\y^ >«rv:'-*^' 'f "^^ .. v^-* > - x^' -?^ -.J« f^«»^-) •4?: University of California • Berkeley From the Collection of Edward Hellman Heller and Elinor Raas Heller > y^ (f- ^ U ^4»% •;r^^^ 2 \)f^ ^ ■' ,. **' <^-> ;^.5 4^X-^^ >t^. lir^;-^ '•^y^ 'K*^ L ^ m^ .''«^* ^^C*' _.iT^ „ ^^" "^^ 1— — ^ erson who was professionally acquainted with the whole of the monstrous wrong from beginning to end. At the present moment there is a suit before the Court which was commenced nearly twenty years ago ; in which from thirty to forty counsel have been known to appear at one time ; in which costs have been incurred to the amount of seventy thousand pounds ; which is a friendly suit ; and which is (I am assured) no nearer to its termination now than when it was begun. There is another well-known suit in Chancery, not yet decided, which was commenced before the close of the last centurj^, and in which more than double the amount of seventy thousand pounds has been swallowed up in costs. If I wanted other authorities for Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I could rain them on these pages, to the shame of — a parsimonious public. There is only one other point on which I offer a word of remark. The possibility of what is called Spontaneous Combustion has been denied since the death of Mr. Krook; PREFACE. ix and my good friend Mr. Lewes (quite mistaken, as lie soon found, in supj)osing tlie thing to have been abandoned by all authorities) published some ingenious letters to me at the time when that event was chronicled, arguing that Spontaneous Combustion could not possibly be. I have no need to observe that I do not wilfully or negligently mislead my readers, and that before I wrote that description I took pains to investigate the subject. There are about thirty cases on record, of which the most famous, that of the Countess Cornelia de Bandi Cesenate was minutety investigated and described by Giuseppe Bianchini, a prebendary of Yerona, otherwise distinguished in letters, who published an account of it at Verona, in 1731, which he afterwards republished at Bome. The appearances beyond all rational doubt observed in that case, are the appearances observed in Mr. Krook's i3ase. The next most famous instance happened at Bheims, six years earlier ; and the historian in that case is Le Cat, one of the most renowned surgeons produced by France. The subject was a woman, whose husband was ignorantly convicted of having murdered her; but, on solemn appeal to a higher court, he was acquitted, because it was shown upon the evidence that she had died the death to which this name of Spontaneous Combustion is given. I do not think it necessary to add to these notable facts, and that general reference to the authorities which will be found at page 329, the recorded opinions and experiences of distinguished medical professors, French, English, and Scotch, in more modern days ; contenting myself with observing, that I shall not abandon the facts until there shall have been a considerable X PREFACE. Spontaneous Combustion of the testimony on which human occurrences are usually received. In Bleak House, I have purposely dwelt upon the romantic side of familiar things. I believe I have never had so many readers as in this book. May we meet again ! London, August, 1853. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. — In Chancery 1 II. — In Fashion 5 III. — ^A Progress . . - 10 lY. — Telescopic Philanthropy 24 V. — A Morning Adventure 33 YI. — Quite at Home 42 VII.— The Ghost's Walk 57 VIII.— Covering a Multitude of Sins 65 IX. — Signs and Tokens .79 X.— The Law-writer 89 XI.— Our dear Brother 97 XII.— On the Watch 107 XIII.— Esther's Narrative 117 XIY.— Deportment 129 xii CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE XV.— Bell Yard 144 XVI.— Tom-all-alone's 155 XVII.— Esther's Narrative 161 XVIII.— Lady Dedlock I'^l XIX.— Moving on 183 XX.— A New Lodger 193 XXI.— The Smallweed Family 203 XXIL -Mr. Bucket 215 XXIII.— Esther's Narrative ' . 225 XXIV.— An Appeal Case .238 XXV.— Mr. Snagsby sees it all 251 XXVI.— Sharpshooters 257 XXVII.— More Old Soldiers than one 266 XXVIII.— The Ironmaster . ... . . . . . . 274 XXIX.— The Young Man 282 XXX.— Esther's Narrative . . . . . . . . 289 XXXI.— Nurse and Patient .300 XXXII.— The Appointed Time 311 XXXIII.— Interlopers 321 XXXIV.— The Turn of the Screw 331 CONTENTS. xiii CHAP. PAGE XXXV.— Esther's Narrative 3i2 XXXVI.— Chesney Wold 353 XXXVII. — Jarndyce and Jarndyce . 364 XXXVIII.— A Struggle 377 XXXIX.— Attorney and Client 385 XL. — National and Domestic 396 XLI.— In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Eoom . . . . . .405 XLIL— In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Chamber 411 XLIIL— Esther's Narrative 417 XLI v.— The Letter and the Answer 428 XLV.— In Trust .433 XLVI.— Stop him ! 442 XLVIL— Jo's Will 449 XLVIIL— Closing m 459 XLIX.— Dutiful Friendship . .- 471 L. — Esther's Narrative 481 LI.— Enlightened 488 LII.— Obstinacy 496 LIIL— The Track -.504 LIV. — Springing a Mine ^13 xiv CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE LV.— Fliglit 528 LVL— Pursuit 539 LVII. — Esther's Narrative 545 LVIIL— A Wintry Day and Night 557 LIX. — Esther's Narrative 567 LX. — Perspective 577 LXI.— A Discovery 586 LXII. — Another Discovery 593 LXIIL— Steel and Iron . . . 600 LXIV.— Esther's Narrative 606 LXV.— Beginning the World 613 LXVI. — ^Down in Lincolnshire 619 LXVII.— The Close of Esther's Narrative 621 LIST OF PLATES. PAGE FRONTISPIECE. THