a considerable augmentationof reality from this surprise, and the house is quickly incommotion. Servants tear up and down stairs, bells are violentlyrung, doctors are sent for, and Lady Dedlock is sought in alldirections, but not found. Nobody has seen or heard her since shelast rang her bell. Her letter to Sir Leicester is discovered onher table, but it is doubtful yet whether he has not receivedanother missive from another world requiring to be personallyanswered, and all the living languages, and all the dead, are asone to him.   They lay him down upon his bed, and chafe, and rub, and fan, andput ice to his head, and try every means of restoration. Howbeit,the day has ebbed away, and it is night in his room before hisstertorous breathing lulls or his fixed eyes show any consciousnessof the candle that is occasionally passed before them. But whenthis change begins, it goes on; and by and by he nods or moves hiseyes or even his hand in token that he hears and comprehends.   He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman, somewhatinfirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well-filled face. Helies upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the decrepitshadow of himself. His voice was rich and mellow and he had solong been thoroughly persuaded of the weight and import to mankindof any word he said that his words really had come to sound as ifthere were something in them. But now he can only whisper, andwhat he whispers sounds like what it is--mere jumble and jargon.   His favourite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside. Itis the first act he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure fromit. After vainly trying to make himself understood in speech, hemakes signs for a pencil. So inexpressively that they cannot atfirst understand him; it is his old housekeeper who makes out whathe wants and brings in a slate.   After pausing for some time, he slowly scrawls upon it in a handthat is not his, "Chesney Wold?"No, she tells him; he is in London. He was taken ill in thelibrary this morning. Right thankful she is that she happened tocome 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 thegentlemen say so." This, with the tears coursing down her fair oldface.   After making a survey of the room and looking with particularattention all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes, "MyLady.""My Lady went out, Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill, anddon't know of your illness yet."He points again, in great agitation, at the two words. They alltry to quiet him, but he points again with increased agitation. Ontheir looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he takes theslate once more and writes "My Lady. For God's sake, where?" Andmakes an imploring moan.   It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him LadyDedlock's letter, the contents of which no one knows or cansurmise. She opens it for him and puts it out for his perusal.   Having read it twice by a great effort, he turns it down so that itshall not be seen and lies moaning. He passes into a kind ofrelapse or into a swoon, and it is an hour before he opens hiseyes, reclining on his faithful and attached old servant's arm.   The doctors know that he is best with her, and when not activelyengaged about him, stand aloof.   The slate comes into requisition again, but the word he wants towrite he cannot remember. His anxiety, his eagerness, andaffliction at this pass are pitiable to behold. It seems as if hemust go mad in the necessity he feels for haste and the inabilityunder which he labours of expressing to do what or to fetch whom.   He has written the letter B, and there stopped. Of a sudden, inthe height of his misery, he puts Mr. before it. The oldhousekeeper suggests Bucket. Thank heaven! That's his meaning.   Mr. Bucket is found to be downstairs, by appointment. Shall hecome up?   There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Leicester's burningwish to see him or the desire he signifies to have the room clearedof every one but the housekeeper. It is speedily done, and Mr.   Bucket appears. Of all men upon earth, Sir Leicester seems fallenfrom his high estate to place his sole trust and reliance upon thisman.   "Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'm sorry to see you like this. Ihope you'll cheer up. I'm sure you will, on account of the familycredit."Leicester puts her letter in his hands and looks intently in hisface while he reads it. A new intelligence comes into Mr. Bucket'seye as he reads on; with one hook of his finger, while that eye isstill glancing over the words, he indicates, "Sir LeicesterDedlock, 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 searchafter her must be begun out of hand. Not a minute must be lost."With the quickness of thought, he follows Sir Leicester Dedlock'slook towards a little box upon a table.   "Bring it here, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet? Certainly. Openit with one of these here keys? Certainly. The littlest key? TObe sure. Take the notes out? So I will. Count 'em? That's soondone. Twenty and thirty's fifty, and twenty's seventy, and fifty'sone twenty, and forty's one sixty. Take 'em for expenses? ThatI'll do, and render an account of course. Don't spare money? No Iwon't."The velocity and certainty of Mr. Bucket's interpretation on allthese heads is little short of miraculous. Mrs. Rouncewell, whoholds the light, is giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and handsas he starts up, furnished for his journey.   "You're George's mother, old lady; that's about what you are, Ibelieve?" says Mr. Bucket aside, with his hat already on andbuttoning 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 nomore. 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 LeicesterDedlock, 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, andhoping you're the same. He's discharged honourable; that's aboutwhat HE is; with no more imputation on his character than there ison yours, and yours is a tidy one, I'LL bet a pound. You may trustme, 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-madeold lady, and you're a mother and son, the pair of you, as might beshowed for models in a caravan. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,what you've trusted to me I'll go through with. Don't you beafraid of my turing out of my way, right or left, or taking asleep, or a wash, or a shave till I have found what I go in searchof. Say everything as is kind and forgiving on your part? SirLeicester Dedlock, Baronet, I will. And I wish you better, andthese family affairs smoothed over--as, Lord, many other familyaffairs equally has been, and equally wlll be, to the end of time."With this peroration, Mr. Bucket, buttoned up, goes quietly out,looking steadily before him as if he were already piercing thenight in quest of the fugitive.   His first step is to take himself to Lady Dedlock's rooms and lookall over them for any trifling indication that may help him. Therooms are in darkness now; and to see Mr. Bucket with a wax-lightin his hand, holding it above his head and taking a sharp mentalinventory of the many delicate objects so curiously at variancewith himself, would be to see a sight--which nobody DOES see, as heis particular to lock himself in.   "A spicy boudoir, this," says Mr. Bucket, who feels in a mannerfurbished up in his French by the blow of the morning. "Must havecost a sight of money. Rum articles to cut away from, these; shemust have been hard put to it!"Opening and shutting table-drawers and looking into caskets andjewel-cases, he sees the reflection of himself in various mirrors,and moralizes thereon.   "One might suppose I was a-moving in the fashionable circles andgetting myself up for almac's," says Mr. Bucket. "I begin to thinkI must be a swell in the Guards without knowing it."Ever looking about, he has opened a dainty little chest in an innerdrawer. His great hand, turning over some gloves which it canscarcely feel, they are so light and soft within it, comes upon awhite handkerchief.   "Hum! Let's have a look at YOU," says Mr. Bucket, putting down thelight. "What should YOU be kept by yourself for? What's YOURmotive? Are you her ladyship's property, or somebody else's?   You've got a mark upon you somewheres or another, I suppose?"He finds it as he speaks, "Esther Summerson.""Oh!" says Mr. Bucket, pausing, with his finger at his ear. "Come,I'll take YOU."He completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he hascarried them on, leaves everything else precisely as he found it,glides away after some five minutes in all, and passes into thestreet. With a glance upward at the dimly lighted windows of SirLeicester's room, he sets off, full-swing, to the nearest coach-stand, picks out the horse for his money, and directs to be drivento the shooting gallery. Mr. Bucket does not claim to be ascientific judge of horses, but he lays out a little money on theprincipal events in that line, and generally sums up his knowledgeof 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. Clatteringover the stones at a dangerous pace, yet thoughtfully bringing hiskeen eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he passes in themidnight streets, and even on the lights in upper windows wherepeople are going or gone to bed, and on all the turnings that herattles by, and alike on the heavy sky, and on the earth where thesnow lies thin--for something may present itself to assist him,anywhere--he dashes to his destination at such a speed that when hestops 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 hispipe.   "I thought I should, George, after what you have gone through, mylad. I haven't a word to spare. Now, honour! All to save awoman. Miss Summerson that was here when Gridley died--that wasthe 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 again, with an impression of having seen Phil sitting bythe frosty fire staring at him open-mouthed, and gallops awayagain, and gets out in a cloud of steam again.   Mr. Jarndyce, the only person up in the house, is just going tobed, rises 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 confidentialwith him in the hall, has shut the door, and stands with his handupon the lock. "I've had the pleasure of seeing you before.   Inspector Bucket. Look at that handkerchief, sir, Miss EstherSummerson's. Found it myself put away in a drawer of LadyDedlock's, quarter of an hour ago. Not a moment to lose. Matterof life or death. You know Lady Dedlock?""Yes.""There has been a discovery there to-day. Family affairs have comeout. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has had a fit--apoplexy orparalysis--and couldn't be brought to, and precious time has beenlost. Lady Dedlock disappeared this afternoon and left a letterfor him that looks bad. Run your eye over it. Here it is!"Mr. Jarndyce, having read it, asks him what he thinks.   "I don't know. It looks like suicide. Anyways, there's more andmore danger, every minute, of its drawing to that. I'd give ahundred 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 hisforgiveness. I have money and full power, but I want somethingelse. I want Miss Summerson."Mr. Jarndyce in a troubled voice repeats, "Miss Summerson?""Now, Mr. Jarndyce"--Mr. Bucket has read his face with the greatestattention all along--"I speak to you as a gentleman of a humaneheart, and under such pressing circumstances as don't often happen.   If ever delay was dangerous, it's dangerous now; and if ever youcouldn't afterwards forgive yourself for causing it, this is thetime. Eight or ten hours, worth, as I tell you, a hundred poundapiece at least, have been lost since Lady Dedlock disappeared. Iam charged to find her. I am Inspector Bucket. Besides all therest that's heavy on her, she has upon her, as she believes,suspicion of murder. If I follow her alone, she, being inignorance of what Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has communicatedto me, may be driven to desperation. But if I follow her incompany with a young lady, answering to the description of a younglady that she has a tenderness for--I ask no question, and I say nomore than that--she will give me credit for being friendly. Let mecome up with her and be able to have the hold upon her of puttingthat young lady for'ard, and I'll save her and prevail with her ifshe is alive. Let me come up with her alone--a hard matter--andI'll do my best, but I don't answer for what the best may be. Timeflies; it's getting on for one o'clock. When one strikes, there'sanother hour gone, and it's worth a thousand pound now instead of ahundred."This is all true, and the pressing nature of the case cannot bequestioned. Mr. Jarndyce begs him to remain there while he speaksto Miss Summerson. Mr. Bucket says he will, but acting on hisusual principle, does no such thing, following upstairs instead andkeeping his man in sight. So he remains, dodging and lurking aboutin the gloom of the staircase while they confer. In a very littletime Mr. Jarndyce comes down and tells him that Miss Summerson willjoin him directly and place herself under his protection toaccompany him where he pleases. Mr. Bucket, satisfied, expresseshigh approval and awaits her coming at the door.   There he mounts a high tower in his mind and looks out far andwide. Many solitary figures he perceives creeping through thestreets; many solitary figures out on heaths, and roads, and lyingunder haystacks. But the figure that he seeks is not among them.   Other solitaries he perceives, in nooks of bridges, looking over;and in shadowed places down by the river's level; and a dark, dark,shapeless object drifting with the tide, more solitary than all,clings with a drowning hold on his attention.   Where is she? Living or dead, where is she? If, as he folds thehandkerchief and carefully puts it up, it were able with anenchanted power to bring before him the place where she found itand the night-landscape near the cottage where it covered thelittle child, would he descry her there? On the waste where thebrick-kilns are burning with a pale blue flare, where the straw-roofs of the wretched huts in which the bricks are made are beingscattered by the wind, where the clay and water are hard frozen andthe mill in which the gaunt blind horse goes round all day lookslike an instrument of human torture--traversing this deserted,blighted spot there is a lonely figure with the sad world toitself, pelted by the snow and driven by the wind, and cast out, itwould seem, from all companionship. It is the figure of a woman,too; but it is miserably dressed, and no such clothes ever camethrough the hall and out at the great door of the Dedlock mansion. Chapter 57 Esther's Narrative I had gone to bed and fallen asleep when my guardian knocked at thedoor of my room and begged me to get up directly. On my hurryingto speak to him and learn what had happened, he told me, after aword or two of preparation, that there had been a discovery at SirLeicester Dedlock's. That my mother had fled, that a person wasnow at our door who was empowered to convey to her the fullestassurances of affectionate protection and forgiveness if he couldpossibly find her, and that I was sought for to accompany him inthe hope that my entreaties might prevail upon her if his failed.   Something to this general purpose I made out, but I was thrown intosuch a tumult of alarm, and hurry and distress, that in spite ofevery effort I could make to subdue my agitation, I did not seem,to myself, fully to recover my right mind until hours had passed.   But I dressed and wrapped up expeditiously without waking Charleyor any one and went down to Mr. Bucket, who was the personentrusted with the secret. In taking me to him my guardian told methis, and also explained how it was that he had come to think ofme. Mr. Bucket, in a low voice, by the light of my guardian'scandle, read to me in the hall a letter that my mother had leftupon her table; and I suppose within ten minutes of my having beenaroused I was sitting beside him, rolling swiftly through thestreets.   His manner was very keen, and yet considerate when he explained tome that a great deal might depend on my being able to answer,without confusion, a few questions that he wished to ask me. Thesewere, chiefly, whether I had had much communication with my mother(to whom he only referred as Lady Dedlock), when and where I hadspoken with her last, and how she had become possessed of myhandkerchief. When I had satisfied him on these points, he askedme particularly to consider--taking time to think--whether withinmy knowledge there was any one, no matter where, in whom she mightbe at all likely to confide under circumstances of the lastnecessity. I could think of no one but my guardian. But by and byI mentioned Mr. Boythorn. He came into my mind as connected withhis old chivalrous manner of mentioning my mother's name and withwhat my guardian had informed me of his engagement to her sisterand his unconscious connexion with her unhappy story.   My companion had stopped the driver while we held thisconversation, that we might the better hear each other. He nowtold him to go on again and said to me, after considering withinhimself for a few moments, that he had made up his mind how toproceed. He was quite willing to tell me what his plan was, but Idid not feel clear enough to understand it.   We had not driven very far from our lodgings when we stopped in aby-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. Itwas now past one, as I saw by the clock against the wall. Twopolice officers, looking in their perfectly neat uniform not at alllike people who were up all night, were quietly writing at a desk;and the place seemed very quiet altogether, except for some beatingand calling out at distant doors underground, to which nobody paidany attention.   A third man in uniform, whom Mr. Bucket called and to whom hewhispered his instructions, went out; and then the two othersadvised together while one wrote from Mr. Bucket's subdueddictation. It was a description of my mother that they were busywith, for Mr. Bucket brought it to me when it was done and read itin a whisper. It was very accurate indeed.   The second officer, who had attended to it closely, then copied itout and called in another man in uniform (there were several in anouter room), who took it up and went away with it. All this wasdone with the greatest dispatch and without the waste of a moment;yet nobody was at all hurried. As soon as the paper was sent outupon its travels, the two officers resumed their former quiet workof writing with neatness and care. Mr. Bucket thoughtfully cameand warmed the soles of his boots, first one and then the other, atthe fire.   "Are you well wrapped up, Miss Summerson?" he asked me as his eyesmet mine. "It's a desperate sharp night for a young lady to be outin."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 mind, miss.""I pray to heaven it may end well!" said I.   He nodded comfortingly. "You see, whatever you do, don't you goand fret yourself. You keep yourself cool and equal for anythingthat may happen, and it'll be the better for you, the better forme, the better for Lady Dedlock, and the better for Sir LeicesterDedlock, Baronet."He was really very kind and gentle, and as he stood before the firewarming his boots and rubbing his face with his forefinger, I felta confidence in his sagacity which reassured me. It was not yet aquarter to two when I heard horses' feet and wheels outside. "Now,Miss Summerson," said he, "we are off, if you please!"He gave me his arm, and the two officers courteously bowed me out,and we found at the door a phaeton or barouche with a postilion andpost horses. Mr. Bucket handed me in and took his own seat on thebox. The man in uniform whom he had sent to fetch this equipagethen handed him up a dark lantern at his request, and when he hadgiven a few directions to the driver, we rattled away.   I was far from sure that I was not in a dream. We rattled withgreat rapidity through such a labyrinth of streets that I soon lostall idea where we were, except that we had crossed and re-crossedthe river, and still seemed to be traversing a low-lying,waterside, dense neighbourhood of narrow thoroughfares chequered bydocks and basins, high piles of warehouses, swing-bridges, andmasts of ships. At length we stopped at the corner of a littleslimy turning, which the wind from the river, rushing up it, didnot purify; and I saw my companion, by the light of his lantern, inconference with several men who looked like a mixture of police andsailors. Against the mouldering wall by which they stood, therewas a bill, on which I could discern the words, "Found Drowned";and this and an inscription about drags possessed me with the awfulsuspicion shadowed forth in our visit to that place.   I had no need to remind myself that I was not there by theindulgence of any feeling of mine to increase the difficulties ofthe search, or to lessen its hopes, or enhance its delays. Iremained quiet, but what I suffered in that dreadful spot I nevercan forget. And still it was like the horror of a dream. A manyet dark and muddy, in long swollen sodden boots and a hat likethem, was called out of a boat and whispered with Mr. Bucket, whowent away with him down some slippery steps--as if to look atsomething secret that he had to show. They came back, wiping theirhands upon their coats, after turning over something wet; but thankGod it was not what I feared!   After some further conference, Mr. Bucket (whom everybody seemed toknow and defer to) went in with the others at a door and left me inthe carriage, while the driver walked up and down by his horses towarm himself. The tide was coming in, as I judged from the soundit made, and I could hear it break at the end of the alley with alittle rush towards me. It never did so--and I thought it did so,hundreds of times, in what can have been at the most a quarter ofan hour, and probably was less--but the thought shuddered throughme that it would cast my mother at the horses' feet.   Mr. Bucket came out again, exhorting the others to be vigilant,darkened his lantern, and once more took his seat. "Don't you bealarmed, Miss Summerson, on account of our coming down here," hesaid, turning to me. "I only want to have everything in train andto know that it is in train by looking after it myself. Get on, mylad!"We appeared to retrace the way we had come. Not that I had takennote of any particular objects in my perturbed state of mind, butjudging from the general character of the streets. We called atanother office or station for a minute and crossed the river again.   During the whole of this time, and during the whole search, mycompanion, wrapped up on the box, never relaxed in his vigilance asingle moment; but when we crossed the bridge he seemed, ifpossible, to be more on the alert than before. He stood up to lookover the parapet, he alighted and went back after a shadowy femalefigure that flitted past us, and he gazed into the profound blackpit of water with a face that made my heart die within me. Theriver had a fearful look, so overcast and secret, creeping away sofast between the low flat lines of shore--so heavy with indistinctand awful shapes, both of substance and shadow; so death-like andmysterious. I have seen it many times since then, by sunlight andby moonlight, but never free from the impressions of that journey.   In my memory the lights upon the bridge are always burning dim, thecutting wind is eddying round the homeless woman whom we pass, themonotonous wheels are whirling on, and the light of the carriage-lamps reflected back looks palely in upon me--a face rising out ofthe dreaded water.   Clattering and clattering through the empty streets, we came atlength from the pavement on to dark smooth roads and began to leavethe houses behind us. After a while I recognized the familiar wayto Saint Albans. At Barnet fresh horses were ready for us, and wechanged and went on. It was very cold indeed, and the open countrywas white with snow, though 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 answered, "but it'searly times as yet."He had gone into every late or early public-house where there was alight (they were not a few at that time, the road being then muchfrequented by drovers) and had got down to talk to the turnpike-keepers. I had heard him ordering drink, and chinking money, andmaking himself agreeable and merry everywhere; but whenever he tookhis seat upon the box again, his face resumed its watchful steadylook, and he always said to the driver in the same business tone,"Get on, my lad!"With all these stoppages, it was between five and six o'clock andwe were yet a few miles short of Saint Albans when he came out ofone of these houses and handed me in a cup of tea.   "Drink it, Miss Summerson, it'll do you good. You're beginning toget 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; "andLord, no wonder! Don't speak loud, my 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. Iheard of her first at the archway toll, over at Highgate, butcouldn't make quite sure. Traced her all along, on and off.   Picked her up at one place, and dropped her at another; but she'sbefore 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 seeif 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 day, whenI was just beginning to arrange and comprehend the occurrences ofthe night and really to believe that they were not a dream.   Leaving the carriage at the posting-house and ordering fresh horsesto be ready, my companion gave me his arm, and we went towardshome.   "As this is your regular abode, Miss Summerson, you see," heobserved, "I should like to know whether you've been asked for byany stranger answering the description, or whether Mr. Jarndycehas. I don't much expect it, but it might be."As we ascended the hill, he looked about him with a sharp eye--theday was now breaking--and reminded me that I had come down it onenight, as I had reason for remembering, with my little servant andpoor Jo, whom he called Toughey.   I wondered how he knew that.   "When you passed a man upon the road, just yonder, you know," saidMr. Bucket.   Yes, I remembered that too, very well.   "That was me," said Mr. Bucket.   Seeing my surprise, he went on, "I drove down in a gig thatafternoon to look after that boy. You might have heard my wheelswhen you came out to look after him yourself, for I was aware ofyou and your little maid going up when I was walking the horsedown. Making an inquiry or two about him in the town, I soon heardwhat company he was in and was coming among the brick-fields tolook for him when I observed you bringing him home here.""Had he committed any crime?" I asked.   "None was charged against him," said Mr. Bucket, coolly lifting offhis hat, "but I suppose he wasn't over-particular. No. What Iwanted him for was in connexion with keeping this very matter ofLady Dedlock quiet. He had been making his tongue more free thanwelcome as to a small accidental service he had been paid for bythe deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn; and it wouldn't do, at any sort ofprice, to have him playing those games. So having warned him outof London, I made an afternoon of it to warn him to keep out of itnow he WAS away, and go farther from it, and maintain a brightlook-out that I didn't catch him coming back again.""Poor creature!" said I.   "Poor enough," assented Mr. Bucket, "and trouble enough, and wellenough away from London, or anywhere else. I was regularly turnedon my back when I found him taken up by your establishment, I doassure you.   I asked him why. "Why, my dear?" said Mr. Bucket. "Naturallythere was no end to his tongue then. He might as well have beenborn with a yard and a half of it, and a remnant over."Although I remember this conversation now, my head was in confusionat the time, and my power of attention hardly did more than enableme to understand that he entered into these particulars to divertme. With the same kind intention, manifestly, he often spoke to meof indifferent things, while his face was busy with the one objectthat we had in view. He still pursued this subject as we turned inat the garden-gate.   "Ah!" said Mr. Bucket. "Here we are, and a nice retired place itis. Puts a man in mind of the country house in the Woodpecker-tapping, that was known by the smoke which so gracefully curled.   They're early with the kitchen fire, and that denotes goodservants. But what you've always got to be careful of withservants is who comes to see 'em; you never know what they're up toif you don't know that. And another thing, my dear. Whenever youfind a young man behind the kitchen-door, you give that young manin charge on suspicion of being secreted in a dwelling-house withan unlawful purpose."We were now in front of the house; he looked attentively andclosely at the gravel for footprints before he raised his eyes tothe windows.   "Do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in the same roomwhen he's on a visit here, Miss Summerson?" he inquired, glancingat Mr. Skimpole's usual chamber.   "You know Mr. Skimpole!" said I.   "What do you call him again?" returned Mr. Bucket, bending down hisear. "Skimpole, is it? I've often wondered what his name mightbe. Skimpole. Not John, I should say, nor 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 it, though!"I involuntarily returned for answer that I perceived Mr. Bucketknew him.   "Why, now I'll tell you, Miss Summerson," he replied. "Your mindwill be all the better for not running on one point toocontinually, and I'll tell you for a change. It was him as pointedout to me where Toughey was. I made up my mind that night to cometo the door and ask for Toughey, if that was all; but willing totry a move or so first, if any such was on the board, I justpitched 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 him, thinks I,you're the man for me. So I smoothed him down a bit about notwanting to disturb the family after they was gone to bed and aboutits being a thing to be regretted that charitable young ladiesshould harbour vagrants; and then, when I pretty well understoodhis ways, I said I should consider a fypunnote well bestowed if Icould relieve the premises of Toughey without causing any noise ortrouble. Then says he, lifting up his eyebrows in the gayest way,'It's no use menfioning a fypunnote to me, my friend, because I'm amere child in such matters and have no idea of money.' Of course Iunderstood what his taking it so easy meant; and being now quitesure he was the man for me, I wrapped the note round a little stoneand threw it up to him. Well! He laughs and beams, and looks asinnocent as you like, and says, 'But I don't know the value ofthese things. What am I to DO with this?' 'Spend it, sir,' saysI. 'But I shall be taken in,' he says, 'they won't give me theright change, I shall lose it, it's no use to me.' Lord, you neversaw such a face as he carried it with! Of course he told me whereto find Toughey, and I found him."I regarded this as very treacherous on the part of Mr. Skimpoletowards my guardian and as passing the usual bounds of his childishinnocence.   "Bounds, my dear?" returned Mr. Bucket. "Bounds? Now, MissSummerson, I'll give you a piece of advice that your husband willfind useful when you are happily married and have got a familyabout you. Whenever a person says to you that they are as innocentas can be in all concerning money, look well after your own money,for they are dead certain to collar it if they can. Whenever aperson proclaims to you 'In worldly matters I'm a child,' youconsider that that person is only a-crying off from being heldaccountable and that you have got that person's number, and it'sNumber One. Now, I am not a poetical man myself, except in a vocalway when it goes round a company, but I'm a practical one, andthat's my experience. So's this rule. Fast and loose in onething, fast and loose in everything. I never knew it fail. Nomore will you. Nor no one. With which caution to the unwary, mydear, I take the liberty of pulling this here bell, and so go backto our business."I believe it had not been for a moment out of his mind, any morethan it had been out of my mind, or out of his face. The wholehousehold were amazed to see me, without any notice, at that timein the morning, and so accompanied; and their surprise was notdiminished by my inquiries. No one, however, had been there. Itcould not be doubted that this was the truth.   "Then, Miss Summerson," said my companion, "we can't be too soon atthe cottage where those brickmakers are to be found. Mostinquiries 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 isyour own way."We set off again immediately. On arriving at the cottage, we foundit shut up and apparently deserted, but one of the neighbours whoknew me and who came out when I was trying to make some one hearinformed me that the two women and their husbands now livedtogether in another house, made of loose rough bricks, which stoodon the margin of the piece of ground where the kilns were and wherethe long rows of bricks were drying. We lost no time in repairingto this place, which was within a few hundred yards; and as thedoor stood ajar, I pushed it open.   There were only three of them sitting at breakfast, the child lyingasleep on a bed in the corner. It was Jenny, the mother of thedead child, who was absent. The other woman rose on seeing me; andthe men, though they were, as usual, sulky and silent, each gave mea morose nod of recognition. A look passed between them when Mr.   Bucket followed me in, and I was surprised to see that the womanevidently knew him.   I had asked leave to enter of course. Liz (the only name by whichI knew her) rose to give me her own chair, but I sat down on astool near the fire, and Mr. Bucket took a corner of the bedstead.   Now that I had to speak and was among people with whom I was notfamiliar, I became conscious of being hurried and giddy. It wasvery difficult to begin, and I could not help bursting into tears.   "Liz," said I, "I have come a long way in the night and through thesnow to inquire after a lady--""Who has been here, you know," Mr. Bucket struck in, addressing thewhole group with a composed propitiatory face; "that's the lady theyoung lady means. The lady that was here last night, you know.""And who told YOU as there was anybody here?" inquired Jenny'shusband, who had made a surly stop in his eating to listen and nowmeasured him with his eye.   "A person of the name of Michael Jackson, with a blue welveteenwaistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl buttons," Mr. Bucketimmediately answered.   "He had as good mind his own business, whoever he is," growled theman.   "He's out of employment, I believe," said Mr. Bucket apologeticallyfor Michael Jackson, "and so gets talking."The woman had not resumed her chair, but stood faltering with herhand upon its broken back, looking at me. I thought she would havespoken to me privately if she had dared. She was still in thisattitude of uncertainty when her husband, who was eating with alump 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 herwith an oath to mind HER own business at any rate and sit down.   "I should like to have seen Jenny very much," said I, "for I amsure she would have told me all she could about this lady, whom Iam 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 answer, but the man, with anotheroath, openly kicked at her foot with his heavy boot. He left it toJenny's husband to say what he chose, and after a dogged silencethe latter turned his shaggy head towards me.   "I'm not partial to gentlefolks coming into my place, as you'veheerd me say afore now, I think, miss. I let their places be, andit's curious they can't let my place be. There'd be a pretty shinemade if I was to go a-wisitin THEM, I think. Howsoever, I don't somuch complain of you as of some others, and I'm agreeable to makeyou a civil answer, though I give notice that I'm not a-going to bedrawed 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 witha sulky jerk of his head.   "But was she here when the lady came? And what did the lady say toher? And where is the lady gone? I beg and pray you to be so kindas to tell me," said I, "for I am in great distress to know.""If my master would let me speak, and not say a word of harm--" thewoman timidly began.   "Your master," said her husband, muttering an imprecation with slowemphasis, "will break your neck if you meddle with wot don'tconcern you."After another silence, the husband of the absent woman, turning tome again, answered me with his usual grumbling unwillingness.   "Wos Jenny here when the lady come? Yes, she wos here when thelady come. Wot did the lady say to her? Well, I'll tell you wotthe lady said to her. She said, 'You remember me as come one timeto talk to you about the young lady as had been a-wisiting of you?   You remember me as give you somethink handsome for a handkercherwot 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 upat the house now. Well, then, lookee here. The lady was upon ajourney all alone, strange as we might think it, and could she restherself where you're a setten for a hour or so. Yes she could, andso she did. Then she went--it might be at twenty minutes pasteleven, and it might be at twenty minutes past twelve; we ain't gotno watches here to know the time by, nor yet clocks. Where did shego? I don't know where she go'd. She went one way, and Jenny wentanother; 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 itall. He knows."The other man repeated, "That'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 worse, but 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 kepthis hammer-like hand upon the table as if it were in readiness toexecute his threat if she disobeyed him.   "I hope you will not object to my asking your wife," said I, "howthe 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 answered, looking 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 cutit short.""She had a little water, miss, and Jenny fetched her some bread andtea. But she hardly touched it.""And when she went from here," I was proceeding, when Jenny'shusband impatiently took me up.   "When she went from here, she went right away nor'ard by the highroad. 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 companion, and finding that he had already risenand was ready to depart, thanked them for what they had told me,and took my leave. The woman looked full at Mr. Bucket as he wentout, and 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 positivefact.""You saw it?" I exclaimed.   "Just as good as saw it," he returned. "Else why should he talkabout his 'twenty minutes past' and about his having no watch totell the time by? Twenty minutes! He don't usually cut his timeso fine as that. If he comes to half-hours, it's as much as HEdoes. Now, you see, either her ladyship gave him that watch or hetook it. I think she gave it him. Now, what should she give ithim for? What should she give it him for?"He repeated this question to himself several times as we hurriedon, appearing to balance between a variety of answers that arose inhis mind.   "If time could be spared," said Mr. Bucket, "which is the onlything that can't be spared in this case, I might get it out of thatwoman; but it's too doubtful a chance to trust to under presentcircumstances. They are up to keeping a close eye upon her, andany fool knows that a poor creetur like her, beaten and kicked andscarred and bruised from head to foot, will stand by the husbandthat ill uses her through thick and thin. There's something keptback. It's a pity but what we had seen the other woman."I regretted it exceedingly, for she was very grateful, and I feltsure would have resisted no entreaty of mine.   "It's possible, Miss Summerson," said Mr. Bucket, pondering 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. Itdon't come out altogether so plain as to please me, but it's on thecards. Now, I don't take kindly to laying out the money of SirLeicester Dedlock, Baronet, on these roughs, and I don't see my wayto the usefulness of it at present. No! So far our road, MissSummerson, is for'ard--straight ahead--and keeping everythingquiet!"We called at home once more that I might send a hasty note to myguardian, and then we hurried back to where we had left thecarriage. The horses were brought out as soon as we were seencoming, and we were on the road again in a few minutes.   It had set in snowing at daybreak, and it now snowed hard. The airwas so thick with the darkness of the day and the density of thefall that we could see but a very little way in any direction.   Although it was extremely cold, the 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 sometimesslipped and floundered for a mile together, and we were obliged tocome to a standstill to rest them. One horse fell three times inthis first stage, and trembled so and was so shaken that the driverhad to dismount from his saddle and lead him at last.   I could eat nothing and could not sleep, and I grew so nervousunder those delays and the slow pace at which we travelled that Ihad an unreasonable desire upon me to get out and walk. Yieldingto my companion's better sense, however, I remained where I was.   All this time, kept fresh by a certain enjoyment of the work inwhich he was engaged, he was up and down at every house we came to,addressing people whom he had never beheld before as oldacquaintances, running in to warm himself at every fire he saw,talking and drinking and shaking hands at every bar and tap,friendly with every waggoner, wheelwright, blacksmith, and toll-taker, yet never seeming to lose time, and always mounting to thebox again with his watchful, steady face and his business-like "Geton, my lad!"When we were changing horses the next time, he came from thestable-yard, with the wet snow encrusted upon him and dropping offhim--plashing and crashing through it to his wet knees as he hadbeen doing frequently since we left Saint Albans--and spoke to meat 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, andthe dress has been seen here.""Still on foot?" said I.   "Still on foot. I think the gentleman you mentioned must be thepoint she's aiming at, and yet I don't like his living down in herown part of the country neither.""I know so little," said I. "There may be some one else nearerhere, of whom I never heard.""That's true. But whatever you do, don't you fall a-crying, mydear; and don't you worry yourself no more than you can help. Geton, my lad!"The sleet fell all that day unceasingly, a thick mist came onearly, and it never rose or lightened for a moment. Such roads Ihad never seen. I sometimes feared we had missed the way and gotinto the ploughed grounds or the marshes. If I ever thought of thetime I had been out, it presented itself as an indefinite period ofgreat duration, and I seemed, in a strange way, never to have beenfree from the anxiety under which I then laboured.   As we advanced, I began to feel misgivings that my companion lostconfidence. He was the same as before with all the roadsidepeople, but he looked graver when he sat by himself on the box. Isaw his finger uneasily going across and across his mouth duringthe whole of one long weary stage. I overheard that he began toask the drivers of coaches and other vehicles coming towards uswhat passengers they had seen in other coaches and vehicles thatwere in advance. Their replies did not encourage him. He alwaysgave me a reassuring beck of his finger and lift of his eyelid ashe got upon the box again, but he seemed perplexed now when hesaid, "Get on, my lad!"At last, when we were changing, he told me that he had lost thetrack of the dress so long that he began to be surprised. It wasnothing, he said, to lose such a track for one while, and to takeit up for another while, and so on; but it had disappeared here inan unaccountable manner, and we had not come upon it since. Thiscorroborated the apprehensions I had formed, when he began to lookat direction-posts, and to leave the carriage at cross roads for aquarter of an hour at a time while he explored them. But I was notto be down-hearted, he told me, for it was as likely as not thatthe next stage might set us right again.   The next stage, however, ended as that one ended; we had no newclue. There was a spacious inn here, solitary, but a comfortablesubstantial building, and as we drove in under a large gatewaybefore I knew it, where a landlady and her pretty daughters came tothe carriage-door, entreating me to alight and refresh myself whilethe horses were making ready, I thought it would be uncharitable torefuse. They took me upstairs to a warm room and left me there.   It was at the corner of the house, I remember, looking two ways.   On one side to a stable-yard open to a by-road, where the ostlerswere unharnessing the splashed and tired horses from the muddycarriage, and beyond that to the by-road itself, across which thesign was heavily swinging; on the other side to a wood of darkpine-trees. Their branches were encumbered with snow, and itsilently dropped off in wet heaps while I stood at the window.   Night was setting in, and its bleakness was enhanced by thecontrast of the pictured fire glowing and gleaming in the window-pane. As I looked among the stems of the trees and followed thediscoloured marks in the snow where the thaw was sinking into itand undermining it, I thought of the motherly face brightly set offby daughters that had just now welcomed me and of MY mother lyingdown in such a wood to die.   I was frightened when I found them all about me, but I rememberedthat before I fainted I tried very hard not to do it; and that wassome little comfort. They cushioned me up on a large sofa by thefire, and then the comely landlady told me that I must travel nofurther to-night, but must go to bed. But this put me into such atremble lest they should detain me there that she soon recalled herwords 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 notdo it when a snug round table was presently spread by the fireside,though I was very unwilling to disappoint them. However, I couldtake some toast and some hot negus, and as I really enjoyed thatrefreshment, it made some recompense.   Punctual to the time, at the half-hour's end the carriage camerumbling under the gateway, and they took me down, warmed,refreshed, comforted by kindness, and safe (I assured them) not tofaint any more. After I had got in and had taken a grateful leaveof them all, the youngest daughter--a blooming girl of nineteen,who was to be the first married, they had told me--got upon thecarriage step, reached in, and kissed me. I have never seen her,from that hour, but I think of her to this hour as my friend.   The transparent windows with the fire and light, looking so brightand warm from the cold darkness out of doors, were soon gone, andagain we were crushing and churning the loose snow. We went onwith toil enough, but the dismal roads were not much worse thanthey had been, and the stage was only nine miles. My companionsmoking on the box--I had thought at the last inn of begging him todo so when I saw him standing at a great fire in a comfortablecloud of tobacco--was as vigilant as ever and as quickly down andup again when we came to any human abode or any human creature. Hehad lighted his little dark lantern, which seemed to be a favouritewith him, for we had lamps to the carriage; and every now and thenhe turned it upon me to see that I was doing well. There was afolding-window to the carriage-head, but I never closed it, for itseemed like shutting out hope.   We came to the end of the stage, and still the lost trace was notrecovered. I looked at him anxiously when we stopped to change,but I knew by his yet graver face as he stood watching the ostlersthat he had heard nothing. Almost in an instant afterwards, as Ileaned back in my seat, he looked in, with his lighted lantern inhis hand, an excited and quite different man.   "What is it?" said I, starting. "Is she here?""No, no. Don't deceive yourself, my dear. Nobody's here. ButI've got it!"The crystallized snow was in his eyelashes, in his hair, lying inridges on his dress. He had to shake it from his face and get hisbreath before he spoke to me.   "Now, Miss Summerson," said he, beating 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 yard, and a man came running out ofthe stables to know if he meant up or down.   "Up, I tell you! Up! Ain't it English? Up!""Up?" said I, astonished. "To London! Are we going back?""Miss Summerson," he answered, "back. Straight back as a die. Youknow 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 thosetwo 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 notabandon her on such a night and in such a state of mind as I knowher to be in!" said I, in an agony, and grasping his hand.   "You are right, my dear, I won't. But I'll follow the other. Lookalive here with them horses. Send a man for'ard in the saddle tothe next stage, and let him send another for'ard again, and orderfour on, up, right through. My darling, don't you be afraid!"These orders and the way in which he ran about the yard urging themcaused a general excitement that was scarcely less bewildering tome than the sudden change. But in the height of the confusion, amounted man galloped away to order the relays, and our horses wereput to with great speed.   "My dear," said Mr. Bucket, jumping to his seat and looking inagain, "--you'll excuse me if I'm too familiar--don't you fret andworry yourself no more than you can help. I say nothing else atpresent; but you know me, my dear; now, don't you?"I endeavoured to say that I knew he was far more capable than I ofdeciding what we ought to do, but was he sure that this was right?   Could I not go forward by myself in search of--I grasped his handagain in my distress and whispered it to him--of my own mother.   "My dear," he answered, "I 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 mefor 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 upby a waterwheel. Chapter 58 A Wintry Day and Night Still impassive, as behoves its breeding, the Dedlock town housecarries itself as usual towards the street of dismal grandeur.   There are powdered heads from time to time in the little windows ofthe hall, looking out at the untaxed powder falling all day fromthe sky; and in the same conservatory there is peach blossomturning itself exotically to the great hall fire from the nippingweather out of doors. It is given out that my Lady has gone downinto Lincolnshire, but is expected to return presently.   Rumour, busy overmuch, however, will not go down into Lincolnshire.   It persists in flitting and chattering about town. It knows thatthat poor unfortunate man, Sir Leicester, has been sadly used. Ithears, my dear child, all sorts of shocking things. It makes theworld of five miles round quite merry. Not to know that there issomething wrong at the Dedlocks' is to augur yourself unknown. Oneof the peachy-cheeked charmers with the skeleton throats is alreadyapprised of all the principal circumstances that will come outbefore the Lords on Sir Leicester's application for a bill ofdivorce.   At Blaze and Sparkle's the jewellers and at Sheen and Gloss's themercers, it is and will be for several hours the topic of the age,the feature of the century. The patronesses of thoseestablishments, albeit so loftily inscrutable, being as nicelyweighed and measured there as any other article of the stock-in-trade, are perfectly understood in this new fashion by the rawesthand behind the counter. "Our people, Mr. Jones," said Blaze andSparkle to the hand in question on engaging him, "our people, sir,are sheep--mere sheep. Where two or three marked ones go, all therest follow. Keep those two or three in your eye, Mr. Jones, andyou have the flock." So, likewise, Sheen and Gloss to THEIR Jones,in reference to knowing where to have the fashionable people andhow to bring what they (Sheen and Gloss) choose into fashion. Onsimilar unerring principles, Mr. Sladdery the librarian, and indeedthe great farmer of gorgeous sheep, admits this very day, "Why yes,sir, there certainly ARE reports concerning Lady Dedlock, verycurrent indeed among my high connexion, sir. You see, my highconnexion must talk about something, sir; and it's only to get asubject into vogue with one or two ladies I could name to make itgo down with the whole. Just what I should have done with thoseladies, sir, in the case of any novelty you had left to me to bringin, they have done of themselves in this case through knowing LadyDedlock and being perhaps a little innocently jealous of her too,sir. You'll find, sir, that this topic will be very popular amongmy high connexion. If it had been a speculation, sir, it wouldhave brought money. And when I say so, you may trust to my beingright, sir, for I have made it my business to study my highconnexion and to be able to wind it up like a clock, sir."Thus rumour thrives in the capital, and will not go down intoLincolnshire. By half-past five, post meridian, Horse Guards'   time, it has even elicited a new remark from the Honourable Mr.   Stables, which bids fair to outshine the old one, on which he hasso long rested his colloquial reputation. This sparkling sally isto the effect that although he always knew she was the best-groomedwoman in the stud, he had no idea she was a bolter. It isimmensely received in turf-circles.   At feasts and festivals also, in firmaments she has often graced,and among constellations she outshone but yesterday, she is stillthe prevalent subject. What is it? Who is it? When was it?   Where was it? How was it? She is discussed by her dear friendswith all the genteelest slang in vogue, with the last new word, thelast new manner, the last new drawl, and the perfection of politeindifference. A remarkable feature of the theme is that it isfound to be so inspiring that several people come out upon it whonever came out before--positively say things! William Buffycarries one of these smartnesses from the place where he dines downto the House, where the Whip for his party hands it about with hissnuff-box to keep men together who want to be off, with such effectthat the Speaker (who has had it privately insinuated into his ownear under the corner of his wig) cries, "Order at the bar!" threetimes without making an impression.   And not the least amazing circumstance connected with her beingvaguely the town talk is that people hovering on the confines ofMr. Sladdery's high connexion, people who know nothing and ever didknow nothing about her, think it essential to their reputation topretend that she is their topic too, and to retail her at second-hand with the last new word and the last new manner, and the lastnew drawl, and the last new polite indifference, and all the restof it, all at second-hand but considered equal to new in inferiorsystems and to fainter stars. If there be any man of letters, art,or science among these little dealers, how noble in him to supportthe feeble sisters on such majestic crutches!   So goes the wintry day outside the Dedlock mansion. How within it?   Sir Leicester, lying in his bed, can speak a little, though withdifficulty and indistinctness. He is enjoined to silence and torest, and they have given him some opiate to lull his pain, for hisold enemy is very hard with him. He is never asleep, thoughsometimes he seems to fall into a dull waking doze. He caused hisbedstead to be moved out nearer to the window when he heard it wassuch inclement weather, and his head to be so adjusted that hecould see the driving snow and sleet. He watches it as it falls,throughout the whole wintry day.   Upon the least noise in the house, which is kept hushed, his handis at the pencil. The old housekeeper, sitting by him, knows whathe would write and whispers, "No, he has not come back yet, SirLeicester. It was late last night when he went. He has been but alittle time gone yet."He withdraws his hand and falls to looking at the sleet and snowagain until they seem, by being long looked at, to fall so thickand fast that he is obliged to close his eyes for a minute on thegiddy whirl of white flakes and icy blots.   He began to look at them as soon as it was light. The day is notyet far spent when he conceives it to be necessary that her roomsshould be prepared for her. It is very cold and wet. Let there begood fires. Let them know that she is expected. Please see to ityourself. He writes to this purpose on his slate, and Mrs.   Rouncewell with a heavy heart obeys.   "For I dread, George," the old lady says to her son, who waitsbelow to keep her company when she has a little leisure, "I 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 maysay at me too--as if the step on the Ghost's Walk had almost walkedher 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 yearthat I have been in this family, and I never had any fears for itbefore. But it's breaking up, my dear; the great old Dedlockfamily is breaking up.""I hope not, mother.""I am thankful I have lived long enough to be with Sir Leicester inthis illness and trouble, for I know I am not too old nor toouseless to be a welcomer sight to him than anybody else in my placewould 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 herand go on.""Well, mother dear, I say again, I hope not.""Ah, so do I, George," the old lady returns, shaking her head andparting her folded hands. "But if my fears come true, and he hasto know it, who will tell him!""Are these her rooms?""These are my Lady's rooms, just as she left them.""Why, now," says the trooper, glancing round him and speaking in alower voice, "I begin to understand how you come to think as you dothink, mother. Rooms get an awful look about them when they arefitted 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 knowswhere."He is not far out. As all partings foreshadow the great final one,so, empty rooms, bereft of a familiar presence, mournfully whisperwhat your room and what mine must one day be. My Lady's state hasa hollow look, thus gloomy and abandoned; and in the innerapartment, where Mr. Bucket last night made his secretperquisition, the traces of her dresses and her ornaments, even themirrors accustomed to reflect them when they were a portion ofherself, have a desolate and vacant air. Dark and cold as thewintry day is, it is darker and colder in these deserted chambersthan in many a hut that will barely exclude the weather; and thoughthe servants heap fires in the grates and set the couches and thechairs within the warm glass screens that let their ruddy lightshoot through to the furthest corners, there is a heavy cloud uponthe rooms which no light will dispel.   The old housekeeper and her son remain until the preparations arecomplete, and then she returns upstairs. Volumnia has taken Mrs.   Rouncewell's place in the meantime, though pearl necklaces androuge pots, however calculated to embellish Bath, are butindifferent comforts to the invalid under present circumstances.   Volumnia, not being supposed to know (and indeed not knowing) whatis the matter, has found it a ticklish task to offer appropriateobservations and consequently has supplied their place withdistracting smoothings of the bed-linen, elaborate locomotion ontiptoe, vigilant peeping at her kinsman's eyes, and oneexasperating whisper to herself of, "He is asleep." In disproof ofwhich superfluous remark Sir Leicester has indignantly written onthe slate, "I am not."Yielding, therefore, the chair at the bedside to the quaint oldhousekeeper, Volumnia sits at a table a little removed,sympathetically sighing. Sir Leicester watches the sleet and snowand listens for the returning steps that he expects. In the earsof his old servant, looking as if she had stepped out of an oldpicture-frame to attend a summoned Dedlock to another world, thesilence is fraught with echoes of her own words, "who will tellhim!"He has been under his valet's hands this morning to be madepresentable and is as well got up as the circumstances will allow.   He is propped with pillows, his grey hair is brushed in its usualmanner, his linen is arranged to a nicety, and he is wrapped in aresponsible dressing-gown. His eye-glass and his watch are readyto his hand. It is necessary--less to his own dignity now perhapsthan for her sake--that he should be seen as little disturbed andas much himself as may be. Women will talk, and Volumnia, though aDedlock, is no exceptional case. He keeps her here, there islittle doubt, to prevent her talking somewhere else. He is veryill, but he makes his present stand against distress of mind andbody most courageously.   The fair Volumnia, being one of those sprightly girls who cannotlong continue silent without imminent peril of seizure by thedragon Boredom, soon indicates the approach of that monster with aseries of undisguisable yawns. Finding it impossible to suppressthose yawns by any other process than conversation, she complimentsMrs. Rouncewell on her son, declaring that he positively is one ofthe finest figures she ever saw and as soldierly a looking person,she should think, as what's his name, her favourite Life Guardsman--the man she dotes on, the dearest of creatures--who was killed atWaterloo.   Sir Leicester hears this tribute with so much surprise and staresabout him in such a confused way that Mrs. Rouncewell feels itnecesary to explain.   "Miss Dedlock don't speak of my eldest son, Sir Leicester, but myyoungest. I have found him. He has come home."Sir Leicester breaks silence with a harsh cry. "George? Your sonGeorge come home, Mrs. Rouncewell?"The old housekeeper wipes her eyes. "Thank God. Yes, SirLeicester."Does this discovery of some one lost, this return of some one solong gone, come upon him as a strong confirmation of his hopes?   Does he think, "Shall I not, with the aid I have, recall her safelyafter this, there being fewer hours in her case than there areyears in his?"It is of no use entreating him; he is determined to speak now, andhe does. In a thick crowd of sounds, but still intelligibly enoughto be understood.   "Why did you not tell me, Mrs. Rouncewell?""It happened only yesterday, Sir Leicester, and I doubted yourbeing well enough to be talked to of such things."Besides, the giddy Volumnia now remembers with her little screamthat nobody was to have known of his being Mrs. Rouncewell's sonand that she was not to have told. But Mrs. Rouncewell protests,with warmth enough to swell the stomacher, that of course she wouldhave told Sir Leicester as soon as he got better.   "Where is your son George, Mrs. Rouncewell?" asks Sir Leicester,Mrs. Rouncewell, not a little alarmed by his disregard of thedoctor's injunctions, replies, in 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. SirLeicester, with such power of movement as he has, arranges himselfa little to receive him. When he has done so, he looks out againat the falling sleet and snow and listens again for the returningsteps. A quantity of straw has been tumbled down in the street todeaden the noises there, and she might be driven to the doorperhaps without his hearing wheels.   He is lying thus, apparently forgetful of his newer and minorsurprise, when the housekeeper returns, accompanied by her trooperson. Mr. George approaches softly to the bedside, makes his bow,squares his chest, and stands, with his face flushed, very heartilyashamed of himself.   "Good heaven, and it is really George Rouncewell!" exclaims SirLeicester. "Do you remember me, George?"The trooper needs to look at him and to separate this sound fromthat sound before he knows what he has said, but doing this andbeing a little helped by his mother, he replies, "I must have avery bad memory, indeed, Sir Leicester, if I failed to rememberyou.""When I look at you, George Rouncewell," Sir Leicester observeswith difficulty, "I see something of a boy at Chesney Wold--Iremember well--very well."He looks at the trooper until tears come into his eyes, and then helooks at the sleet and snow again.   "I ask your pardon, Sir Leicester," says the trooper, "but wouldyou accept of my arms to raise you up? You would lie easier, SirLeicester, 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 child, lightly raises him,and turns him with his face more towards the window. "Thank you.   You have your mother's gentleness," returns Sir Leicester, "andyour own strength. Thank you."He signs to him with his hand not to go away. George quietlyremains at the bedside, waiting to be spoken to.   "Why did you wish for secrecy?" It takes Sir Leicester some timeto ask this.   "Truly I am not much to boast of, Sir Leicester, and I--I shouldstill, Sir Leicester, if you was not so indisposed--which I hopeyou will not be long--I should still hope for the favour of beingallowed to remain unknown in general. That involves explanationsnot very hard to be guessed at, not very well timed here, and notvery creditable to myself. However opinions may differ on avariety 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 Leicester, "and a faithfulone."George makes his military how. "As far as that goes, SirLeicester, I have done my duty under discipline, and it was theleast I could do.""You find me," says Sir Leicester, whose eyes are much attractedtowards him, "far 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 havehad a sudden and bad attack. Something that deadens," making anendeavour to pass one hand down one side, "and confuses," touchinghis lips.   George, with a look of assent and sympathy, makes another bow. Thedifferent times when they were both young men (the trooper much theyounger of the two) and looked at one another down at Chesney Woldarise before them both and soften both.   Sir Leicester, evidently with a great determination to say, in hisown manner, something that is on his mind before relapsing intosilence, tries to raise himself among his pillows a little more.   George, observant of the action, takes him in his arms again andplaces him as he desires to be. "Thank you, George. You areanother self to me. You have often carried my spare gun at ChesneyWold, George. You are familiar to me in these strangecircumstances, very familiar." He has put Sir Leicester's sounderarm over his shoulder in lifting him up, and Sir Leicester is slowin drawing it away again as he says these words.   "I was about to add," he presently goes on, "I was about to add,respecting this attack, that it was unfortunately simultaneous witha slight misunderstanding between my Lady and myself. I do notmean that there was any difference between us (for there has beennone), but that there was a misunderstanding of certaincircumstances important only to ourselves, which deprives me, for alittle while, of my Lady's society. She has found it necessary tomake a journey--I trust will shortly return. Volumnia, do I makemyself intelligible? The words are not quite under my command inthe manner of pronouncing them."Volumnia understands him perfectly, and in truth be delivershimself with far greater plainness than could have been supposedpossible a minute ago. The effort by which he does so is writtenin the anxious and labouring expression of his face. Nothing butthe strength of his purpose enables him to make it.   "Therefore, Volumnia, I desire to say in your presence--and in thepresence of my old retainer and friend, Mrs. Rouncewell, whosetruth and fidelity no one can question, and in the presence of herson George, who comes back like a familiar recollection of my youthin the home of my ancestors at Chesney Wold--in case I shouldrelapse, in case I should not recover, in case I should lose bothmy speech and the power of writing, though I hope for betterthings--"The old housekeeper weeping silently; Volumnia in the greatestagitation, with the freshest bloom on her cheeks; the trooper withhis arms folded and his head a little bent, respectfully attentive.   "Therefore I desire to say, and to call you all to witness--beginning, Volumnia, with yourself, most solemnly--that I am onunaltered terms with Lady Dedlock. That I assert no cause whateverof complaint against her. That I have ever had the strongestaffection for her, and that I retain it undiminished. Say this toherself, and to every one. If you ever say less than this, youwill be guilty of deliberate falsehood to me."Volumnia tremblingly protests that she will observe his injunctionsto 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 issurrounded, not to have her enemies and traducers, I dare say. Letit be known to them, as I make it known to you, that being of soundmind, memory, and understanding, I revoke no disposition I havemade in her favour. I abridge nothing I have ever bestowed uponher. I am on unaltered terms with her, and I recall--having thefull power to do it if I were so disposed, as you see--no act Ihave done for her advantage and happiness."His formal array of words might have at any other time, as it hasoften had, something ludicrous in it, but at this time it isserious and affecting. His noble earnestness, his fidelity, hisgallant shielding of her, his generous conquest of his own wrongand his own pride for her sake, are simply honourable, manly, andtrue. Nothing less worthy can be seen through the lustre of suchqualities in the commonest mechanic, nothing less worthy can beseen in the best-born gentleman. In such a light both aspirealike, both rise alike, both children of the dust shine equally.   Overpowered by his exertions, he lays his head back on his pillowsand closes his eyes for not more than a minute, when he againresumes his watching of the weather and his attention to themuffled sounds. In the rendering of those little services, and inthe manner of their acceptance, the trooper has become installed asnecessary to him. Nothing has been said, but it is quiteunderstood. He falls a step or two backward to be out of sight andmounts guard a little behind his mother's chair.   The day is now beginning to decline. The mist and the sleet intowhich the snow has all resolved itself are darker, and the blazebegins to tell more vividly upon the room walls and furniture. Thegloom augments; the bright gas springs up in the streets; and thepertinacious oil lamps which yet hold their ground there, withtheir source of life half frozen and half thawed, twinkle gaspinglylike fiery fish out of water--as they are. The world, which hasbeen rumbling over the straw and pulling at the bell, "to inquire,"begins to go home, begins to dress, to dine, to discuss its dearfriend with all the last new modes, as already mentioned.   Now does Sir Leicester become worse, restless, uneasy, and in greatpain. Volumnia, lighting a candle (with a predestined aptitude fordoing something objectionable), is bidden to put it out again, forit is not yet dark enough. Yet it is very dark too, as dark as itwill 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 strivingto uphold the fiction with himself that it is not growing late.   "Dear Sir Leicester, my honoured master," she softly whispers, "Imust, for your own good, and my duty, take the freedom of beggingand praying that you will not lie here in the lone darknesswatching and waiting and dragging through the time. Let me drawthe curtains, and light the candles, and make things morecomfortable about you. The church-clocks will strike the hoursjust the same, Sir Leicester, and the night will pass away just thesame. My Lady will come back, just the same.""I know it, Mrs. Rouncewell, but I am weak--and he has been so longgone.""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 lightupon him; she thinks his tears too sacred to be seen, even by her.   Therefore she sits in the darkness for a while without a word, thengently begins to move about, now stirring the fire, now standing atthe dark window looking out. Finally he tells her, with recoveredself-command, "As you say, Mrs. Rouncewell, it is no worse forbeing confessed. It is getting late, and they are not come. Lightthe room!" When it is lighted and the weather shut out, it is onlyleft to him to listen.   But they find that however dejected and ill he is, he brightenswhen a quiet pretence is made of looking at the fires in her roomsand being sure that everything is ready to receive her. Poorpretence as it is, these allusions to her being expected keep uphope within him.   Midnight comes, and with it the same blank. The carriages in thestreets are few, and other late sounds in that neighbourhood thereare none, unless a man so very nomadically drunk as to stray intothe frigid zone goes brawling and bellowing along the pavement.   Upon this wintry night it is so still that listening to the intensesilence is like looking at intense darkness. If any distant soundbe audible in this case, it departs through the gloom like a feeblelight in that, and all is heavier than before.   The corporation of servants are dismissed to bed (not unwilling togo, for they were up all last night), and only Mrs. Rouncewell andGeorge keep watch in Sir Leicester's room. As the night lagstardily on--or rather when it seems to stop altogether, at betweentwo and three o'clock--they find a restless craving on him to knowmore about the weather, now he cannot see it. Hence George,patrolling regularly every half-hour to the rooms so carefullylooked after, extends his march to the hall-door, looks 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.   Volumnia, in her room up a retired landing on the stair-case--thesecond turning past the end of the carving and gilding, a cousinlyroom containing a fearful abortion of a portrait of Sir Leicesterbanished for its crimes, and commanding in the day a solemn yardplanted with dried-up shrubs like antediluvian specimens of blacktea--is a prey to horrors of many kinds. Not last nor least amongthem, possibly, is a horror of what may befall her little income inthe event, as she expresses it, "of anything happening" to SirLeicester. Anything, in this sense, meaning one thing only; andthat the last thing that can happen to the consciousness of anybaronet in the known world.   An effect of these horrors is that Volumnia finds she cannot go tobed in her own room or sit by the fire in her own room, but mustcome forth with her fair head tied up in a profusion of shawl, andher fair form enrobed in drapery, and parade the mansion like aghost, particularly haunting the rooms, warm and luxurious,prepared for one who still does not return. Solitude under suchcircumstances being not to be thought of, Volumnia is attended byher maid, who, impressed from her own bed for that purpose,extremely cold, very sleepy, and generally an injured maid ascondemned by circumstances to take office with a cousin, when shehad 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 rooms, however, inthe course of his patrolling is an assurance of protection andcompany both to mistress and maid, which renders them veryacceptable in the small hours of the night. Whenever he is heardadvancing, they both make some little decorative preparation toreceive him; at other times they divide their watches into shortscraps of oblivion and dialogues not wholly free from acerbity, asto whether Miss Dedlock, sitting with her feet upon the fender, wasor was not falling into the fire when rescued (to her greatdispleasure) 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 andill, 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 isto 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 maidsharply.   But Volumnia answers No! No! She may be asked for, she may bewanted at a moment's notice. She never should forgive herself "ifanything was to happen" and she was not on the spot. She declinesto enter on the question, mooted by the maid, how the spot comes tobe there, and not in her room (which is nearer to Sir Leicester's),but staunchly declares that on the spot she will remain. Volumniafurther makes a merit of not having "closed an eye"--as if she hadtwenty or thirty--though it is hard to reconcile this statementwith her having most indisputably opened two within five minutes.   But when it comes to four o'clock, and still the same blank,Volumnia's constancy begins to fail her, or rather it begins tostrengthen, for she now considers that it is her duty to be readyfor the morrow, when much may be expected of her, that, in fact,howsoever anxious to remain upon the spot, it may be required ofher, as an act of self-devotion, to desert the spot. So when thetrooper reappears with his, "Hadn't you better go to bed, miss?"and when the maid protests, more sharply than before, "You had adeal 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 tothe door of her cousinly chamber, and the maid as undoubtedlythinks it best to hustle her into bed with mighty little ceremony.   Accordingly, these steps are taken; and now the trooper, in hisrounds, has the house to himself.   There is no improvement in the weather. From the portico, from theeaves, from the parapet, from every ledge and post and pillar,drips the thawed snow. It has crept, as if for shelter, into thelintels of the great door--under it, into the corners of thewindows, into every chink and crevice of retreat, and there wastesand dies. It is falling still; upon the roof, upon the skylight,even through the skylight, and drip, drip, drip, with theregularity of the Ghost's Walk, on the stone floor below.   The trooper, his old recollections awakened by the solitarygrandeur of a great house--no novelty to him once at Chesney Wold--goes up the stairs and through the chief rooms, holding up hislight at arm's length. Thinking of his varied fortunes within thelast few weeks, and of his rustic boyhood, and of the two periodsof his life so strangely brought together across the wideintermediate space; thinking of the murdered man whose image isfresh in his mind; thinking of the lady who has disappeared fromthese very rooms and the tokens of whose recent presence are allhere; thinking of the master of the house upstairs and of theforeboding, "Who will tell him!" he looks here and looks there, andreflects how he MIGHT see something now, which it would tax hisboldness to walk up to, lay his hand upon, and prove to be a fancy.   But it is all blank, blank as the darkness above and below, whilehe goes up the great staircase again, blank as the oppressivesilence.   "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 downwithout looking for an answer.   Very familiar to him, as he said himself some hours ago, GeorgeRouncewell lifts him into easier positions through the longremainder of the blank wintry night, and equally familiar with hisunexpressed wish, extinguishes the light and undraws the curtainsat the first late break of day. The day comes like a phantom.   Cold, colourless, and vague, it sends a warning streak before it ofa deathlike hue, as if it cried out, "Look what I am bringing youwho watch there! Who will tell him!" Chapter 59 Esther's Narrative It was three o'clock in the morning when the houses outside Londondid at last begin to exclude the country and to close us in withstreets. We had made our way along roads in a far worse conditionthan when we had traversed them by daylight, both the fall and thethaw having lasted ever since; but the energy of my companion neverslackened. It had only been, as I thought, of less assistance thanthe horses in getting us on, and it had often aided them. They hadstopped exhausted halfway up hills, they had been driven throughstreams of turbulent water, they had slipped down and becomeentangled with the harness; but he and his little lantern had beenalways ready, and when the mishap was set right, I had never heardany variation in his cool, "Get on, my lads!"The steadiness and confidence with which he had directed ourjourney back I could not account for. Never wavering, he nevereven stopped to make an inquiry until we were within a few miles ofLondon. A very few words, here and there, were then enough forhim; and thus we came, at between three and four o'clock in themorning, into Islington.   I will not dwell on the suspense and anxiety with which I reflectedall this time that we were leaving my mother farther and fartherbehind every minute. I think I had some strong hope that he mustbe right and could not fail to have a satisfactory object infollowing this woman, but I tormented myself with questioning itand discussing it during the whole journey. What was to ensue whenwe found her and what could compensate us for this loss of timewere questions also that I could not possibly dismiss; my mind wasquite tortured by long dwelling on such reflections when westopped.   We stopped in a high-street where there was a coach-stand. Mycompanion paid our two drivers, who were as completely covered withsplashes as if they had been dragged along the roads like thecarriage itself, and giving them some brief direction where to takeit, lifted me out of it and into a hackney-coach he had chosen fromthe 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 itsway into the carriage, and I had got out two or three times when afallen horse was plunging and had to be got up, and the wet hadpenetrated my dress. I assured him it was no matter, but thedriver, who knew him, would not be dissuaded by me from runningdown the street to his stable, whence he brought an armful of cleandry straw. They shook it out and strewed it well about me, and Ifound it warm and comfortable.   "Now, my dear," said Mr. Bucket, with his head in at the windowafter I was shut up. "We're a-going to mark this person down. Itmay take a little time, but you don't mind that. You're prettysure that I've got a motive. Ain't you?"I little thought what it was, little thought in how short a time Ishould understand it better, but I assured him that I hadconfidence in him.   "So you may have, my dear," he returned. "And I tell you what! Ifyou only repose half as much confidence in me as I repose in youafter what I've experienced of you, that'll do. Lord! You're notrouble at all. I never see a young woman in any station ofsociety--and I've seen many elevated ones too--conduct herself likeyou have conducted yourself since you was called out of your bed.   You're a pattern, you know, that's what you are," said Mr. Bucketwarmly; "you're a pattern."I told him I was very glad, as indeed I was, to have been nohindrance to him, and that I hoped I should be none now.   "My dear," he returned, "when a young lady is as mild as she'sgame, and as game as she's mild, that's all I ask, and more than Iexpect. She then becomes a queen, and that's about what you areyourself."With these encouraging words--they really were encouraging to meunder those lonely and anxious circumstances--he got upon the box,and we once more drove away. Where we drove I neither knew thennor have ever known since, but we appeared to seek out thenarrowest and worst streets in London. Whenever I saw himdirecting the driver, I was prepared for our descending into adeeper complication of such streets, and we never failed to do so.   Sometimes we emerged upon a wider thoroughfare or came to a largerbuilding than the generality, well lighted. Then we stopped atoffices like those we had visited when we began our journey, and Isaw him in consultation with others. Sometimes he would get downby an archway or at a street corner and mysteriously show the lightof his little lantern. This would attract similar lights fromvarious dark quarters, like so many insects, and a freshconsultation would be held. By degrees we appeared to contract oursearch within narrower and easier limits. Single police-officerson duty could now tell Mr. Bucket what he wanted to know and pointto him where to go. At last we stopped for a rather longconversation between him and one of these men, which I supposed tobe satisfactory from his manner of nodding from time to time. Whenit was finished he came to me looking very busy and very attentive.   "Now, Miss Summerson, he said to me, "you won't be alarmed whatevercomes off, I know. It's not necessary for me to give you anyfurther caution than to tell you that we have marked this persondown and that you may be of use to me before I know it myself. Idon't like to ask such a thing, my dear, but would you walk alittle way?"Of course I got out directly and took his arm.   "It ain't so easy to keep your feet," said Mr. Bucket, "but taketime."Although I looked about me confusedly and hurriedly as we crossedthe street, I thought I knew the place. "Are we in Holborn?" Iasked 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 it, and as we went shuffling through the sleet, Iheard the clocks strike half-past five. We passed on in silenceand as quickly as we could with such a foothold, when some onecoming towards us on the narrow pavement, wrapped in a cloak,stopped and stood aside to give me room. In the same moment Iheard 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 it, whetherpleasant or painful--to come upon it after my feverish wanderingjourney, and in the midst of the night, that I could not keep backthe tears from my eyes. It was like hearing his voice in a strangecountry.   "My dear Miss Summerson, that you should be out at this hour, andin such weather!"He had heard from my guardian of my having been called away on someuncommon business and said so to dispense with any explanation. Itold him that we had but just left a coach and were going--but thenI was obliged to look at my companion.   "Why, you see, Mr. Woodcourt"--he had caught the name from me--"weare a-going at present into the next street. Inspector Bucket."Mr. Woodcourt, disregarding my remonstrances, had hurriedly takenoff 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 tome or to my companion.   "Why, Lord!" exclaimed Mr. Bucket, taking the answer on himself.   "Of course you may."It was all said in a moment, and they took me between them, wrappedin the cloak.   "I have just left Richard," said Mr. Woodcourt. "I have beensitting 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 depressedand faint--you know he gets so worried and so worn sometimes--andAda sent to me of course; and when I came home I found her note andcame straight here. Well! Richard revived so much after a littlewhile, 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 remainedwith him until he had been fast asleep some hours. As fast asleepas she is now, I hope!"His friendly and familiar way of speaking of them, his unaffecteddevotion to them, the grateful confidence with which I knew he hadinspired my darling, and the comfort he was to her; could Iseparate all this from his promise to me? How thankless I musthave been if it had not recalled the words he said to me when hewas so moved by the change in my appearance: "I will accept him asa trust, and it shall be a sacred one!"We now turned into another narrow street. "Mr. Woodcourt," saidMr. Bucket, who had eyed him closely as we came along, "ourbusiness takes us to a law-stationer's here, a certain Mr.   Snagsby's. What, you know him, do you?" He was so quick that hesaw it in an instant.   "Yes, I know a little of him and have called upon him at thisplace.""Indeed, sir?" said Mr. Bucket. "Then you will be so good as tolet me leave Miss Summerson with you for a moment while I go andhave half a word with him?"The last police-officer with whom he had conferred was standingsilently behind us. I was not aware of it until he struck in on mysaying I heard some one crying.   "Don't be alarmed, miss," he returned. "It's Snagsby's servant.""Why, you see," said Mr. Bucket, "the girl's subject to fits, andhas 'em bad upon her to-night. A most contrary circumstance it is,for I want certain information out of that girl, and she must bebrought 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 allnight, sir.""Well, that's true," he returned. "My light's burnt out. Showyours a moment."All this passed in a whisper a door or two from the house in whichI could faintly hear crying and moaning. In the little round oflight produced for the purpose, Mr. Bucket went up to the door andknocked. The door was opened after he had knocked twice, and hewent in, leaving us standing in the street.   "Miss Summerson," said Mr. Woodcourt, "if without obtruding myselfon your confidence I may remain near you, pray let me do so.""You are truly kind," I answered. "I need wish to keep no secretof my own from you; if I keep any, it is another's.""I quite understand. Trust me, I will remain near you only so longas I can fully respect it.""I trust implicitly to you," I said. "I know and deeply feel howsacredly you keep your promise.   After a short time the little round of light shone out again, andMr. Bucket advanced towards us in it with his earnest face.   "Please to come in, Miss Summerson," he said, "and sit down by thefire. Mr. Woodcourt, from information I have received I understandyou are a medical man. Would you look to this girl and see ifanything can be done to bring her round. She has a lettersomewhere that I particularly want. It's not in her box, and Ithink it must be about her; but she is so twisted and clenched upthat she is difficult to handle without hurting."We all three went into the house together; although it was cold andraw, it smelt close too from being up all night. In the passagebehind the door stood a scared, sorrowful-looking little man in agrey coat who seemed to have a naturally polite manner and spokemeekly.   "Downstairs, if you please, Mr. Bucket," said he. "The lady willexcuse the front kitchen; we use it as our workaday sitting-room.   The back is Guster's bedroom, and in it she's a-carrying on, poorthing, to a frightful extent!"We went downstairs, followed by Mr. Snagsby, as I soon found thelittle man to be. In the front kitchen, sitting by the fire, wasMrs. Snagsby, with very red eyes and a very severe expression offace.   "My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, entering behind us, "to wave--not to put too fine a point upon it, my dear--hostilities for onesingle moment in the course of this prolonged night, here isInspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady."She looked very much astonished, as she had reason for doing, andlooked particularly hard at me.   "My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, sitting down in the remotestcorner by the door, as if he were taking a liberty, "it is notunlikely that you may inquire of me why Inspector Bucket, Mr.   Woodcourt, and a lady call upon us in Cook's Court, CursitorStreet, at the present hour. I don't know. I have not the leastidea. If I was to be informed, I should despair of understanding,and I'd rather not be told."He appeared so miserable, sitting with his head upon his hand, andI appeared so unwelcome, that I was going to offer an apology whenMr. Bucket took the matter on himself.   "Now, Mr. Snagsby," said he, "the best thing you can do is to goalong with Mr. Woodcourt to look after your Guster--""My Guster, Mr. Bucket!" cried Mr. Snagsby. "Go on, sir, go on. Ishall be charged with that next.""And to hold the candle," pursued Mr. Bucket without correctinghimself, "or hold her, or make yourself useful in any way you'reasked. Which there's not a man alive more ready to do, for you'rea man of urbanity and suavity, you know, and you've got the sort ofheart that can feel for another. Mr. Woodcourt, would you be sogood as see to her, and if you can get that letter from her, to letme have it as soon as ever you can?"As they went out, Mr. Bucket made me sit down in a corner by thefire and take off my wet shoes, which he turned up to dry upon thefender, talking all the time.   "Don't you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitablelook from Mrs. Snagsby there, because she's under a mistakealtogether. She'll find that out sooner than will be agreeable toa lady of her generally correct manner of forming her thoughts,because I'm a-going to explain it to her." Here, standing on thehearth with his wet hat and shawls in his hand, himself a pile ofwet, he turned to Mrs. Snagsby. "Now, the first thing that I sayto you, as a married woman possessing what you may call charms, youknow--'Believe Me, if All Those Endearing,' and cetrer--you're wellacquainted with the song, because it's in vain for you to tell methat you and good society are strangers--charms--attractions, mindyou, that ought to give you confidence in yourself--is, that you'vedone it."Mrs. Snagsby looked rather alarmed, relented a little and faltered,what did Mr. Bucket mean.   "What does Mr. Bucket mean?" he repeated, and I saw by his facethat all the time he talked he was listening for the discovery ofthe letter, to my own great agitation, for I knew then howimportant it must be; "I'll tell you what he means, ma'am. Go andsee 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'tlook out. Why, at the very moment while I speak, I know what yourmind's not wholly free from respecting this young lady. But shallI tell you who this young lady is? Now, come, you're what I callan intellectual woman--with your soul too large for your body, ifyou come to that, and chafing it--and you know me, and yourecollect where you saw me last, and what was talked of in thatcircle. Don't you? Yes! Very well. This young lady is thatyoung lady."Mrs. Snagsby appeared to understand the reference better than I didat the time.   "And Toughey--him as you call Jo--was mixed up in the samebusiness, and no other; and the law-writer that you know of wasmixed up in the same business, and no other; and your husband, withno more knowledge of it than your great grandfather, was mixed up(by Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, his best customer) in the samebusiness, and no other; and the whole bileing of people was mixedup 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, Iam ashamed of you! (I expected Mr. Woodcourt might have got it bythis 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 other, a person ina wretched state, comes here to-night and is seen a-speaking toyour maid-servant; and between her and your maid-servant therepasses a paper that I would give a hundred pound for, down. Whatdo you do? You hide and you watch 'em, and you pounce upon thatmaid-servant--knowing what she's subject to and what a little thingwill bring 'em on--in that surprising manner and with that severitythat, by the Lord, she goes off and keeps off, when a life may behanging upon that girl's words!"He so thoroughly meant what he said now that I involuntarilyclasped my hands and felt the room turning away from me. But itstopped. Mr. Woodcourt came in, put a paper into his hand, andwent away again.   "Now, Mrs, Snagsby, the only amends you can make," said Mr. Bucket,rapidly glancing at it, "is to let me speak a word to this younglady in private here. And if you know of any help that you cangive to that gentleman in the next kitchen there or can think ofany one thing that's likelier than another to bring the girl round,do your swiftest and best!" In an instant she was gone, and he hadshut the door. "Now my dear, you're steady and quite sure ofyourself?""Quite," said I.   "Whose writing is that?"It was my mother's. A pencil-writing, on a crushed and torn pieceof paper, blotted with wet. Folded roughly like a letter, anddirected to me at my guardian's.   "You know the hand," he said, "and if you are firm enough to readit to me, do! But be particular to a word."It had been written in portions, at different times. I read whatfollows:   "I came to the cottage with two objects. First, to see the dearone, if I could, once more--but only to see her--not to speak toher or let her know that I was near. The other object, to eludepursuit and to be lost. Do not blame the mother for her share.   The assistance that she rendered me, she rendered on my strongestassurance that it was for the dear one's good. You remember herdead child. The men's consent I bought, but her help was freelygiven.""'I came.' That was written," said my companion, "when she restedthere. 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 knowthat I must soon die. These streets! I have no purpose but todie. When I left, I had a worse, but I am saved from adding thatguilt to the rest. Cold, wet, and fatigue are sufficient causesfor my being found dead, but I shall die of others, though I sufferfrom these. It was right that all that had sustained me shouldgive 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."Those, too, were 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 forgottenso, and shall disgrace him least. I have nothing about me by whichI can be recognized. This paper I part with now. The place whereI shall lie down, if I can get so far, has been often in my mind.   Farewell. Forgive."Mr. Bucket, supporting me with his arm, lowered me gently into mychair. "Cheer up! Don't think me hard with you, my dear, but assoon as ever you feel equal to it, get your shoes on and be ready."I did as he required, but I was left there a long time, praying formy unhappy mother. They were all occupied with the poor girl, andI heard Mr. Woodcourt directing them and speaking to her often. Atlength he came in with Mr. Bucket and said that as it was importantto address her gently, he thought it best that I should ask her forwhatever information we desired to obtain. There was no doubt thatshe could now reply to questions if she were soothed and notalarmed. The questions, Mr. Bucket said, were how she came by theletter, what passed between her and the person who gave her theletter, and where the person went. Holding my mind as steadily asI could to these points, I went into the next room with them. Mr.   Woodcourt would have remained outside, but at my solicitation wentin with us.   The poor girl was sitting on the floor where they had laid herdown. They stood around her, though at a little distance, that shemight have air. She was not pretty and looked weak and poor, butshe had a plaintive and a good face, though it was still a littlewild. I kneeled on the ground beside her and put her poor headupon my shoulder, whereupon she drew her arm round my neck andburst into tears.   "My poor girl," said I, laying my face against her forehead, forindeed I was crying too, and trembling, "it seems cruel to troubleyou now, but more depends on our knowing something about thisletter than I could tell you in an hour."She began piteously declaring that she didn't mean any harm, shedidn't mean any harm, Mrs. Snagsby!   "We are all sure of that," said I. "But pray tell me how you gotit.""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 comingin at the door, she called me back and said did I live here. And Isaid 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 harmto me, and I didn't say any harm to her, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby!"It was necessary for her mistress to comfort her--which she did, Imust say, with a good deal of contrition--before she could be gotbeyond this.   "She could not find those places," said I.   "No!" cried the girl, shaking her head. "No! Couldn't find them.   And she was so faint, and lame, and miserable, Oh so wretched, thatif you had seen her, Mr. Snagsby, you'd have given her half acrown, I know!""Well, Guster, my girl," said he, at first not knowing what to say.   "I hope I should.""And yet she was so well spoken," said the girl, looking at me withwide open eyes, "that it made a person's heart bleed. And so shesaid to me, did I know the way to the burying ground? And I askedher which burying ground. And she said, the poor burying ground.   And so I told her I had been a poor child myself, and it wasaccording to parishes. But she said she meant a poor buryingground not very far from here, where there was an archway, and astep, and an iron gate."As I watched her face and soothed her to go on, I saw that Mr.   Bucket received this with a look which I could not separate fromone of alarm.   "Oh, dear, dear!" cried the girl, pressing her hair back with herhands. "What shall I do, what shall I do! She meant the buryingground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff--thatyou came home and told us of, Mr. Snagsby--that frightened me so,Mrs. Snagsby. Oh, I am frightened again. Hold me!""You are so much better now," sald I. "Pray, pray tell me more.""Yes I will, yes I will! But don't be angry with me, that's a dearlady, because I have been so ill."Angry with her, poor soul!   "There! Now I will, now I will. So she said, could I tell her howto find it, and I said yes, and I told her; and she looked at mewith eyes like almost as if she was blind, and herself all wavingback. And so she took out the letter, and showed it me, and saidif she was to put that in the post-office, it would be rubbed outand not minded and never sent; and would I take it from her, andsend it, and the messenger would be paid at the house. And so Isaid yes, if it was no harm, and she said no--no harm. And so Itook it from her, and she said she had nothing to give me, and Isaid I was poor myself and consequently wanted nothing. And so shesaid God bless you, and went.""And did she go--""Yes," cried the girl, anticipating the inquiry. "Yes! She wentthe way I had shown her. Then I came in, and Mrs. Snagsby camebehind me from somewhere and laid hold of me, and I wasfrightened."Mr. Woodcourt took her kindly from me. Mr. Bucket wrapped me up,and immediately we were in the street. Mr. Woodcourt hesitated,but I said, "Don't leave me now!" and Mr. Bucket added, "You'll bebetter with us, we may want you; don't lose time!"I have the most confused impressions of that walk. I recollectthat it was neither night nor day, that morning was dawning but thestreet-lamps were not yet put out, that the sleet was still fallingand that all the ways were deep with it. I recollect a few chilledpeople passing in the streets. I recollect the wet house-tops, theclogged and bursting gutters and water-spouts, the mounds ofblackened ice and snow over which we passed, the narrowness of thecourts by which we went. At the same time I remember that the poorgirl seemed to be yet telling her story audibly and plainly in myhearing, that I could feel her resting on my arm, that the stainedhouse-fronts put on human shapes and looked at me, that greatwater-gates seemed to be opening and closing in my head or in theair, and that the unreal things were more substantial than thereal.   At last we stood under a dark and miserable covered way, where onelamp was burning over an iron gate and where the morning faintlystruggled in. The gate was closed. Beyond it was a burial ground--a dreadful spot in which the night was very slowly stirring, butwhere I could dimly see heaps of dishonoured graves and stones,hemmed in by filthy houses with a few dull lights in their windowsand on whose walls a thick humidity broke out like a disease. Onthe step at the gate, drenched in the fearful wet of such a place,which oozed and splashed down everywhere, I saw, with a cry of pityand horror, a woman lying--Jenny, the mother of the dead child.   I ran forward, but they stopped me, and Mr. Woodcourt entreated mewith the greatest earnestness, even with tears, before I went up tothe figure to listen for an instant to what Mr. Bucket said. I didso, as I thought. I did so, as I am sure.   "Miss Summerson, you'll understand me, if you think a moment. Theychanged clothes at the cottage."They changed clothes at the cottage. I could repeat the words inmy mind, and I knew what they meant of themselves, but I attachedno meaning to them in any other connexion.   "And one returned," said Mr. Bucket, "and one went on. And the onethat went on only went on a certain way agreed upon to deceive andthen turned across country and went home. Think a moment!"I could repeat this in my mind too, but I had not the least ideawhat it meant. I saw before me, lying on the step, the mother ofthe dead child. She lay there with one arm creeping round a bar ofthe iron gate and seeming to embrace it. She lay there, who had solately spoken to my mother. She lay there, a distressed,unsheltered, senseless creature. She who had brought my mother'sletter, who could give me the only clue to where my mother was;she, who was to guide us to rescue and save her whom we had soughtso far, who had come to this condition by some means connected withmy mother that I could not follow, and might be passing beyond ourreach and help at that moment; she lay there, and they stopped me!   I saw but did not comprehend the solemn and compassionate look inMr. Woodcourt's face. I saw but did not comprehend his touchingthe other on the breast to keep him back. I saw him standuncovered in the bitter air, with a reverence for something. Butmy understanding for all this was gone.   I even heard it said between them, "Shall 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 aside, and turned the face. And it was mymother, cold and dead. Chapter 60 Perspective I proceed to other passages of my narrative. From the goodness ofall about me I derived such consolation as I can never think ofunmoved. I have already said so much of myself, and so much stillremains, that 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 ofit if I could quite keep down the recollection of their sympathy.   I proceed to other passages of my narrative.   During the time of my illness, we were still in London, where Mrs.   Woodcourt had come, on my guardian's invitation, to stay with us.   When my guardian thought me well and cheerful enough to talk withhim in our old way--though I could have done that sooner if hewould have believed me--I resumed my work and my chair beside his.   He had appointed the time himself, and we were alone.   "Dame Trot," said he, receiving me with a kiss, "welcome to thegrowlery again, my dear. I have a scheme to develop, little woman.   I propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for alonger time--as it may be. Quite to settle here for a while, inshort.""And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House?" said I.   "Aye, my dear? Bleak House," he returned, "must learn to take careof itself."I thought his tone sounded sorrowful, but looking at him, I saw hiskind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile.   "Bleak House," he repeated--and his tone did NOT sound sorrowful, Ifound--"must learn to take care of itself. It is a long way fromAda, my dear, and Ada stands much in need of you.""It's like you, guardian," said I, "to have been taking that intoconsideration for a happy surprise to both of us.""Not so disinterested either, my dear, if you mean to extol me forthat virtue, since if you were generally on the road, you could beseldom with me. And besides, I wish to hear as much and as oftenof 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 easyabout him; who CAN be?"My dear girl had been to see us lately every day, some times twicein a day. But we had foreseen, all along, that this would onlylast until I was quite myself. We knew full well that her ferventheart was as full of affection and gratitude towards her cousinJohn as it had ever been, and we acquitted Richard of laying anyinjunctions upon her to stay away; but we knew on the other handthat she felt it a part of her duty to him to be sparing of hervisits at our house. My guardian's delicacy had soon perceivedthis and had tried to convey to her that he thought she was right.   "Dear, unfortunate, mistaken Richard," said I. "When will he awakefrom 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 mademe the principal representative of the great occasion of hissuffering."I could not help adding, "So unreasonably!""Ah, Dame Trot, Dame Trot," returned my guardian, "what shall wefind reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce! Unreason and injusticeat the top, unreason and injustice at the heart and at the bottom,unreason and injustice from beginning to end--if it ever has anend--how should poor Rick, always hovering near it, pluck reasonout of it? He no more gathers grapes from thorns or figs fromthistles than older men did in old times."His gentleness and consideration for Richard whenever we spoke ofhim touched me so that I was always silent on this subject verysoon.   "I suppose the Lord Chancellor, and the Vice Chancellors, and thewhole Chancery battery of great guns would be infinitely astonishedby such unreason and injustice in one of their suitors," pursued myguardian. "When those learned gentlemen begin to raise moss-rosesfrom the powder they sow in their wigs, I shall begin to beastonished too!"He checked himself in glancing towards the window to look where thewind was and leaned on the back of my chair instead.   "Well, well, little woman! To go on, my dear. This rock we mustleave to time, chance, and hopeful circumstance. We must notshipwreck Ada upon it. She cannot afford, and he cannot afford,the remotest chance of another separation from a friend. ThereforeI have particularly begged of Woodcourt, and I now particularly begof 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 mewith clearer eyes. I can wait."But I had already discussed it with him, I confessed; and so, Ithought, had Mr. Woodcourt.   "So he tells me," returned my guardian. "Very good. He has madehis protest, and Dame Durden has made hers, and there is nothingmore to be said about it. Now I come to Mrs. Woodcourt. How doyou like her, my dear?"In answer to this question, which was oddly abrupt, I said I likedher very much and thought she was more agreeable than she used tobe.   "I think so too," said my guardian. "Less pedigree? Not so muchof Morgan ap--what's his name?"That was what I meant, I acknowledged, though he was a veryharmless person, even 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. Then, little woman, can I dobetter for a time than retain Mrs. Woodcourt here?"No. And yet--My guardian looked at me, waiting for what I had to say.   I had nothing to say. At least I had nothing in my mind that Icould say. I had an undefined impression that it might have beenbetter if we had had some other inmate, but I could hardly haveexplained why even to myself. Or, if to myself, certainly not toanybody else.   "You see," said my guardian, "our neighbourhood is in Woodcourt'sway, and he can come here to see her as often as he likes, which isagreeable to them both; and she is familiar to us and fond of you."Yes. That was undeniable. I had nothing to say against it. Icould not have suggested a better arrangement, but I was not quiteeasy in my mind. Esther, Esther, why not? Esther, think!   "It is a very good plan indeed, dear guardian, and we could not dobetter.""Sure, little woman?"Quite sure. I had had a moment's time to think, since I had urgedthat duty on myself, and I was quite sure.   "Good," said my guardian. "It shall be done. Carriedunanimously.""Carried unanimously," I repeated, going on with my work.   It was a cover for his book-table that I happened to beornamenting. It had been laid by on the night preceding my sadjourney and never resumed. I showed it to him now, and he admiredit highly. After I had explained the pattern to him and all thegreat effects that were to come out by and by, I thought I would goback to our last theme.   "You said, dear guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Woodcourt before Adaleft us, that you thought he would give a long trial to anothercountry. 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 guardian, beginning his answer ina very deliberate manner. "About half a year hence or so, there isa medical attendant for the poor to be appointed at a certain placein Yorkshire. It is a thriving place, pleasantly situated--streamsand streets, town and country, mill and moor--and seems to presentan opening for such a man. I mean a man whose hopes and aims maysometimes lie (as most men's sometimes do, I dare say) above theordinary level, but to whom the ordinary level will be high enoughafter all if it should prove to be a way of usefulness and goodservice leading to no other. All generous spirits are ambitious, Isuppose, but the ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road,instead of spasmodically trying to fly over it, is of the kind Icare for. It is Woodcourt's kind.""And will he get this appointment?" I asked.   "Why, little woman," returned my guardian, smiling, "not being anoracle, I cannot confidently say, but I think so. His reputationstands very high; there were people from that part of the countryin the shipwreck; and strange to say, I believe the best man hasthe best chance. You must not suppose it to be a fine endowment.   It is a very, very commonplace affair, my dear, an appointment to agreat amount of work and a small amount of pay; but better thingswill gather about it, it may be fairly hoped.""The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice if itfalls on Mr. Woodcourt, guardian.""You are right, little woman; that I am sure they will."We said no more about it, nor did he say a word about the future ofBleak House. But it was the first time I had taken my seat at hisside in my mourning dress, and that accounted for it, I considered.   I now began to visit my dear girl every day in the dull dark cornerwhere she lived. The morning was my usual time, but whenever Ifound I had an hour or so to spare, I put on my bonnet and bustledoff to Chancery Lane. They were both so glad to see me at allhours, and used to brighten up so when they heard me opening thedoor and coming in (being quite at home, I never knocked), that Ihad no fear of becoming troublesome just yet.   On these occasions I frequently found Richard absent. At othertimes he would be writing or reading papers in the cause at thattable of his, so covered with papers, which 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 neighbourhoodlounging about and biting his nails. I often met him wandering inLincoln's Inn, near the place where I had first seen him, oh howdifferent, how different!   That the money Ada brought him was melting away with the candles Iused to see burning after dark in Mr. Vholes's office I knew verywell. It was not a large amount in the beginning, he had marriedin debt, and I could not fail to understand, by this time, what wasmeant by Mr. Vholes's shoulder being at the wheel--as I still heardit was. My dear made the best of housekeepers and tried hard tosave, but I knew that they were getting poorer and poorer everyday.   She shone in the miserable corner like a beautiful star. Sheadorned and graced it so that it became another place. Paler thanshe had been at home, and a little quieter than I had thoughtnatural when she was yet so cheerful and hopeful, her face was sounshadowed that I half believed she was blinded by her love forRichard to his ruinous career.   I went one day to dine with them while I was under this impression.   As I turned into Symond's Inn, I met little Miss Flite coming out.   She had been to make a stately call upon the wards in Jarndyce, asshe still called them, and had derived the highest gratificationfrom that ceremony. Ada had already told me that she called everyMonday at five o'clock, with one little extra white bow in herbonnet, which never appeared there at any other time, and with herlargest reticule of documents on her arm.   "My dear!" she began. "So delighted! How do you do! So glad tosee you. And you are going to visit our interesting Jarndycewards? TO be sure! Our beauty is at home, my dear, and will becharmed to see you.""Then Richard is not come in yet?" said I. "I am glad of that, forI was afraid of being a little late.""No, he is not come in," returned Miss Flite. "He has had a longday in court. I left him there with Vholes. You don't likeVholes, I hope? DON'T like Vholes. Dan-gerous man!""I am afraid you see Richard oftener than ever now," said I.   "My dearest," returned Miss Flite, "daily and hourly. You knowwhat I told you of the attraction on the Chancellor's table? Mydear, next to myself he is the most constant suitor in court. Hebegins quite to amuse our little party. Ve-ry friendly littleparty, are we not?"It was miserable to hear this from her poor mad lips, though it wasno surprise.   "In short, my valued friend," pursued Miss Flite, advancing herlips to my ear with an air of equal patronage and mystery, "I musttell 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 accents, "myexecutor, administrator, and assign. (Our Chancery phrases, mylove.) I have reflected that if I should wear out, he will be ableto 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 Flite, echoing the sigh, "tonominate, 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 afolded 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 I, knowing how it pleased her to haveher confidence received with an appearance of interest.   She nodded several times, and her face became overcast and gloomy.   "Two more. I call them the Wards in Jarndyce. They are caged upwith 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 seenin her and went her way. Her manner of running over the names ofher birds, as if she were afraid of hearing them even from her ownlips, quite chilled me.   This was not a cheering preparation for my visit, and I could havedispensed with the company of Mr. Vholes, when Richard (who arrivedwithin a minute or two after me) brought him to share our dinner.   Although it was a very plain one, Ada and Richard were for someminutes both out of the room together helping to get ready what wewere to eat and drink. Mr. Vholes took that opportunity of holdinga little conversation in a low voice with me. He came to thewindow where I was sitting and began upon Symond's Inn.   "A dull place, Miss Summerson, for a life that is not an officialone," said Mr. Vholes, smearing the glass with his black glove tomake it clearer for me.   "There is not much to see here," said I.   "Nor to hear, miss," returned Mr. Vholes. "A little music doesoccasionally stray in, but we are not musical in the law and sooneject it. I hope Mr. Jarndyce is as well as his friends could wishhim?"I thanked Mr. Vholes and said he was quite well.   "I have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number of hisfriends myself," said Mr. Vholes, "and I am aware that thegentlemen of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quarterswith an unfavourable eye. Our plain course, however, under goodreport and evil report, and all kinds of prejudice (we are thevictims 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 tothe ceiling of those low rooms, feeling the pimples on his face asif they were ornaments and speaking inwardly and evenly as thoughthere were not a human passion or emotion in his nature.   "Mr. Woodcourt is in attendance upon Mr. C., I believe?" heresumed.   "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 slow, so eager, so bloodless and gaunt, I felt as if Richardwere wasting away beneath the eyes of this adviser and there weresomething of the vampire in him.   "Miss Summerson," said Mr. Vholes, very slowly rubbing his glovedhands, as if, to his cold sense of touch, they were much the samein black kid or out of it, "this was an ill-advised marriage of Mr.   C.'s."I begged he would excuse me from discussing it. They had beenengaged when they were both very young, I told him (a littleindignantly) and when the prospect before them was much fairer andbrighter. When Richard had not yielded himself to the unhappyinfluence which now darkened his life.   "Just so," assented Mr. Vholes again. "Still, with a view toeverything being openly carried on, I will, with your permission,Miss Summerson, observe to you that I consider this a very ill-advised marriage indeed. I owe the opinion not only to Mr. C.'sconnexions, against whom I should naturally wish to protect myself,but also to my own reputation--dear to myself as a professional manaiming to keep respectable; dear to my three girls at home, forwhom I am striving to realize some little independence; dear, Iwill even say, to my aged father, whom it is my privilege tosupport.""It would become a very different marriage, a much happier andbetter marriage, another marriage altogether, Mr. Vholes," said I,"if Richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit inwhich you are engaged with him."Mr. Vholes, with a noiseless cough--or rather gasp--into one of hisblack gloves, inclined his head as if he did not wholly disputeeven that.   "Miss Summerson," he said, "it may be so; and I freely admit thatthe 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 forthrowing out that remark again, as a duty I owe to Mr. C.'sconnexions--is a highly genteel young lady. Business has preventedme from mixing much with general society in any but a professionalcharacter; still I trust I am competent to perceive that she is ahighly genteel young lady. As to beauty, I am not a judge of thatmyself, and I never did give much attention to it from a boy, but Idare 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 toMr. C.'s pursult of his interests--""Oh! His interests, Mr. Vholes!""Pardon me," returned Mr. Vholes, going on in exactly the sameinward and dispassionate manner. "Mr. C. takes certain interestsunder certain wills disputed in the suit. It is a term we use. Inreference to Mr. C,'s pursuit of his interests, I mentioned to you,Miss Summerson, the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you, inmy desire that everything should he openly carried on--I used thosewords, for I happened afterwards to note them in my diary, which isproducible at any time--I mentioned to you that Mr. C. had laiddown the principle of watching his own interests, and that when aclient of mine laid down a principle which was not of an immoral(that is to say, unlawful) nature, it devolved upon me to carry itout. I HAVE carried it out; I do carry it out. But I will notsmooth things over to any connexion of Mr. C.'s on any account. Asopen as I was to Mr. Jarndyce, I am to you. I regard it in thelight of a professional duty to be so, though it can be charged tono one. I openly say, unpalatable as it may be, that I considerMr. C.'s affairs in a very bad way, that I consider Mr. C. himselfin a very bad way, and that I regard this as an exceedingly ill-advised marriage. Am I here, sir? Yes, I thank you; I am here,Mr. C., and enjoying the pleasure of some agreeable conversationwith Miss Summerson, for which I have to thank you very much, sir!"He broke off thus in answer to Richard, who addressed him as hecame into the room. By this time I too well understood Mr.   Vholes's scrupulous way of saving himself and his respectabilitynot to feel that our worst fears did but keep pace with hisclient's progress.   We sat down to dinner, and I had an opportunity of observingRichard, anxiously. I was not disturbed by Mr. Vholes (who tookoff his gloves to dine), though he sat opposite to me at the smalltable, for I doubt if, looking up at all, he once removed his eyesfrom his host's face. I found Richard thin and languid, slovenlyin his dress, abstracted in his manner, forcing his spirits now andthen, and at other intervals relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness.   About his large bright eyes that used to be so merry there was awanness and a restlessness that changed them altogether. 1 cannotuse the expression that he looked old. There is a ruin of youthwhich is not like age, and into such a ruin Richard's youth andyouthful beauty had all fallen away.   He ate little and seemed indifferent what it was, showed himself tobe much more impatient than he used to be, and was quick even withAda. I thought at first that his old light-hearted manner was allgone, but it shone out of him sometimes as I had occasionally knownlittle momentary glimpses of my own old face to look out upon mefrom the glass. His laugh had not quite left him either, but itwas like the echo of a joyful sound, and that is always sorrowful.   Yet he was as glad as ever, in his old affectionate way, to have methere, and we talked of the old times pleasantly. These did notappear to be interesting to Mr. Vholes, though he occasionally madea gasp which I believe was his smile. He rose shortly after dinnerand said that with the permission of the ladies he would retire tohis office.   "Always devoted to business, Vholes!" cried Richard.   "Yes, Mr. C.," he returned, "the interests of clients are never tobe neglected, sir. They are paramount in the thoughts of aprofessional man like myself, who wishes to preserve a good nameamong his fellow-practitioners and society at large. My denyingmyself the pleasure of the present agreeable conversation may notbe wholly irrespective of your own interests, Mr. C."Richard expressed himself quite sure of that and lighted Mr. Vholesout. On his return he told us, more than once, that Vholes was agood fellow, a safe fellow, a man who did what he pretended to do,a very good fellow indeed! He was so defiant about it that itstruck me he had begun to doubt Mr. Vholes.   Then he threw himself on the sofa, tired out; and Ada and I putthings to rights, for they had no other servant than the woman whoattended to the chambers. My dear girl had a cottage piano thereand quietly sat down to sing some of Richard's favourites, the lampbeing first removed into the next room, as he complained of itshurting his eyes.   I sat between them, at my dear girl's side, and felt verymelancholy listening to her sweet voice. I think Richard did too;I think he darkened the room for that reason. She had been singingsome time, rising between whiles to bend over him and speak to him,when Mr. Woodcourt came in. Then he sat down by Richard and halfplayfully, half earnestly, quite naturally and easily, found outhow he felt and where he had been all day. Presently he proposedto accompany him in a short walk on one of the bridges, as it was amoonlight airy night; and Richard readily consenting, they went outtogether.   They left my dear girl still sitting at the piano and me stillsitting beside her. When they were gone out, I drew my arm roundher waist. She put her left hand in mine (I was sitting on thatside), but kept her right upon the keys, going over and over themwithout striking any note.   "Esther, my dearest," she said, breaking silence, "Richard is neverso well and I am never so easy about him as when he is with AllanWoodcourt. We have to thank you for that."I pointed out to my darling how this could scarcely be, because Mr.   Woodcourt had come to her cousin John's house and had known us allthere, and because he had always liked Richard, and Richard hadalways liked him, and--and so forth.   "All true," said Ada, "but that he is such a devoted friend to uswe owe to you."I thought it best to let my dear girl have her way and to say nomore about it. So I said as much. I said it lightly, because Ifelt her trembling.   "Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very goodwife indeed. You shall teach me."I teach! I said no more, for I noticed the hand that wasfluttering over the keys, and I knew that it was not I who ought tospeak, that it was she who had something to say to me.   "When I married Richard I was not insensible to what was beforehim. I had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, and Ihad never known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared for, butI 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 ableto convince him of his mistake, that he might come to regard it ina new way as my husband and not pursue it all the more desperatelyfor my sake--as he does. But if I had not had that hope, I wouldhave married him just the same, Esther. Just the same!"In the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still--afirmness inspired by the utterance of these last words, and dyingaway with them--I saw the confirmation of her earnest tones.   "You are not to think, my dearest Esther, that I fail to see whatyou see and fear what you fear. No one can understand him betterthan I do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world couldscarcely know Richard better than my love does."She spoke so modestly and softly and her trembling hand expressedsuch agitation as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! Mydear, dear girl!   "I see him at his worst every day. I watch him in his sleep. Iknow every change of his face. But when I married Richard I wasquite determined, Esther, if heaven would help me, never to showhim 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. Iwant him, when he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. Imarried him to do this, and this supports me."I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come, andI 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 inmotion.   "I look forward a little while, and I don't know what great aid maycome to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me then, there may besomething lying on my breast more eloquent than I have been, withgreater power than mine to show him his true course and win himback."Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her arms, and I claspedher in mine.   "If that little creature should fail too, Esther, I still lookforward. I look forward a long while, through years and years, andthink that then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead perhaps,a beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be proud ofhim and a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave man, ashandsome as he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walkin the sunshine with him, honouring his grey head and saying tohimself, 'I thank God this is my father! Ruined by a fatalinheritance, and restored through me!'"Oh, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast againstme!   "These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther, and I know they will.   Though sometimes even they depart from me before a dread thatarises when I look at Richard."I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was. Sobbingand weeping, she replied, "That he may not live to see his child." Chapter 61 A Discovery The days when I frequented that miserable corner which my dear girlbrightened can never fade in my remembrance. I never see it, and Inever wish to see it now; I have been there only once since, but inmy memory there is a mournful glory shining on the place which willshine for ever.   Not a day passed without my going there, of course. At first Ifound Mr. Skimpole there, on two or three occasions, idly playingthe piano and talking in his usual vivacious strain. Now, besidesmy very much mistrusting the probability of his being there withoutmaking Richard poorer, I felt as if there were something in hiscareless gaiety too inconsistent with what I knew of the depths ofAda's life. I clearly perceived, too, that Ada shared my feelings.   I therefore resolved, after much thinking of it, to make a privatevisit to Mr. Skimpole and try delicately to explain myself. Mydear girl was the great consideration that made me bold.   I set off one morning, accompanied by Charley, for Somers Town. AsI approached the house, I was strongly inclined to turn back, for Ifelt what a desperate attempt it was to make an impression on Mr.   Skimpole and how extremely likely it was that he would signallydefeat me. However, I thought that being there, I would go throughwith it. I knocked with a trembling hand at Mr. Skimpole's door--literally with a hand, for the knocker was gone--and after a longparley gained admission from an Irishwoman, who was in the areawhen I knocked, breaking up the lid of a water-butt with a poker tolight the fire with.   Mr. Skimpole, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute alittle, was enchanted to see me. Now, who should receive me, heasked. Who would I prefer for mistress of the ceremonies? Would Ihave his Comedy daughter, his Beauty daughter, or his Sentimentdaughter? Or would I have all the daughters at once in a perfectnosegay?   I replied, half defeated already, that I wished to speak to himselfonly if he would give me leave.   'My dear Miss Summerson, most joyfully! Of course," he said,bringing his chair nearer mine and breaking into his fascinatingsmile, of course it's not business. Then it's pleasure!"I said it certainly was not business that I came upon, but it wasnot 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 NOTa pleasant matter? I never do. And you are a much pleasantercreature, in every point of view, than I. You are perfectlypleasant; I am imperfectly pleasant; then, if I never allude to anunpleasant matter, how much less should you! So that's disposedof, and we will talk of something else."Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to intimate that I stillwished to pursue the subject.   "I should think it a mistake," said Mr. Skimpole with his airylaugh, "if I thought Miss Summerson capable of making one. But Idon't!""Mr. Skimpole," said I, raising my eyes to his, "I have so oftenheard you say that you are unacquainted with the common affairs oflife--""Meaning our three banking-house friends, L, S, and who's thejunior partner? D?" said Mr. Skimpole, brightly. "Not an idea ofthem!""--That perhaps," I went on, "you will excuse my boldness on thataccount. I think you ought most seriously to know that Richard ispoorer than he was.""Dear me!" said Mr. Skimpole. "So am I, they tell me.""And in very embarrassed circumstances.""Parallel case, exactly!" said Mr. Skimpole with a delightedcountenance.   "This at present naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety, and as Ithink she is less anxious when no claims are made upon her byvisitors, and as Richard has one uneasiness always heavy on hismind, it has occurred to me to take the liberty of saying that--ifyou would--not--"I was coming to the point with great difficulty when he took me byboth hands and with a radiant face and in the liveliest wayanticipated it.   "Not go there? Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson, mostassuredly not. Why SHOULD I go there? When I go anywhere, I gofor pleasure. I don't go anywhere for pain, because I was made forpleasure. Pain comes to ME when it wants me. Now, I have had verylittle pleasure at our dear Richard's lately, and your practicalsagacity demonstrates why. Our young friends, losing the youthfulpoetry which was once so captivating in them, begin to think, 'Thisis a man who wants pounds.' So I am; I always want pounds; not formyself, but because tradespeople always want them of me. Next, ouryoung friends begin to think, becoming mercenary, 'This is the manwho HAD pounds, who borrowed them,' which I did. I always borrowpounds. So our young friends, reduced to prose (which is much tobe regretted), degenerate in their power of imparting pleasure tome. Why should I go to see them, therefore? Absurd!"Through the beaming smile with which he regarded me as he reasonedthus, there now broke forth a look of disinterested benevolencequite astonishing.   "Besides," he said, pursuing his argument in his tone of light-hearted conviction, "if I don't go anywhere for pain--which wouldbe a perversion of the intention of my being, and a monstrous thingto do--why should I go anywhere to be the cause of pain? If I wentto see our young friends in their present ill-regulated state ofmind, I should give them pain. The associations with me would bedisagreeable. They might say, 'This is the man who had pounds andwho can't pay pounds,' which I can't, of course; nothing could bemore out of the question! Then kindness requires that I shouldn'tgo near them--and I won't."He finished by genially kissing my hand and thanking me. Nothingbut Miss Summerson's fine tact, he said, would have found this outfor him.   I was much disconcerted, but I reflected that if the main pointwere gained, it mattered little how strangely he pervertedeverything leading to it. I had determined to mention somethingelse, however, and I thought I was not to be put off in that.   "Mr. Skimpole," said I, "I must take the liberty of saying before Iconclude my visit that I was much surprised to learn, on the bestauthority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom that poorboy left Bleak House and that you accepted a present on thatoccasion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for I fear itwould hurt him unnecessarily; but I may say to you that I was muchsurprised.""No? Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson?" he returnedinquiringly, raising his pleasant eyebrows.   "Greatly surprised."He thought about it for a little while with a highly agreeable andwhimsical expression of face, then quite gave it up and said in hismost engaging manner, "You know what a child I am. Why surprised?"I was reluctant to enter minutely into that question, but as hebegged I would, for he was really curious to know, I gave him tounderstand in the gentlest words I could use that his conductseemed to involve a disregard of several moral obligations. He wasmuch amused and interested when he heard this and said, "No,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 belowme," said Mr. Skimpole. "I don't even know which; but as Iunderstand the way in which my dear Miss Summerson (alwaysremarkable for her practical good sense and clearness) puts thiscase, I should imagine it was chiefly a question of money, do youknow?"I incautiously gave a qualified assent to this.   "Ah! Then you see," said Mr. Skimpole, shaking his head, "I amhopeless of understanding it."I suggested, as I rose to go, that it was not right to betray myguardian's confidence for a bribe.   "My dear Miss Summerson," he returned with a candid hilarity thatwas all his own, "I can't be bribed.""Not by Mr. Bucket?" said I.   "No," said he. "Not by anybody. I don't attach any value tomoney. I don't care about it, I don't know about it, I don't wantit, I don't keep it--it goes away from me directly. How can I bebribed?"I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I had not thecapacity for arguing the question.   "On the contrary," said Mr. Skimpole, "I am exactly the man to beplaced in a superior position in such a case as that. I am abovethe rest of mankind in such a case as that. I can act withphilosophy 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. Ifeel myself as far above suspicion as Caesar's wife."Anything to equal the lightness of his manner and the playfulimpartiality with which he seemed to convince himself, as he tossedthe matter about like a ball of feathers, was surely never seen inanybody else!   "Observe the case, my dear Miss Summerson. Here is a boy receivedinto 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 Jackbuilt. Here is the man who demands the boy who is received intothe 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 isreceived into the house and put to bed in a state that I stronglyobject to. Here is the Skimpole who accepts the bank-note producedby the man who demands the boy who is received into the house andput to bed in a state that I strongly object to. Those are thefacts. Very well. Should the Skimpole have refused the note? WHYshould the Skimpole have refused the note? Skimpole protests toBucket, 'What's this for? I don't understand it, it is of no useto 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 activepolice-officer, an intelligent man, a person of a peculiarlydirected energy and great subtlety both of conception andexecution, who discovers our friends and enemies for us when theyrun away, recovers our property for us when we are robbed, avengesus comfortably when we are murdered. This active police-officerand intelligent man has acquired, in the exercise of his art, astrong faith in money; he finds it very useful to him, and he makesit very useful to society. Shall I shake that faith in Bucketbecause I want it myself; shall I deliberately blunt one ofBucket's weapons; shall I positively paralyse Bucket in his nextdetective operation? And again. If it is blameable in Skimpole totake the note, it is blameable in Bucket to offer the note--muchmore blameable in Bucket, because he is the knowing man. Now,Skimpole wishes to think well of Bucket; Skimpole deems itessential, in its little place, to the general cohesion of things,that he SHOULD think well of Bucket. The state expressly asks himto trust to Bucket. And he does. And that's all he does!"I had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition and thereforetook my leave. Mr. Skimpole, however, who was in excellentspirits, would not hear of my returning home attended only by"Little Coavinses," and accompanied me himself. He entertained meon the way with a variety of delightful conversation and assuredme, at parting, that he should never forget the fine tact withwhich I had found that out for him about our young friends.   As it so happened that I never saw Mr. Skimpole again, I may atonce finish what I know of his history. A coolness arose betweenhim and my guardian, based principally on the foregoing grounds andon his having heartlessly disregarded my guardian's entreaties (aswe afterwards learned from Ada) in reference to Richard. His beingheavily in my guardian's debt had nothing to do with theirseparation. He died some five years afterwards and left a diarybehind him, with letters and other materials towards his life,which was published and which showed him to have been the victim ofa combination on the part of mankind against an amiable child. Itwas considered very pleasant reading, but I never read more of itmyself than the sentence on which I chanced to light on opening thebook. It was this: "Jarndyce, in common with most other men I haveknown, is the incarnation of selfishness."And now I come to a part of my story touching myself very nearlyindeed, and for which I was quite unprepared when the circumstanceoccurred. Whatever little lingerings may have now and then revivedin my mind associated with my poor old face had only revived asbelonging to a part of my life that was gone--gone like my infancyor my childhood. I have suppressed none of my many weaknesses onthat subject, but have written them as faithfully as my memory hasrecalled them. And I hope to do, and mean to do, the same down tothe last words of these pages, which I see now not so very farbefore me.   The months were gliding away, and my dear girl, sustained by thehopes she had confided in me, was the same beautiful star in themiserable corner. Richard, more worn and haggard, haunted thecourt day after day, listlessly sat there the whole day long whenhe knew there was no remote chance of the suit being mentioned, andbecame one of the stock sights of the place. I wonder whether anyof the gentlemen remembered him as he was when he first went there.   So completely was he absorbed in his fixed idea that he used toavow in his cheerful moments that he should never have breathed thefresh air now "but for Woodcourt." It was only Mr. Woodcourt whocould occasionally divert his attention for a few hours at a timeand rouse him, even when he sunk into a lethargy of mind and bodythat alarmed us greatly, and the returns of which became morefrequent as the months went on. My dear girl was right in sayingthat he only pursued his errors the more desperately for her sake.   I have no doubt that his desire to retrieve what he had lost wasrendered the more intense by his grief for his young wife, andbecame like the madness of a gamester.   I was there, as I have mentioned, at all hours. When I was thereat night, I generally went home with Charley in a coach; sometimesmy guardian would meet me in the neighbourhood, and we would walkhome together. One evening he had arranged to meet me at eighto'clock. I could not leave, as I usually did, quite punctually atthe time, for I was working for my dear girl and had a few stitchesmore to do to finish what I was about; but it was within a fewminutes of the hour when I bundled up my little work-basket, gavemy darling my last kiss for the night, and hurried downstairs. Mr.   Woodcourt went with me, as it was dusk.   When we came to the usual place of meeting--it was close by, andMr. Woodcourt had often accompanied me before--my guardian was notthere. We waited half an hour, walking up and down, but there wereno signs of him. We agreed that he was either prevented fromcoming or that he had come and gone away, and Mr. Woodcourtproposed to walk home with me.   It was the first walk we had ever taken together, except that veryshort one to the usual place of meeting. We spoke of Richard andAda the whole way. I did not thank him in words for what he haddone--my appreciation of it had risen above all words then--but Ihoped he might not be without some understanding of what I felt sostrongly.   Arriving at home and going upstairs, we found that my guardian wasout and that Mrs. Woodcourt was out too. We were in the very sameroom into which I had brought my blushing girl when her youthfullover, now her so altered husband, was the choice of her youngheart, the very same room from which my guardian and I had watchedthem going away through the sunlight in the fresh bloom of theirhope and promise.   We were standing by the opened window looking down into the streetwhen Mr. Woodcourt spoke to me. I learned in a moment that heloved me. I learned in a moment that my scarred face was allunchanged to him. I learned in a moment that what I had thoughtwas pity and compassion was devoted, generous, faithful love. Oh,too late to know it now, too late, too late. That was the firstungrateful thought I had. Too late.   "When I returned," he told me, "when I came back, no richer thanwhen I went away, and found you newly risen from a sick bed, yet soinspired by sweet consideration for others and so free from aselfish thought--""Oh, Mr. Woodcourt, forbear, forbear!" I entreated him. "I do notdeserve your high praise. I had many selfish thoughts at thattime, many!""Heaven knows, beloved of my life," said he, "that my praise is nota lover's praise, but the truth. You do not know what all aroundyou see in Esther Summerson, how many hearts she touches andawakens, what sacred admiration and what love she wins.""Oh, Mr. Woodcourt," cried I, "it is a great thing to win love, itis a great thing to win love! I am proud of it, and honoured byit; and the hearing of it causes me to shed these tears of mingledjoy and sorrow--joy that I have won it, sorrow that I have notdeserved it better; but I am not free to think of yours."I said it with a stronger heart, for when he praised me thus andwhen I heard his voice thrill with his belief that what he said wastrue, I aspired to be more worthy of it. It was not too late forthat. Although I closed this unforeseen page in my life to-night,I could be worthier of it all through my life. And it was acomfort to me, and an impulse to me, and I felt a dignity rise upwithin 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 whowill evermore be as dear to me as now"--and the deep earnestnesswith which he said it at once strengthened me and made me weep--"if, after her assurance that she is not free to think of my love,I urged it. Dear Esther, let me only tell you that the fond ideaof you which I took abroad was exalted to the heavens when I camehome. I have always hoped, in the first hour when I seemed tostand in any ray of good fortune, to tell you this. I have alwaysfeared that I should tell it you in vain. My hopes and fears areboth fulfilled to-night. I distress you. I have said enough."Something seemed to pass into my place that was like the angel hethought me, and I felt so sorrowful for the loss he had sustained!   I wished to help him in his trouble, as I had wished to do when heshowed that first commiseration for me.   "Dear Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "before we part to-night, somethingis left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish--I nevershall--but--"I had to think again of being more deserving of his love and hisaffliction before I could go on.   "--I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasureits remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how changed Iam, I know you are not unacquainted with my history, and I knowwhat a noble love that is which is so faithful. What you have saidto me could have affected me so much from no other lips, for thereare none that could give it such a value to me. It shall not belost. It shall make me better."He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away his head. Howcould I ever be worthy of those tears?   "If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together--intending Richard and Ada, and I hope in many happier scenes of life--you ever find anything in me which you can honestly think isbetter than it used to be, believe that it will have sprung up fromto-night and that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, deardear Mr. Woodcourt, never believe that I forget this night or thatwhile my heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy ofhaving been beloved by you."He took my hand and kissed it. He was like himself again, and Ifelt still more encouraged.   "I am induced by what you said just now," said I, "to hope that youhave succeeded in your endeavour.""I have," he answered. "With such help from Mr. Jarndyce as youwho know him so well can imagine him to have rendered me, I havesucceeded.""Heaven bless him for it," said I, giving him my hand; "and heavenbless you in all you do!""I shall do it better for the wish," he answered; "it will make meenter on these new duties as on another sacred trust from you.""Ah! Richard!" I exclaimed involuntarily, "What will he do whenyou are gone!""I am not required to go yet; I would not desert him, dear MissSummerson, 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 takeif I reserved it.   "Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "you will be glad to know from my lipsbefore I say good night that in the future, which is clear andbright before me, I am most happy, most fortunate, have nothing toregret or desire."It was indeed a glad hearing to him, he replied.   "From my childhood I have been," said I, "the object of theuntiring goodness of the best of human beings, to whom I am sobound by every tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothingI could do in the compass of a life could express the feelings of asingle day.""I share those feelings," he returned. "You speak of Mr.   Jarndyce.""You know his virtues well," said I, "but few can know thegreatness of his character as I know it. All its highest and bestqualities have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly than inthe shaping out of that future in which I am so happy. And if yourhighest homage and respect had not been his already--which I knowthey are--they would have been his, I think, on this assurance andin the feeling it would have awakened in you towards him for mysake."He fervently replied that indeed indeed they would have been. Igave him my hand again.   "Good night," I said, "Good-bye.""The first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell tothis theme between us for ever.""Yes.""Good night; good-bye."He left me, and I stood at the dark window watching the street.   His love, in all its constancy and generosity, had come so suddenlyupon me that he had not left me a minute when my fortitude gave wayagain and the street was blotted out by my rushing tears.   But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had calledme the beloved of his life and had said I would be evermore as dearto him as I was then, and I felt as if my heart would not hold thetriumph of having heard those words. My first wild thought haddied away. It was not too late to hear them, for it was not toolate to be animated by them to be good, true, grateful, andcontented. How easy my path, how much easier than his! Chapter 62 Another Discovery I had not the courage to see any one that night. I had not eventhe courage to see myself, for I was afraid that my tears might alittle reproach me. I went up to my room in the dark, and prayedin the dark, and lay down in the dark to sleep. I had no need ofany light to read my guardian's letter by, for I knew it by heart.   I took it from the place where I kept it, and repeated its contentsby its own clear light of integrity and love, and went to sleepwith it on my pillow.   I was up very early in the morning and called Charley to come for awalk. We bought flowers for the breakfast-table, and came back andarranged them, and were as busy as possible. We were so early thatI had a good time still for Charley's lesson before breakfast;Charley (who was not in the least improved in the old defectivearticle of grammar) came through it with great applause; and wewere 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 theMewlinnwillinwodd expressive of my being like a mountain with thesun upon it.   This was all so pleasant that I hope it made me still more like themountain than I had been before. After breakfast I waited myopportunity and peeped about a little until I saw my guardian inhis own room--the room of last night--by himself. Then I made anexcuse to go in with my housekeeping keys, shutting the door afterme.   "Well, Dame Durden?" said my guardian; the post had brought himseveral letters, and he was writing. "You want money?""No, indeed, I have plenty in hand.""There never was such a Dame Durden," said my guardian, "for makingmoney last."He had laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair looking atme. I have often spoken of his bright face, but I thought I hadnever seen it look so bright and good. There was a high happinessupon it which made me think, "He has been doing some great kindnessthis morning.""There never was," said my guardian, musing 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 somuch that when I now went up to him and took my usual chair, whichwas always put at his side--for sometimes I read to him, andsometimes I talked to him, and sometimes I silently worked by him--I hardly liked to disturb it by laying my hand on his breast. ButI found I did not disturb it at all.   "Dear guardian," said I, "I want to speak to you. Have I beenremiss in anything?""Remiss in anything, my dear!""Have I not been what I have meant to be since--I brought theanswer to your letter, guardian?""You have been everything I could desire, my love.""I am very glad indeed to hear that," I returned. "You know, yousaid to me, was this the mistress of Bleak House. And I said,yes.""Yes," said my guardian, nodding his head. He had put his armabout me as if there were something to protect me from and lookedin my face, smiling.   "Since then," said I, "we have never spoken on the subject exceptonce.""And then I said Bleak House was thinning fast; and so it was, mydear.""And I said," I timidly reminded him, "but its mistress remained."He still held me in the same protecting manner and with the samebright goodness in his face.   "Dear guardian," said I, "I know how you have felt all that hashappened, and how considerate you have been. As so much time haspassed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so wellagain, perhaps you expect me to renew the subject. Perhaps I oughtto do so. I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please.""See," he returned gaily, "what a sympathy there must be betweenus! I have had nothing else, poor Rick excepted--it's a largeexception--in my mind. When you came in, I was full of it. Whenshall 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--theday on which I shall be a man more exulting and more enviable thanany other man in the world--the day on which I give Bleak House itslittle mistress--shall be next month then," said my guardian.   I put my arms round his neck and kissed him just as I had done onthe day when I brought my answer.   A servant came to the door to announce Mr. Bucket, which was quiteunnecessary, for Mr. Bucket was already looking in over theservant's shoulder. "Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson," said he,rather out of breath, "with all apologies for intruding, WILL youallow me to order up a person that's on the stairs and that objectsto being left there in case of becoming the subject of observationsin his absence? Thank you. Be so good as chair that there memberin this direction, will you?" said Mr. Bucket, beckoning over thebanisters.   This singular request produced an old man in a black skull-cap,unable to walk, who was carried up by a couple of bearers anddeposited in the room near the door. Mr. Bucket immediately gotrid of the bearers, mysteriously shut the door, and bolted it.   "Now you see, Mr. Jarndyce," he then began, putting down his hatand opening his subject with a flourish of his well-rememberedfinger, "you know me, and Miss Summerson knows me. This gentlemanlikewise knows me, and his name is Smallweed. The discounting lineis his line principally, and he's what you may call a dealer inbills. That's about what YOU are, you know, ain't you?" said Mr.   Bucket, stopping a little to address the gentleman in question, whowas exceedingly suspicious of him.   He seemed about to dispute this designation of himself when he wasseized with a violent fit of coughing.   "Now, moral, you know!" said Mr. Bucket, improving the accident.   "Don't you contradict when there ain't no occasion, and you won'tbe took in that way. Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I address myself to you.   I've been negotiating with this gentleman on behalf of SirLeicester Dedlock, Baronet, and one way and another I've been inand out and about his premises a deal. His premises are thepremises formerly occupied by Krook, marine store dealer--arelation of this gentleman's that you saw in his life-time if Idon't mistake?"My guardian replied, "Yes.""Well! You are to understand," said Mr. Bucket, "that thisgentleman he come into Krook's property, and a good deal of magpieproperty there was. Vast lots of waste-paper among the rest. Lordbless you, of no use to nobody!"The cunning of Mr. Bucket's eye and the masterly manner in which hecontrived, without a look or a word against which his watchfulauditor could protest, to let us know that he stated the caseaccording to previous agreement and could say much more of Mr.   Smallweed if he thought it advisable, deprived us of any merit inquite understanding him. His difficulty was increased by Mr.   Smallweed's being deaf as well as suspicious and watching his facewith the closest attention.   "Among them odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman, when he comesinto the property, naturally begins to rummage, don't you see?"said Mr. Bucket.   "To which? Say that again," cried Mr. Smallweed in a shrill, sharpvoice.   "To rummage," repeated Mr. Bucket. "Being a prudent man andaccustomed to take care of your own affairs, you begin to rummageamong the papers as you have come into; don't you?""Of course I do," cried Mr. Smallweed.   "Of course you do," said Mr. Bucket conversationally, "and much toblame you would be if you didn't. And so you chance to find, youknow," Mr. Bucket went on, stooping over him with an air ofcheerful raillery which Mr. Smallweed by no means reciprocated,"and so you chance to find, you know, a paper with the signature ofJarndyce to it. Don't you?"Mr. Smallweed glanced with a troubled eye at us and grudginglynodded assent.   "And coming to look at that paper at your full leisure andconvenience--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, yousee. That's the drollery of it," said Mr. Bucket with the samelively air of recalling a joke for the enjoyment of Mr. Smallweed,who still had the same crest-fallen appearance of not enjoying itat 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 shrunkdown in his chair into a mere bundle--as if he were much disposedto pounce upon him; nevertheless, he continued to bend over himwith the same agreeable air, keeping the corner of one of his eyesupon us.   "Notwithstanding which," said Mr. Bucket, "you get a littledoubtful and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a verytender mind of your own.""Eh? What do you say I have got of my own?" asked Mr. Smallweedwith 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 celebratedChancery will case of the same name, and as you know what a cardKrook was for buying all manner of old pieces of furniter, andbooks, 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'tlook about me, I may get into trouble regarding this will.'""Now, mind how you put it, Bucket," cried the old man anxiouslywith his hand at his ear. "Speak up; none of your brimstonetricks. Pick me up; I want to hear better. Oh, Lord, I am shakento bits!"Mr. Bucket had certainly picked him up at a dart. However, as soonas he could be heard through Mr. Smallweed's coughing and hisvicious ejaculations of "Oh, my bones! Oh, dear! I've no breathin my body! I'm worse than the chattering, clattering, brimstonepig at home!" Mr. Bucket proceeded in the same convivial manner asbefore.   "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 illwill and a worse grace than Mr. Smallweed displayed when headmitted this, rendering it perfectly evident that Mr. Bucket wasthe very last person he would have thought of taking into hisconfidence 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 getyourself into a most precious line if you don't come out with thatthere will," said Mr. Bucket emphatically; "and accordingly youarrange with me that it shall be delivered up to this present Mr.   Jarndyce, on no conditions. If it should prove to be valuable, youtrusting 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 badgrace.   "In consequence of which," said Mr. Bucket, dismissing hisagreeable manner all at once and becoming strictly businesslike,"you've got that will upon your person at the present time, and theonly 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 friendand his hand stretched forth ready to take the paper and present itto my guardian. It was not produced without much reluctance andmany declarations on the part of Mr. Smallweed that he was a poorindustrious man and that he left it to Mr. Jarndyce's honour not tolet him lose by his honesty. Little by little he very slowly tookfrom a breast-pocket a stained, discoloured paper which was muchsinged upon the outside and a little burnt at the edges, as if ithad long ago been thrown upon a fire and hastily snatched offagain. Mr. Bucket lost no time in transferring this paper, withthe dexterity of a conjuror, from Mr. Smallweed to Mr. Jarndyce.   As he gave it to my guardian, he whispered behind his fingers,"Hadn't settled how to make their market of it. Quarrelled andhinted about it. I laid out twenty pound upon it. First theavaricious grandchildren split upon him on account of theirobjections to his living so unreasonably long, and then they spliton one another. Lord! There ain't one of the family that wouldn'tsell the other for a pound or two, except the old lady--and she'sonly out of it because she's too weak in her mind to drive abargain.""Mr Bucket," said my guardian aloud, "whatever the worth of thispaper may be to any one, my obligations are great to you; and if itbe of any worth, I hold myself bound to see Mr. Smallweedremunerated accordingly.""Not according to your merits, you know," said Mr. Bucket infriendly explanation to Mr. Smallweed. "Don't you be afraid ofthat. According to its value.""That is what I mean," said my guardian. "You may observe, Mr.   Bucket, that I abstain from examining this paper myself. The plaintruth is, I have forsworn and abjured the whole business these manyyears, and my soul is sick of it. But Miss Summerson and I willimmediately place the paper in the hands of my solicitor in thecause, and its existence shall be made known without delay to allother parties interested.""Mr. Jarndyce can't say fairer than that, you understand," observedMr. Bucket to his fellow-visitor. "And it being now made clear toyou that nobody's a-going to be wronged--which must be a greatrelief to YOUR mind--we may proceed with the ceremony of chairingyou home again."He unbolted the door, called in the bearers, wished us goodmorning, and with a look full of meaning and a crook of his fingerat parting went his way.   We went our way too, which was to Lincoln's Inn, as quickly aspossible. Mr. Kenge was disengaged, and we found him at his tablein his dusty room with the inexpressive-looking books and the pilesof papers. Chairs having been placed for us by Mr. Guppy, Mr.   Kenge expressed the surprise and gratification he felt at theunusual sight of Mr. Jarndyce in his office. He turned over hisdouble eye-glass as he spoke and was more Conversation Kenge thanever.   "I hope," said Mr. Kenge, "that the genial influence of MissSummerson," he bowed to me, "may have induced Mr. Jarndyce," hebowed to him, "to forego some little of his animosity towards acause and towards a court which are--shall I say, which take theirplace in the stately vista of the pillars of our profession?""I am inclined to think," returned my guardian, "that MissSummerson has seen too much of the effects of the court and thecause to exert any influence in their favour. Nevertheless, theyare a part of the occasion of my being here. Mr. Kenge, before Ilay this paper on your desk and have done with it, let me tell youhow it has come into my hands."He did so shortly and distinctly.   "It could not, sir," said Mr. Kenge, "have been stated more plainlyand to the purpose if it had been a case at law.""Did you ever know English law, or equity either, plain and to thepurpose?" 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 interested, and when he hadopened and read a little of it through his eye-glass, he becameamazed. "Mr. Jarndyce," he said, looking off it, "you have perusedthis?""Not I!" returned my guardian.   "But, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, "it is a will of later datethan any in the suit. It appears to be all in the testator'shandwriting. It is duly executed and attested. And even ifintended to be cancelled, as might possibly be supposed to bedenoted by these marks of fire, it is NOT cancelled. Here it is, aperfect instrument!""Well!" said my guardian. "What is that to me?""Mr. Guppy!" cried Mr. Kenge, raising his voice. "I beg yourpardon, Mr. Jarndyce.""Sir.""Mr. Vholes of Symond's Inn. My compliments. Jarndyce andJarndyce. Glad to speak with him."Mr. Guppy disappeared.   "You ask me what is this to you, Mr. Jarndyce. If you had perusedthis document, you would have seen that it reduces your interestconsiderably, though still leaving it a very handsome one, stillleaving it a very handsome one," said Mr. Kenge, waving his handpersuasively and blandly. "You would further have seen that theinterests of Mr. Richard Carstone and of Miss Ada Clare, now Mrs.   Richard Carstone, are very materially advanced by it.""Kenge," said my guardian, "if all the flourishing wealth that thesuit brought into this vile court of Chancery could fall to my twoyoung cousins, I should be well contented. But do you ask ME tobelieve 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 ofequity is a very great system, a very great system. Really,really!"My guardian said no more, and Mr. Vholes arrived. He was modestlyimpressed by Mr. Kenge's professional eminence.   "How do you do, Mr. Vholes? Willl you be so good as to take achair 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 it, but he was not excited by anything. Whenhe had well examined it, he retired with Mr. Kenge into a window,and shading his mouth with his black glove, spoke to him at somelength. I was not surprised to observe Mr. Kenge inclined todispute what he said before he had said much, for I knew that notwo people ever did agree about anything in Jarndyce and Jarndyce.   But he seemed to get the better of Mr. Kenge too in a conversationthat sounded as if it were almost composed of the words "Receiver-General," "Accountant-General," "report," "estate," and "costs."When they had finished, they came back to Mr. Kenge's table andspoke aloud.   "Well! But this is a very remarkable document, Mr. Vholes," saidMr. Kenge.   Mr. Vholes said, "Very much so.""And a very important document, Mr. Vholes," said Mr. Kenge.   Again Mr. Vholes said, "Very much so.""And as you say, Mr. Vholes, when the cause is in the paper nextterm, this document will be an unexpected and interesting featurein it," said Mr. Kenge, looking loftily at my guardian.   Mr. Vholes was gratified, as a smaller practitioner striving tokeep respectable, to be confirmed in any opinion of his own by suchan authority.   "And when," asked my guardian, rising after a pause, during whichMr. Kenge had rattled his money and Mr. Vholes had picked hispimples, "when is next term?""Next term, Mr. Jarndyce, will be next month," said Mr. Kenge. "Ofcourse we shall at once proceed to do what is necessary with thisdocument and to collect the necessary evidence concerning it; andof course you will receive our usual notification of the causebeing in the paper.""To which I shall pay, of course, my usual attention.""Still bent, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, showing us through theouter office to the door, "still bent, even with your enlargedmind, on echoing a popular prejudice? We are a prosperouscommunity, Mr. Jarndyce, a very prosperous community. We are agreat country, Mr. Jarndyce, we are a very great country. This isa great system, Mr. Jarndyce, and would you wish a great country tohave a little system? Now, really, really!"He said this at the stair-head, gently moving his right hand as ifit were a silver trowel with which to spread the cement of hiswords on the structure of the system and consolidate it for athousand ages. Chapter 63 Steel and Iron George's Shooting Gallery is to let, and the stock is sold off, andGeorge himself is at Chesney Wold attending on Sir Leicester in hisrides and riding very near his bridle-rein because of the uncertainhand with which he guides his horse. But not to-day is George sooccupied. He is journeying to-day into the iron country farthernorth to look about him.   As he comes into the iron country farther north, such fresh greenwoods as those of Chesney Wold are left behind; and coal pits andashes, high chimneys and red bricks, blighted verdure, scorchingfires, and a heavy never-lightening cloud of smoke become thefeatures of the scenery. Among such objects rides the trooper,looking about him and always looking for something he has come tofind.   At last, on the black canal bridge of a busy town, with a clang ofiron in it, and more fires and more smoke than he has seen yet, thetrooper, swart with the dust of the coal roads, checks his horseand asks a workman does he know the name of Rouncewell thereabouts.   "Why, master," quoth the workman, "do 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 beforehim.   "The bank, the factory, or the house?" the workman wants to know.   "Hum! Rouncewell's is so great apparently," mutters the trooper,stroking his chin, "that I have as good as half a mind to go backagain. 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 dayyou might find either him or his son there, if he's in town; buthis contracts take him away."And which is the factory? Why, he sees those chimneys--the tallestones! Yes, he sees THEM. Well! Let him keep his eye on thosechimneys, going on as straight as ever he can, and presently he'llsee 'em down a turning on the left, shut in by a great brick wallwhich forms one side of the street. That's Rouncewell's.   The trooper thanks his informant and rides slowly on, looking abouthim. He does not turn back, but puts up his horse (and is muchdisposed to groom him too) at a public-house where some ofRouncewell's hands are dining, as the ostler tells him. Some ofRouncewell's hands have just knocked off for dinner-time and seemto 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 wall, looks in, and sees a greatperplexity of iron lying about in every stage and in a vast varietyof shapes--in bars, in wedges, in sheets; in tanks, in boilers, inaxles, in wheels, in cogs, in cranks, in rails; twisted andwrenched into eccentric and perverse forms as separate parts ofmachinery; mountains of it broken up, and rusty in its age; distantfurnaces of it glowing and bubbling in its youth; bright fireworksof it showering about under the blows of the steam-hammer; red-hotiron, white-hot iron, cold-black iron; an iron taste, an ironsmell, and 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 isvery like me before I was set up. This ought to be my nephew, iflikenesses run in families. Your servant, sir.""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 withhim."The young man, telling him he is fortunate in his choice of a time,for his father is there, leads the way to the office where he is tobe found. "Very like me before I was set up--devilish like me!"thinks the trooper as he follows. They come to a building in theyard with an office on an upper floor. At sight of the gentlemanin the office, Mr. George turns very red.   "What name shall I say to my father?" asks the young man.   George, full of the idea of iron, in desperation answers "Steel,"and is so presented. He is left alone with the gentleman in theoffice, who sits at a table with account-books before him and somesheets of paper blotted with hosts of figures and drawings ofcunning shapes. It is a bare office, with bare windows, looking onthe iron view below. Tumbled together on the table are some piecesof iron, purposely broken to be tested at various periods of theirservice, in various capacities. There is iron-dust on everything;and the smoke is seen through the windows rolling heavily out ofthe tall chimneys to mingle with the smoke from a vaporous Babylonof other chimneys.   "I am at your service, Mr. Steel," says the gentleman when hisvisitor has taken a rusty chair.   "Well, Mr. Rouncewell," George replies, leaning forward with hisleft arm on his knee and his hat in his hand, and very chary ofmeeting his brother's eye, "I am not without my expectations thatin the present visit I may prove to be more free than welcome. Ihave served as a dragoon in my day, and a comrade of mine that Iwas once rather partial to was, if I don't deceive myself, abrother of yours. I believe you had a brother who gave his familysome trouble, and ran away, and never did any good but in keepingaway?""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 up, callshim by his name, and grasps him by both hands.   "You are too quick for me!" cries the trooper with the tearsspringing out of his eyes. "How do you do, my dear old fellow? Inever could have thought you would have been half so glad to see meas all this. How do you do, my dear old fellow, how do you do!"They shake hands and embrace each other over and over again, thetrooper still coupling his "How do you do, my dear old fellow!"with his protestation that he never thought his brother would havebeen half so glad to see him as all this!   "So far from it," he declares at the end of a full account of whathas preceded his arrival there, "I had very little idea of makingmyself known. I thought if you took by any means forgivingly to myname I might gradually get myself up to the point of writing aletter. But I should not have been surprised, brother, if you hadconsidered 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 home, and you couldnot have arrived, you bronzed old soldier, on a better. I make anagreement with my son Watt to-day that on this day twelvemonth heshall marry as pretty and as good a girl as you have seen in allyour travels. She goes to Germany to-morrow with one of yournieces for a little polishing up in her education. We make a feastof the event, and you will be made the hero of it."Mr. George is so entirely overcome at first by this prospect thathe resists the proposed honour with great earnestness. Beingoverborne, however, by his brother and his nephew--concerning whomhe renews his protestations that he never could have thought theywould have been half so glad to see him--he is taken home to anelegant house in all the arrangements of which there is to beobserved a pleasant mixture of the originally simple habits of thefather and mother with such as are suited to their altered stationand the higher fortunes of their children. Here Mr. George is muchdismayed by the graces and accomplishments of his nieces that areand by the beauty of Rosa, his niece that is to be, and by theaffectionate salutations of these young ladies, which he receivesin a sort of dream. He is sorely taken aback, too, by the dutifulbehaviour of his nephew and has a woeful consciousness upon him ofbeing a scapegrace. However, there is great rejoicing and a veryhearty company and infinite enjoyment, and Mr. George comes bluffand martial through it all, and his pledge to be present at themarriage and give away the bride is received with universal favour.   A whirling head has Mr. George that night when he lies down in thestate-bed of his brother's house to think of all these things andto see the images of his nieces (awful all the evening in theirfloating muslins) waltzing, after the German manner, over hiscounterpane.   The brothers are closeted next morning in the ironmaster's room,where the elder is proceeding, in his clear sensible way, to showhow he thinks he may best dispose of George in his business, whenGeorge squeezes his hand and stops him.   "Brother, I thank you a million times for your more than brotherlywelcome, and a million times more to that for your more thanbrotherly intentions. But my plans are made. Before I say a wordas to them, I wish to consult you upon one family point. How,"says the trooper, folding his arms and looking with indomitablefirmness at his brother, "how is my mother to be got to scratchme?""I am not sure that I understand you, George," replies theironmaster.   "I say, brother, how is my mother to be got to scratch me? Shemust be got to do it somehow.""Scratch you out of her will, I think you mean?""Of course I do. In short," says the trooper, folding his armsmore resolutely yet, "I mean--TO--scratch me!""My dear George," returns his brother, "is it so indispensable thatyou should undergo that process?""Quite! Absolutely! I couldn't be guilty of the meanness ofcoming back without it. I should never be safe not to be offagain. I have not sneaked home to rob your children, if notyourself, 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 youcan tell me how it's to be brought about.""I can tell you, George," replies the ironmaster deliberately, "howit is not to be brought about, which I hope may answer the purposeas well. Look at our mother, think of her, recall her emotion whenshe recovered you. Do you believe there is a consideration in theworld that would induce her to take such a step against herfavourite son? Do you believe there is any chance of her consent,to balance against the outrage it would be to her (loving dear oldlady!) to propose it? If you do, you are wrong. No, George! Youmust make up your mind to remain UNscratched, I think." There isan amused smile on the ironmaster's face as he watches his brother,who is pondering, deeply disappointed. "I think you may managealmost as well as if the thing were done, though.""How, brother?""Being bent upon it, you can dispose by will of anything you havethe misfortune to inherit in any way you like, you know.""That's true!" says the trooper, pondering again. Then hewistfully asks, with his hand on his brother's, "Would you mindmentioning that, brother, to your wife and family?""Not at all.""Thank you. You wouldn't object to say, perhaps, that although anundoubted vagabond, I am a vagabond of the harum-scarum order, andnot of the mean sort?"The ironmaster, repressing his amused smile, assents.   "Thank you. Thank you. It's a weight off my mind," says thetrooper with a heave of his chest as he unfolds his arms and puts ahand on each leg, "though I had set my heart on being scratched,too!"The brothers are very like each other, sitting face to face; but acertain massive simplicity and absence of usage in the ways of theworld is all on the trooper's side.   "Well," he proceeds, throwing off his disappointment, "next andlast, those plans of mine. You have been so brotherly as topropose to me to fall in here and take my place among the productsof your perseverance and sense. I thank you heartily. It's morethan brotherly, as I said before, and I thank you heartily for it,"shaking him a long time by the hand. "But the truth is, brother, Iam a--I am a kind of a weed, and it's too late to plant me in aregular garden.""My dear George," returns the elder, concentrating his strongsteady brow upon him and smiling confidently, "leave that to me,and let me try."George shakes his head. "You could do it, I have not a doubt, ifanybody could; but it's not to be done. Not to be done, sir!   Whereas it so falls out, on the other hand, that I am able to be ofsome trifle of use to Sir Leicester Dedlock since his illness--brought on by family sorrows--and that he would rather have thathelp from our mother's son than from anybody else.""Well, my dear George," returns the other with a very slight shadeupon his open face, "if you prefer to serve in Sir LeicesterDedlock's household brigade--""There it is, brother," cries the trooper, checking him, with hishand upon his knee again; "there it is! You don't take kindly tothat idea; I don't mind it. You are not used to being officered; Iam. Everything about you is in perfect order and discipline;everything about me requires to be kept so. We are not accustomedto carry things with the same hand or to look at 'em from the samepoint. I don't say much about my garrison manners because I foundmyself pretty well at my ease last night, and they wouldn't benoticed here, I dare say, once and away. But I shall get on bestat Chesney Wold, where there's more room for a weed than there ishere; and the dear old lady will be made happy besides. ThereforeI accept of Sir Leicester Dedlock's proposals. When I come overnext year to give away the bride, or whenever I come, I shall havethe sense to keep the household brigade in ambuscade and not tomanoeuvre it on your ground. I thank you heartily again and amproud to think of the Rouncewells as they'll be founded by you.""You know yourself, George," says the elder brother, returning thegrip of his hand, "and perhaps you know me better than I knowmyself. Take your way. So that we don't quite lose one anotheragain, take your way.""No fear of that!" returns the trooper. "Now, before I turn myhorse's head homewards, brother, I will ask you--if you'll be sogood--to look over a letter for me. I brought it with me to sendfrom these parts, as Chesney Wold might be a painful name just nowto the person it's written to. I am not much accustomed tocorrespondence myself, and I am particular respecting this presentletter because I want it to be both straightforward and delicate."Herewith he hands a letter, closely written in somewhat pale inkbut in a neat round hand, to the ironmaster, who reads as follows:   Miss Esther Summerson,A communication having been made to me by Inspector Bucket of aletter 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 linesof instruction from abroad, when, where, and how to deliver anenclosed letter to a young and beautiful lady, then unmarried, inEngland. I duly observed the same.   I further take the liberty to make known to you that it was gotfrom me as a proof of handwriting only and that otherwise I wouldnot have given it up, as appearing to be the most harmless in mypossession, without being previously shot through the heart.   I further take the liberty to mention that if I could have supposeda certain unfortunate gentleman to have been in existence, I nevercould and never would have rested until I had discovered hisretreat and shared my last farthing with him, as my duty and myinclination would have equally been. But he was (officially)reported drowned, and assuredly went over the side of a transport-ship at night in an Irish harbour within a few hours of her arrivalfrom the West Indies, as I have myself heard both from officers andmen on board, and know to have been (officially) confirmed.   I further take the liberty to state that in my humble quality asone of the rank and file, I am, and shall ever continue to be, yourthoroughly devoted and admiring servant and that I esteem thequalities you possess above all others far beyond the limits of thepresent dispatch.   I have the honour to be,GEORGE"A little formal," observes the elder brother, refolding it with apuzzled face.   "But nothing that might not be sent to a pattern young lady?" asksthe younger.   "Nothing at all."Therefore it is sealed and deposited for posting among the ironcorrespondence of the day. This done, Mr. George takes a heartyfarewell of the family party and prepares to saddle and mount. Hisbrother, however, unwilling to part with him so soon, proposes toride with him in a light open carriage to the place where he willbait for the night, and there remain with him until morning, aservant riding for so much of the journey on the thoroughbred oldgrey from Chesney Wold. The offer, being gladly accepted, isfollowed by a pleasant ride, a pleasant dinner, and a pleasantbreakfast, all in brotherly communion. Then they once more shakehands long and heartily and part, the ironmaster turning his faceto the smoke and fires, and the trooper to the green country.   Early in the afternoon the subdued sound of his heavy military trotis heard on the turf in the avenue as he rides on with imaginaryclank and jingle of accoutrements under the old elm-trees. Chapter 64 Esther's Narrative Soon after I had that convertion with my guardian, he put a sealedpaper in my hand one morning and said, "This is for next month, mydear." I found in it two hundred pounds.   I now began very quietly to make such preparations as I thoughtwere necessary. Regulating my purchases by my guardian's taste,which I knew very well of course, I arranged my wardrobe to pleasehim and hoped I should be highly successful. I did it all soquietly because I was not quite free from my old apprehension thatAda would be rather sorry and because my guardian was so quiethimself. I had no doubt that under all the circumstances we shouldbe married in the most private and simple manner. Perhaps I shouldonly have to say to Ada, "Would you like to come and see me marriedto-morrow, my pet?" Perhaps our wedding might even be asunpretending as her own, and I might not find it necessary to sayanything about it until it was over. I thought that if I were tochoose, I would like this best.   The only exception I made was Mrs. Woodcourt. I told her that Iwas going to be married to my guardian and that we had been engagedsome time. She highly approved. She could never do enough for meand was remarkably softened now in comparison with what she hadbeen when we first knew her. There was no trouble she would nothave taken to have been of use to me, but I need hardly say that Ionly allowed her to take as little as gratified her kindnesswithout tasking it.   Of course this was not a time to neglect my guardian, and of courseit was not a time for neglecting my darling. So I had plenty ofoccupation, which I was glad of; and as to Charley, she wasabsolutely not to be seen for needlework. To surround herself withgreat 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 atwhat there was to do, and persuade herself that she was going to doit, were Charley's great dignities and delights.   Meanwhile, I must say, I could not agree with my guardian on thesubject of the will, and I had some sanguine hopes of Jarndyce andJarndyce. Which of us was right will soon appear, but I certainlydid encourage expectations. In Richard, the discovery gaveoccasion for a burst of business and agitation that buoyed him upfor a little time, but he had lost the elasticity even of hope nowand seemed to me to retain only its feverish anxieties. Fromsomething my guardian said one day when we were talking about this,I understood that my marriage would not take place until after theterm-time we had been told to look forward to; and I thought themore, for that, how rejoiced I should be if I could be married whenRichard and Ada were a little more prosperous.   The term was very near indeed when my guardian was called out oftown and went down into Yorkshire on Mr. Woodcourt's business. Hehad 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 inthe midst of all my new clothes, looking at them all around me andthinking, when a letter from my guardian was brought to me. Itasked me to join him in the country and mentioned by what stage-coach my place was taken and at what time in the morning I shouldhave to leave town. It added in a postscript that I would not bemany hours from Ada.   I expected few things less than a journey at that tinae, but I wasready for it in half an hour and set off as appointed early nextmorning. I travelled all day, wondering all day what I could bewanted for at such a distance; now I thought it might be for thispurpose, and now I thought it might be for that purpose, but I wasnever, never, never near the truth.   It was night when I came to my journey's end and found my guardianwaiting for me. This was a great relief, for towards evening I hadbegun to fear (the more so as his letter was a very short one) thathe might be ill. However, there he was, as well as it was possibleto be; and when I saw his genial face again at its brightest andbest, I said to myself, he has been doing some other greatkindness. 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 hotel, and when we were alone at table hesaid, "Full of curiosity, no doubt, little woman, to know why Ihave brought you here?""Well, guardian," said I, "without thinking myself a Fatima or youa Blue Beard, I am a little curious about it.""Then to ensure your night's rest, my love," he returned gaily, "Iwon't wait until to-morrow to tell you. I have very much wished toexpress to Woodcourt, somehow, my sense of his humanity to poorunfortunate Jo, his inestimable services to my young cousins, andhis value to us all. When it was decided that he should settlehere, it came into my head that I might ask his acceptance of someunpretending and suitable little place to lay his own head in. Itherefore caused such a place to be looked out for, and such aplace was found on very easy terms, and I have been touching it upfor him and making it habitable. However, when I walked over itthe day before yesterday and it was reported ready, I found that Iwas not housekeeper enough to know whether things were all as theyought to be. So I sent off for the best little housekeeper thatcould possibly be got to come and give me her advice and opinion.   And here she is," said my guardian, "laughing and crying bothtogether!"Because he was so dear, so good, so admirable. I tried to tell himwhat I thought of him, but I could not articulate a word.   "Tut, tut!" said my guardian. "You make too much of it, littlewoman. Why, how you sob, Dame Durden, how you sob!""It is with exquisite pleasure, guardian--with a heart full ofthanks.""Well, well," said he. "I am delighted that you approve. Ithought you would. I meant it as a pleasant surprise for thelittle mistress of Bleak House."I kissed him and dried my eyes. "I know now!" said I. "I haveseen this in your face a long while.""No; have you really, my dear?" said he. "What a Dame Durden it isto read a face!"He was so quaintly cheerful that I could not long be otherwise, andwas almost ashamed of having been otherwise at all. When I went tobed, I cried. I am bound to confess that I cried; but I hope itwas with pleasure, though I am not quite sure it was with pleasure.   I repeated every word of the letter twice over.   A most beautiful summer morning succeeded, and after breakfast wewent out arm in arm to see the house of which I was to give mymighty housekeeping opinion. We entered a flower-garden by a gatein a side wall, of which he had the key, and the first thing I sawwas that the beds and flowers were all laid out according to themanner of my beds and flowers at home.   "You see, my dear," observed my guardian, standing still with adelighted face to watch my looks, "knowing there could be no betterplan, I borrowed yours."We went on by a pretty little orchard, where the cherries werenestling among the green leaves and the shadows of the apple-treeswere sporting on the grass, to the house itself--a cottage, quite arustic cottage of doll's rooms; but such a lovely place, sotranquil and so beautiful, with such a rich and smiling countryspread around it; with water sparkling away into the distance, hereall overhung with summer-growth, there turning a humming mill; atits nearest point glancing through a meadow by the cheerful town,where cricket-players were assembling in bright groups and a flagwas flying from a white tent that rippled in the sweet west wind.   And still, as we went through the pretty rooms, out at the littlerustic verandah doors, and underneath the tiny wooden colonnadesgarlanded with woodbine, jasmine, and honey-suckle, I saw in thepapering on the walls, in the colours of the furniture, in thearrangement of all the pretty objects, MY little tastes andfancies, MY little methods and inventions which they used to laughat while they praised them, my 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 this, I thought,oh, would he be the happier for it! Would it not have been betterfor his peace that I should not have been so brought before him?   Because although I was not what he thought me, still he loved mevery dearly, and it might remind him mournfully of what be believedhe had lost. I did not wish him to forget me--perhaps he might nothave done so, without these aids to his memory--but my way waseasier than his, and I could have reconciled myself even to that sothat he had been the happier for it.   "And now, little woman," said my guardian, whom I had never seen soproud and joyful as in showing me these things and watching myappreciation of them, "now, last of all, for the name of thishouse.""What is it called, dear guardian?""My child," said he, "come and see,"He took me to the porch, which he had hitherto avoided, and said,pausing before we went out, "My dear child, don't you guess thename?""No!" said I.   We went out of the porch and he showed me written over it, BleakHouse.   He led me to a seat among the leaves close by, and sitting downbeside me and taking my hand in his, spoke to me thus, "My darlinggirl, in what there has been between us, I have, I hope, beenreally solicitous for your happiness. When I wrote you the letterto which you brought the answer," smiling as he referred to it, "Ihad my own too much in view; but I had yours too. Whether, underdifferent circumstances, I might ever have renewed the old dream Isometimes dreamed when you were very young, of making you my wifeone day, I need not ask myself. I did renew it, and I wrote myletter, and you brought your answer. You are following what I say,my child?"I was cold, and I trembled violently, but not a word he uttered waslost. As I sat looking fixedly at him and the sun's raysdescended, softly shining through the leaves upon his bare head, Ifelt as if the brightness on him must be like the brightness of theangels.   "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 wouldreally make you happy is no matter. Woodcourt came home, and Isoon had no doubt at all."I clasped him round the neck and hung my bead upon his breast andwept. "Lie lightly, confidently here, my child," said he, pressingme gently to him. "I am your guardian and your father now. Restconfidently here."Soothingly, like the gentle rustling of the leaves; and genially,like the ripening weather; and radiantly and beneficently, like thesunshine, he went on.   "Understand me, my dear girl. I had no doubt of your beingcontented and happy with me, being so dutiful and so devoted; but Isaw with whom you would be happier. That I penetrated his secretwhen Dame Durden was blind to it is no wonder, for I knew the goodthat could never change in her better far than she did. Well! Ihave long been in Allan Woodcourt's confidence, although he wasnot, until yesterday, a few hours before you came here, in mine.   But I would not have my Esther's bright example lost; I would nothave a jot of my dear girl's virtues unobserved and unhonoured; Iwould not have her admitted on sufferance into the line of Morganap-Kerrig, no, not for the weight in gold of all the mountains inWales!"He stopped to kiss me on the forehead, and I sobbed and weptafresh. For I felt as if I could not bear the painful delight ofhis praise.   "Hush, little woman! Don't cry; this is to be a day of joy. Ihave looked forward to it," he said exultingly, "for months onmonths! 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 tookMrs. Woodcourt into a separate confidence. 'Now, madam,' said I,'I clearly perceive--and indeed I know, to boot--that your sonloves 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, andwill sacrifice it so completely, so entirely, so religiously, thatyou 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, andsee my child from hour to hour; set what you see against herpedigree, which is this, and this'--for I scorned to mince it--'andtell me what is the true legitimacy when you shall have quite madeup your mind on that subject.' Why, honour to her old Welsh blood,my dear," cried my guardian with enthusiasm, "I believe the heartit animates beats no less warmly, no less admiringly, no lesslovingly, towards Dame Durden than my own!"He tenderly raised my head, and as I clung to him, kissed me in hisold fatherly way again and again. What a light, now, on theprotecting 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 noencouragement, not I, for these surprises were my great reward, andI was too miserly to part with a scrap of it. He was to come andtell me all that passed, and he did. I have no more to say. Mydearest, Allan Woodcourt stood beside your father when he lay dead--stood beside your mother. This is Bleak House. This day I givethis house its little mistress; and before God, it is the brightestday in all my life!"He rose and raised me with him. We were no longer alone. Myhusband--I have called him by that name full seven happy years now--stood at my side.   "Allan," said my guardian, "take from me a willing gift, the bestwife that ever man had. What more can I say for you than that Iknow you deserve her! Take with her the little home she bringsyou. You know what she will make it, Allan; you know what she hasmade its namesake. Let me share its felicity sometimes, and whatdo I sacrifice? Nothing, nothing."He kissed me once again, and now the tears were in his eyes as hesaid more softly, "Esther, my dearest, after so many years, thereis a kind of parting in this too. I know that my mistake hascaused you some distress. Forgive your old guardian, in restoringhim to his old place in your affections; and blot it out of yourmemory. Allan, take my dear."He moved away from under the green roof of leaves, and stopping inthe sunlight outside and turning cheerfully towards us, said, "Ishall be found about here somewhere. It's a west wind, littlewoman, due west! Let no one thank me any more, for I am going torevert to my bachelor habits, and if anybody disregards thiswarning, I'll run away and never come back!"What happiness was ours that day, what joy, what rest, what hope,what gratitude, what bliss! We were to be married before the monthwas out, but when we were to come and take possession of our ownhouse was to depend on Richard and Ada.   We all three went home together next day. As soon as we arrived intown, Allan went straight to see Richard and to carry our joyfulnews to him and my darling. Late as it was, I meant to go to herfor a few minutes before lying down to sleep, but I went home withmy guardian first to make his tea for him and to occupy the oldchair by his side, for I did not like to think of its being emptyso soon.   When we came home we found that a young man had called three timesin the course of that one day to see me and that having been toldon the occasion of his third call that I was not expected to returnbefore ten o'clock at night, he had left word that he would callabout then. He had left his card three times. Mr. Guppy.   As I naturally speculated on the object of these visits, and as Ialways associated something ludicrous with the visitor, it fell outthat in laughing about Mr. Guppy I told my guardian of his oldproposal and his subsequent retraction. "After that," said myguardian, "we will certainly receive this hero." So instructionswere 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 me, but recoveredhimself and said, "How de do, sir?""How do you do, sir?" returned my guardian.   "Thank you, sir, I am tolerable," returned Mr. Guppy. "Will youallow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Guppy of the Old Street Road,and my particular friend, Mr. Weevle. That is to say, my friendhas gone by the name of Weevle, but his name is really and trulyJobling."My guardian begged them to be seated, and 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. Guppy, after a moment'sconsideration, began, to the great diversion of his mother, whichshe displayed by nudging Mr. Jobling with her elbow and winking atme in a most remarkable manner, "I had an idea that I should seeMiss Summerson by herself and was not quite prepared for youresteemed presence. But Miss Summerson has mentioned to you,perhaps, that something has passed between us on former occasions?""Miss Summerson," returned my guardian, smiling, "has made acommunication to that effect to me.""That," said Mr. Guppy, "makes matters easier. Sir, I have comeout of my articles at Kenge and Carboy's, and I believe withsatisfaction to all parties. I am now admitted (after undergoingan examination that's enough to badger a man blue, touching a packof nonsense that he don't want to know) on the roll of attorneysand have taken out my certificate, if it would be any satisfactionto 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 hispocket and proceeded without it.   I have no capital myself, but my mother has a little property whichtakes the form of an annuity"--here Mr. Guppy's mother rolled herhead as if she never could sufficiently enjoy the observation, andput her handkerchief to her mouth, and again winked at me--"and afew pounds for expenses out of pocket in conducting business willnever be wanting, free of interest, which is an advantage, youknow," said Mr. Guppy feelingly.   "Certainly an advantage," returned my guardian.   "I HAVE some connexion," pursued Mr. Guppy, "and it lays in thedirection of Walcot Square, Lambeth. I have therefore taken a'ouse in that locality, which, in the opinion of my friends, is ahollow bargain (taxes ridiculous, and use of fixtures included inthe rent), and intend setting up professionally for myself thereforthwith."Here Mr. Guppy's mother fell into an extraordinary passion ofrolling her head and smiling waggishly at anybody who would look ather.   "It's a six-roomer, exclusive of kitchens," said Mr. Guppy, "and inthe opinion of my friends, a commodious tenement. When I mentionmy friends, I refer principally to my friend Jobling, who I believehas 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 ofclerk and will live in the 'ouse," said Mr. Guppy. "My mother willlikewise live in the 'ouse when her present quarter in the OldStreet Road shall have ceased and expired; and consequently therewill be no want of society. My friend Jobling is naturallyaristocratic by taste, and besides being acquainted with themovements of the upper circles, fully backs me in the intentions Iam now developing."Mr. Jobling said "Certainly" and withdrew a little from the elbowof Mr Guppy's mother.   "Now, I have no occasion to mention to you, sir, you being in theconfidence of Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, "(mother, I wishyou'd be so good as to keep still), that Miss Summerson's image wasformerly imprinted on my 'eart and that I made her a proposal ofmarriage.""That I have heard," returned my guardian.   "Circumstances," pursued Mr. Guppy, "over which I had no control,but quite the contrary, weakened the impression of that image for atime. At which time Miss Summerson's conduct was highly genteel; Imay even add, magnanimous."My guardian patted me on the shoulder and seemed much amused.   "Now, sir," said Mr. Guppy, "I have got into that state of mindmyself that I wish for a reciprocity of magnanimous behaviour. Iwish to prove to Miss Summerson that I can rise to a heighth ofwhich perhaps she hardly thought me capable. I find that the imagewhich I did suppose had been eradicated from my 'eart is NOTeradicated. Its influence over me is still tremenjous, andyielding to it, I am willing to overlook the circumstances overwhich none of us have had any control and to renew those proposalsto Miss Summerson which I had the honour to make at a formerperiod. I beg to lay the 'ouse in Walcot Square, the business, andmyself before Miss Summerson for her acceptance.""Very magnanimous indeed, sir," observed my guardian.   "Well, sir," replied Mr. Guppy with candour, "my wish is to BEmagnanimous. I do not consider that in making this offer to MissSummerson I am by any means throwing myself away; neither is thatthe opinion of my friends. Still, there are circumstances which Isubmit may be taken into account as a set off against any littledrawbacks of mine, and so a fair and equitable balance arrived at.""I take upon myself, sir," said my guardian, laughing as he rangthe bell, "to reply to your proposals on behalf of Miss Summerson.   She is very sensible of your handsome intentions, and wishes yougood evening, and wishes you well.""Oh!" said Mr. Guppy with a blank look. "Is that tantamount, sir,to acceptance, or rejection, or consideration?""To decided rejection, if you please," returned my guardian.   Mr. Guppy looked incredulously at his friend, and at his mother,who suddenly turned very angry, and at the floor, and at theceiling.   "Indeed?" said he. "Then, Jobling, if you was the friend yourepresent yourself, I should think you might hand my mother out ofthe gangway instead of allowing her to remain where she ain'twanted."But Mrs. Guppy positively refused to come out of the gangway. Shewouldn't hear of it. "Why, get along with you," said she to myguardian, "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 guardian, "it is hardly reasonable toask me to get out of my own room.""I don't care for that," said Mrs. Guppy. "Get out with you. Ifwe ain't good enough for you, go and procure somebody that is goodenough. Go along and find 'em."I was quite unprepared for the rapid manner in which Mrs. Guppy'spower of jocularity merged into a power of taking the profoundestoffence.   "Go along and find somebody that's good enough for you," repeatedMrs. Guppy. "Get out!" Nothing seemed to astonish Mr. Guppy'smother so much and to make her so very indignant as our not gettingout. "Why don't you get out?" said Mrs. Guppy. "What are youstopping here for?""Mother," interposed her son, always getting before her and pushingher back with one shoulder as she sidled at my guardian, "WILL youhold your tongue?""No, William," she returned, "I won't! Not unless he gets out, Iwon't!"However, Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling together closed on Mr. Guppy'smother (who began to be quite abusive) and took her, very muchagainst her will, downstairs, her voice rising a stair higher everytime her figure got a stair lower, and insisting that we shouldimmediately go and find somebody who was good enough for us, andabove all things that we should get out. Chapter 65 Beginning the World The term had commenced, and my guardian found an intimation fromMr. Kenge that the cause would come on in two days. As I hadsufficient hopes of the will to be in a flutter about it, Allan andI agreed to go down to the court that morning. Richard wasextremely agitated and was so weak and low, though his illness wasstill of the mind, that my dear girl indeed had sore occasion to besupported. But she looked forward--a very little way now--to thehelp that was to come to her, and never drooped.   It was at Westminster that the cause was to come on. It had comeon there, I dare say, a hundred times before, but I could notdivest myself of an idea that it MIGHT lead to some result now. Weleft home directly after breakfast to be at Westminster Hall ingood time and walked down there through the lively streets--sohappily and strangely it seemed!--together.   As we were going along, planning what we should do for Richard andAda, I heard somebody calling "Esther! My dear Esther! Esther!"And there was Caddy Jellyby, with her head out of the window of alittle 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 hundredyards' distance. I had written her a note to tell her of all thatmy guardian had done, but had not had a moment to go and see her.   Of course we turned back, and the affectionate girl was in thatstate of rapture, and was so overjoyed to talk about the night whenshe brought me the flowers, and was so determined to squeeze myface (bonnet and all) between her hands, and go on in a wild manneraltogether, calling me all kinds of precious names, and tellingAllan I had done I don't know what for her, that I was just obligedto get into the little carriage and caln her down by letting hersay and do exactly what she liked. Allan, standing 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 did, rather than that I came offlaughing, and red, and anything but tidy, and looking after Caddy,who looked after us out of the coach-window as long as she couldsee us.   This made us some quarter of an hour late, and when we came toWestminster Hall we found that the day's business was begun. Worsethan that, we found such an unusual crowd in the Court of Chancerythat it was full to the door, and we could neither see nor hearwhat was passing within. It appeared to be something droll, foroccasionally there was a laugh and a cry of "Silence!" It appearedto be something interesting, for every one was pushing and strivingto get nearer. It appeared to be something that made theprofessional gentlemen very merry, for there were several youngcounsellors in wigs and whiskers on the outside of the crowd, andwhen one of them told the others about it, they put their hands intheir pockets, and quite doubled themselves up with laughter, andwent stamping about the pavement of the Hall.   We asked a gentleman by us if he knew what cause was on. He toldus Jarndyce and Jarndyce. We asked him if he knew what was doingin it. He said really, no he did not, nobody ever did, but as wellas he could make out, it was over. Over for the day? we asked him.   No, he said, over for good.   Over for good!   When we heard this unaccountable answer, we looked at one anotherquite lost in amazement. Could it be possible that the will hadset things right at last and that Richard and Ada were going to berich? It seemed too good to be true. Alas it was!   Our suspense was short, for a break-up soon took place in thecrowd, and the people came streaming out looking flushed and hotand bringing a quantity of bad air with them. Still they were allexceedingly amused and were more like people coming out from afarce or a juggler than from a court of justice. We stood aside,watching for any countenance we knew, and presently great bundlesof paper began to be carried out--bundles in bags, bundles toolarge to be got into any bags, immense masses of papers of allshapes and no shapes, which the bearers staggered under, and threwdown for the time being, anyhow, on the Hall pavement, while theywent back to bring out more. Even these clerks were laughing. Weglanced at the papers, and seeing Jarndyce and Jarndyce everywhere,asked an official-looking person who was standing in the midst ofthem whether the cause was over. Yes, he said, it was all up withit at last, and burst out laughing too.   At this juncture we perceived Mr. Kenge coming out of court with anaffable dignity upon him, listening to Mr. Vholes, who wasdeferential and carried his own bag. Mr. Vholes was the first tosee us. "Here is Miss Summerson, sir," he said. "And Mr.   Woodcourt.""Oh, indeed! Yes. Truly!" said Mr. Kenge, raising his hat to mewith polished politeness. "How do you do? Glad to see you. Mr.   Jarndyce is not here?"No. He never came there, I reminded him.   "Really," returned Mr. Kenge, "it is as well that he is NOT hereto-day, for his--shall I say, in my good friend's absence, hisindomitable 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 upsuddenly, I 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 goneinto that, we have not gone into that.""We have not gone into that," repeated Mr. Vholes as if his lowinward voice were an echo.   "You are to reflect, Mr. Woodcourt," observed Mr. Kenge, using hissilver trowel persuasively and smoothingly, "that this has been agreat cause, that this has been a protracted cause, that this hasbeen a complex cause. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has been termed, notinaptly, 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 certaincondeseending laugh he had. "Very well! You are further toreflect, Mr. Woodcourt," becoming dignified almost to severity,"that on the numerous difficulties, contingencies, masterlyfictions, and forms of procedure in this great cause, there hasbeen expended study, ability, eloquence, knowledge, intellect, Mr.   Woodcourt, high intellect. For many years, the--a--I would say theflower of the bar, and the--a--I would presume to add, the maturedautumnal fruits of the woolsack--have been lavished upon Jarndyceand Jarndyce. If the public have the benefit, and if the countryhave the adornment, of this great grasp, it must be paid for inmoney or money's worth, sir.""Mr. Kenge," said Allan, appearing enlightened all in a moment.   "Excuse me, our time presses. Do I understand that the wholeestate is found to have been absorbed in costs?""Hem! I believe so," returned Mr. Kenge. "Mr. Vholes, what do YOUsay?""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 Allan, "this will break Richard'sheart!"There was such a shock of apprehension in his face, and he knewRichard so perfectly, and I too had seen so much of his gradualdecay, that what my dear girl had said to me in the fullness of herforeboding love sounded like a knell in my ears.   "In case you should be wanting Mr. C., sir," said Mr. Vholes,coming after us, "you'll find him in court. I left him thereresting himself a little. Good day, sir; good day, MissSummerson." As he gave me that slowly devouring look of his, whiletwisting up the strings of his bag before he hastened with it afterMr. Kenge, the benignant shadow of whose conversational presence heseemed afraid to leave, he gave one gasp as if he had swallowed thelast morsel of his client, and his black buttoned-up unwholesomefigure glided away to the low door at the end of the Hall.   "My dear love," said Allan, "leave to me, for a little while, thecharge you gave me. Go home with this intelligence and come toAda's by and by!"I would not let him take me to a coach, but entreated him to go toRichard without a moment's delay and leave me to do as he wished.   Hurrying home, I found my guardian and told him gradually with whatnews I had returned. "Little woman," said he, quite unmoved forhimself, "to have done with the suit on any terms is a greaterblessing than I had looked for. But my poor young cousins!"We talked about them all the morning and discussed what it waspossible to do. In the afternoon my guardian walked with me toSymond's Inn and left me at the door. I went upstairs. When mydarling heard my footsteps, she came out into the small passage andthrew her arms round my neck, but she composed herself direcfly andsaid that Richard had asked for me several times. Allan had foundhim sitting in the corner of the court, she told me, like a stonefigure. On being roused, he had broken away and made as if hewould have spoken in a fierce voice to the judge. He was stoppedby his mouth being full of blood, and Allan had brought him home.   He was lying on a sofa with his eyes closed when I went in. Therewere restoratives on the table; the room was made as airy aspossible, and was darkened, and was very orderly and quiet. Allanstood behind him watching him gravely. His face appeared to me tobe quite destitute of colour, and now that I saw him without hisseeing me, I fully saw, for the first time, how 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 by, hesaid in a weak voice, but with his old smile, "Dame Durden, kissme, my dear!"It was a great comfort and surprise to me to find him in his lowstate cheerful and looking forward. He was happier, he said, inour intended marriage than he could find words to tell me. Myhusband had been a guardian angel to him and Ada, and he blessed usboth and wished us all the joy that life could yield us. I almostfelt as if my own heart would have broken when I saw him take myhusband's hand and hold it to his breast.   We spoke of the future as much as possible, and he said severaltimes that he must be present at our marriage if he could standupon his feet. Ada would contrive to take him, somehow, he said.   "Yes, surely, dearest Richard!" But as my darling answered himthus hopefully, so serene and beautiful, with the help that was tocome to her so near--I knew--I knew!   It was not good for him to talk too much, and when he was silent,we were silent too. Sitting beside him, I made a pretence ofworking for my dear, as he had always been used to joke about mybeing busy. Ada leaned upon his pillow, holding his head upon herarm. He dozed often, and whenever he awoke without seeing him,said first of all, "Where is Woodcourt?"Evening had come on when I lifted up my eyes and saw my guardianstanding in the little hall. "Who is that, Dame Durden?" Richardasked me. The door was behind him, but he had observed in my facethat some one was there.   I looked to Allan for advice, and as he nodded "Yes," bent overRichard and told him. My guardian saw what passed, came softly byme in a moment, and laid his hand on Richard's. "Oh, sir," saidRichard, "you are a good man, you are a good man!" and burst intotears for the first time.   My guardian, the picture of a good man, sat down in my place,keeping his hand on Richard's.   "My dear Rick," said he, "the clouds have cleared away, and it isbright now. We can see now. We were all bewildered, Rick, more orless. What matters! And how are you, my dear boy?""I am very weak, sir, but I hope I shall be stronger. I have tobegin the world.""Aye, truly; well said!" cried my guardian.   "I will not begin it in the old way now," said Richard with a sadsmile. "I have learned a lesson now, sir. It was a hard one, butyou shall be assured, indeed, that I have learned it.""Well, well," said my guardian, comforting him; "well, well, well,dear boy!""I was thinking, sir," resumed Richard, "that there is nothing onearth I should so much like to see as their house--Dame Durden'sand Woodcourt's house. If I could be removed there when I begin torecover my strength, I feel as if I should get well there soonerthan anywhere.""Why, so have I been thinking too, Rick," said my guardian, "andour little woman likewise; she and I have been talking of it thisvery day. I dare say her husband won't object. What do youthink?"Richard smiled and lifted up his arm to touch him as he stoodbehind the head of the couch.   "I say nothing of Ada," said Richard, "but I think of her, and havethought of her very much. Look at her! See her here, sir, bendingover this pillow when she has so much need to rest upon it herself,my dear love, my poor girl!"He clasped her in his arms, and none of us spoke. He graduallyreleased her, and she looked upon us, and looked up to heaven, andmoved her lips.   "When I get down to Bleak House," said Richard, "I shall have muchto 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 likeyou. They have been telling me how you planned it and how youremembered all Esther's familiar tastes and ways. It will be likecoming to the old Bleak House again.""And you will come there too, I hope, Rick. I am a solitary mannow, you know, and it will be a charity to come to me. A charityto come to me, my love!" he repeated to Ada as he gently passed hishand over her golden hair and put a lock of it to his lips. (Ithink he vowed within himself to cherish her if she were leftalone.)"It was a troubled dream?" said Richard, clasping both myguardian's hands eagerly.   "Nothing more, Rick; nothing more.""And you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive andpity 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 Ada, and I saw him solemnlylift up his hand to warn my guardian.   "When shall I go from this place to that pleasant country where theold times are, where I shall have strength to tell what Ada hasbeen to me, where I shall be able to recall my many faults andblindnesses, where I shall prepare myself to be a guide to myunborn 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 shecould hold him on her bosom, which was what he wanted.   "I have done you many wrongs, my own. I have fallen like a poorstray shadow on your way, I have married you to poverty andtrouble, I have scattered your means to the winds. You willforgive me all this, my Ada, before I begin the world?"A smile irradiated his face as she bent to kiss him. He slowlylaid his face down upon her bosom, drew his arms closer round herneck, and with one parting sob began the world. Not this world,oh, not this! The world that sets this right.   When all was still, at a late hour, poor crazed Miss Flite cameweeping to me and told me she had given her birds their liberty. Chapter 66 Down in Lincolnshire There is a hush upon Chesney Wold in these altered days, as thereis upon a portion of the family history. The story goes that SirLeicester paid some who could have spoken out to hold their peace;but it is a lame story, feebly whispering and creeping about, andany brighter spark of life it shows soon dies away. It is knownfor certain that the handsome Lady Dedlock lies in the mausoleum inthe park, where the trees arch darkly overhead, and the owl isheard at night making the woods ring; but whence she was broughthome to be laid among the echoes of that solitary place, or how shedied, is all mystery. Some of her old friends, principally to befound among the peachy-cheeked charmers with the skeleton throats,did once occasionally say, as they toyed in a ghastly manner withlarge fans--like charmers reduced to flirting with grim death,after losing all their other beaux--did once occasionally say, whenthe world assembled together, that they wondered the ashes of theDedlocks, entombed in the mausoleum, never rose against theprofanation of her company. But the dead-and-gone Dedlocks take itvery calmly and have never been known to object.   Up from among the fern in the hollow, and winding by the bridle-road among the trees, comes sometimes to this lonely spot the soundof horses' hoofs. Then may be seen Sir Leicester--invalided, bent,and almost blind, but of worthy presence yet--riding with astalwart man beside him, constant to his bridle-rein. When theycome to a certain spot before the mausoleum-door, Sir Leicester'saccustomed horse stops of his own accord, and Sir Leicester,pulling off his hat, is still for a few moments before they rideaway.   War rages yet with the audacious Boythorn, though at uncertainintervals, and now hotly, and now coolly, flickering like anunsteady fire. The truth is said to be that when Sir Leicestercame down to Lincolnshire for good, Mr. Boythorn showed a manifestdesire to abandon his right of way and do whatever Sir Leicesterwould, which Sir Leicester, conceiving to be a condescension to hisillness or misfortune, took in such high dudgeon, and was somagnificently aggrieved by, that Mr. Boythorn found himself underthe necessity of committing a flagrant trespass to restore hisneighbour to himself. Similarly, Mr. Boythorn continues to posttremendous placards on the disputed thoroughfare and (with his birdupon his head) to hold forth vehemently against Sir Leicester inthe sanctuary of his own home; similarly, also, he defies him as ofold in the little church by testifying a bland unconsciousness ofhis existence. But it is whispered that when he is most ferocioustowards his old foe, he is really most considerate, and that SirLeicester, in the dignity of being implacable, little supposes howmuch he is humoured. As little does he think how near together heand his antagonist have suffered in the fortunes of two sisters,and his antagonist, who knows it now, is 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 thehouse where, once upon a time, when the waters were out down inLincolnshire, my Lady used to see the keeper's child--the stalwartman, the trooper formerly, is housed. Some relics of his oldcalling hang upon the walls, and these it is the chosen recreationof a little lame man about the stable-yard to keep gleaming bright.   A busy little man he always is, in the polishing at harness-housedoors, of stirrup-irons, bits, curb-chains, harness bosses,anything in the way of a stable-yard that will take a polish,leading a life of friction. A shaggy little damaged man, withal,not unlike an old dog of some mongrel breed, who has beenconsiderably knocked about. He answers to the name of Phil.   A goodly sight it is to see the grand old housekeeper (harder ofhearing now) going to church on the arm of her son and to observe--which few do, for the house is scant of company in these times--therelations of both towards Sir Leicester, and his towards them.   They have visitors in the high summer weather, when a grey cloakand umbrella, unknown to Chesney Wold at other periods, are seenamong the leaves; when two young ladies are occasionally foundgambolling in sequestered saw-pits and such nooks of the park; andwhen the smoke of two pipes wreathes away into the fragrant eveningair from the trooper's door. Then is a fife heard trolling withinthe lodge on the inspiring topic of the "British Grenadiers"; andas the evening closes in, a gruff inflexible voice is heard to say,while two men pace together up and down, "But I never own to itbefore the old girl. Discipline must be maintained."The greater part of the house is shut up, and it is a show-house nolonger; yet Sir Leicester holds his shrunken state in the longdrawing-room for all that, and reposes in his old place before myLady's picture. Closed in by night with broad screens, andillumined only in that part, the light of the drawing-room seemsgradually contracting and dwindling until it shall be no more. Alittle more, in truth, and it will be all extinguished for SirLeicester; and the damp door in the mausoleum which shuts so tight,and looks so obdurate, will have opened and received him.   Volumnia, growing with the flight of time pinker as to the red inher face, and yellower as to the white, reads to Sir Leicester inthe long evenings and is driven to various artifices to conceal heryawns, of which the chief and most efficacious is the insertion ofthe pearl necklace between her rosy lips. Long-winded treatises onthe Buffy and Boodle question, showing how Buffy is immaculate andBoodle villainous, and how the country is lost by being all Boodleand no Buffy, or saved by being all Buffy and no Boodle (it must beone of the two, and cannot be anything else), are the staple of herreading. Sir Leicester is not particular what it is and does notappear to follow it very closely, further than that he always comesbroad awake the moment Volumnia ventures to leave off, andsonorously repeating her last words, begs with some displeasure toknow if she finds herself fatigued. However, Volumnia, in thecourse of her bird-like hopping about and pecking at papers, hasalighted on a memorandum concerning herself in the event of"anything happening" to her kinsman, which is handsome compensationfor an extensive course of reading and holds even the dragonBoredom at bay.   The cousins generally are rather shy of Chesney Wold in itsdullness, but take to it a little in the shooting season, when gunsare heard in the plantations, and a few scattered beaters andkeepers wait at the old places of appointment for low-spirited twosand threes of cousins. The debilitated cousin, more debilitated bythe dreariness of the place, gets into a fearful state ofdepression, groaning under penitential sofa-pillows in his gunlesshours and protesting that such fernal old jail's--nough t'sew flerup--frever.   The only great occasions for Volumnia in this changed aspect of theplace in Lincolnshire are those occasions, rare and widelyseparated, when something is to be done for the county or thecountry in the way of gracing a public ball. Then, indeed, doesthe tuckered sylph come out in fairy form and proceed with joyunder cousinly escort to the exhausted old assembly-room, fourteenheavy miles off, which, during three hundred and sixty-four daysand nights of every ordinary year, is a kind of antipodean lumber-room full of old chairs and tables upside down. Then, indeed, doesshe captivate all hearts by her condescension, by her girlishvivacity, and by her skipping about as in the days when the hideousold general with the mouth too full of teeth had not cut one ofthem at two guineas each. Then does she twirl and twine, apastoral nymph of good family, through the mazes of the dance.   Then do the swains appear with tea, with lemonade, with sandwiches,with homage. Then is she kind and cruel, stately and unassuming,various, beautifully wilful. Then is there a singular kind ofparallel between her and the little glass chandeliers of anotherage embellishing that assembly-room, which, with their meagrestems, their spare little drops, their disappointing knobs where nodrops are, their bare little stalks from which knobs and drops haveboth departed, and their little feeble prismatic twinkling, allseem Volumnias.   For the rest, Lincolnshire life to Volumnia is a vast blank ofovergrown house looking out upon trees, sighing, wringing theirhands, bowing their heads, and casting their tears upon the window-panes in monotonous depressions. A labyrinth of grandeur, less theproperty of an old family of human beings and their ghostlylikenesses than of an old family of echoings and thunderings whichstart out of their hundred graves at every sound and go resoundingthrough the building. A waste of unused passages and staircases inwhich to drop a comb upon a bedroom floor at night is to send astealthy footfall on an errand through the house. A place wherefew people care to go about alone, where a maid screams if an ashdrops from the fire, takes to crying at all times and seasons,becomes the victim of a low disorder of the spirits, and giveswarning and departs.   Thus Chesney Wold. With so much of itself abandoned to darknessand vacancy; with so little change under the summer shining or thewintry lowering; so sombre and motionless always--no flag flyingnow by day, no rows of lights sparkling by night; with no family tocome and go, no visitors to be the souls of pale cold shapes ofrooms, no stir of life about it--passion and pride, even to thestranger's eye, have died away from the place in Lincolnshire andyielded it to dull repose. Chapter 67 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 soonpenned; then I and the unknown friend to whom I write will part forever. Not without much dear remembrance on my side. Not withoutsome, I hope, on his or hers.   They gave my darling into my arms, and through many weeks I neverleft her. The little child who was to have done so much was bornbefore the turf was planted on its father's grave. It was a boy;and I, my husband, and my guardian gave him his father's name.   The help that my dear counted on did come to her, though it came,in the eternal wisdom, for another purpose. Though to bless andrestore his mother, not his father, was the errand of this baby,its power was mighty to do it. When I saw the strength of the weaklittle hand and how its touch could heal my darling's heart andraised hope within her, I felt a new sense of the goodness and thetenderness of God.   They throve, and by degrees I saw my dear girl pass into my countrygarden and walk there with her infant in her arms. I was marriedthen. I was the happiest of the happy.   It was at this time that my guardian joined us and asked Ada whenshe would come home.   "Both houses are your home, my dear," said he, "but the older BleakHouse claims priority. When you and my boy are strong enough to doit, come and take possession of your home."Ada called him "her dearest cousin, John." But he said, no, itmust be guardian now. He was her guardian henceforth, and theboy's; and he had an old association with the name. So she calledhim guardian, and has called him guardian ever since. The childrenknow him by no other name. I say the children; I have two littledaughters.   It is difficult to believe that Charley (round-eyed still, and notat all grammatical) is married to a miller in our neighbourhood;yet so it is; and even now, looking up from my desk as I writeearly in the morning at my summer window, I see the very millbeginning to go round. I hope the miller will not spoil Charley;but he is very fond of her, and Charley is rather vain of such amatch, for he is well to do and was in great request. So far as mysmall maid is concerned, I might suppose time to have stood forseven years as still as the mill did half an hour ago, since littleEmma, Charley's sister, is exactly what Charley used to be. As toTom, Charley's brother, I am really afraid to say what he did atschool in ciphering, but I think it was decimals. He isapprenticed to the miller, whatever it was, and is a good bashfulfellow, always falling in love with somebody and being ashamed ofit.   Caddy Jellyby passed her very last holidays with us and was adearer creature than ever, perpetually dancing in and out of thehouse with the children as if she had never given a dancing-lessonin her life. Caddy keeps her own little carriage now instead ofhiring one, and lives full two miles further westward than NewmanStreet. She works very hard, her husband (an excellent one) beinglame and able to do very little. Still, she is more than contentedand does all she has to do with all her heart. Mr. Jellyby spendshis evenings at her new house with his head against the wall as heused to do in her old one. I have heard that Mrs. Jellyby wasunderstood to suffer great mortification from her daughter'signoble marriage and pursuits, but I hope she got over it in time.   She has been disappointed in Borrioboola-Gha, which turned out afailure in consequence of the king of Boorioboola wanting to selleverybody--who survived the climate--for rum, but she has taken upwith the rights of women to sit in Parliament, and Caddy tells meit is a mission involving more correspondence than the old one. Ihad almost forgotten Caddy's poor little girl. She is not such amite now, but she is deaf and dumb. I believe there never was abetter mother than Caddy, who learns, in her scanty intervals ofleisure, innumerable deaf and dumb arts to soften the affliction ofher child.   As if I were never to have done with Caddy, I am reminded here ofPeepy and old Mr. Turveydrop. Peepy is in the Custom House, anddoing extremely well. Old Mr. Turveydrop, very apoplectic, stillexhibits his deportment about town, still enjoys himself in the oldmanner, is still believed in in the old way. He is constant in hispatronage of Peepy and is understood to have bequeathed him afavourite French clock in his dressing-room--which is not hisproperty.   With the first money we saved at home, we added to our pretty houseby throwing out a little growlery expressly for my guardian, whichwe inaugurated with great splendour the next time he came down tosee us. I try to write all this lightly, because my heart is fullin drawing to an end, but when I write of him, my tears will havetheir way.   I never look at him but I hear our poor dear Richard calling him agood man. To Ada and her pretty boy, he is the fondest father; tome he is what he has ever been, and what name can I give to that?   He is my husband's best and dearest friend, he is our children'sdarling, he is the object of our deepest love and veneration. Yetwhile I feel towards him as if he were a superior being, I am sofamiliar with him and so easy with him that I almost wonder atmyself. I have never lost my old names, nor has he lost his; nordo I ever, when he is with us, sit in any other place than in myold chair at his side, Dame Trot, Dame Durden, Little Woman--alljust the same as ever; and I answer, "Yes, dear guardian!" just thesame.   I have never known the wind to be in the east for a single momentsince the day when he took me to the porch to read the name. Iremarked to him once that the wind seemed never in the east now,and he said, no, truly; it had finally departed from that quarteron that very day.   I think my darling girl is more beautiful than ever. The sorrowthat has been in her face--for it is not there now--seems to havepurified even its innocent expression and to have given it adiviner quality. Sometimes when I raise my eyes and see her in theblack dress that she still wears, teaching my Richard, I feel--itis difficult to express--as if it were so good to know that sheremembers her dear Esther in her prayers.   I call him my Richard! But he says that he has two mamas, and I amone.   We are not rich in the bank, but we have always prospered, and wehave quite enough. I never walk out with my husband but I hear thepeople bless him. I never go into a house of any degree but I hearhis praises or see them in grateful eyes. I never lie down atnight but I know that in the course of that day he has alleviatedpain and soothed some fellow-creature in the time of need. I knowthat from the beds of those who were past recovery, thanks haveoften, often gone up, in the last hour, for his patientministration. Is not this to be rich?   The people even praise me as the doctor's wife. The people evenlike me as I go about, and make so much of me that I am quiteabashed. I owe it all to him, my love, my pride! They like me forhis sake, as I do everything I do in life for his sake.   A night or two ago, after bustling about preparing for my darlingand my guardian and little Richard, who are coming to-morrow, I wassitting out in the porch of all places, that dearly memorableporch, when Allan came home. So he said, "My precious littlewoman, what are you doing here?" And I said, "The moon is shiningso brightly, Allan, and the night is so delicious, that I have beensitting 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 theywere.""And what have you been thinking about THEM, my busy bee?" saidAllan.   "I have been thinking that I thought it was impossible that youCOULD have loved me any better, even if I had retained them.""'Such as they were'?" said Allan, laughing.   "Such as they were, of course.""My dear Dame Durden," said Allan, drawing my arm through his, "doyou 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 Iknow that my dearest little pets are very pretty, and that mydarling is very beautiful, and that my husband is very handsome,and that my guardian has the brightest and most benevolent facethat ever was seen, and that they can very well do without muchbeauty in me--even supposing--. The End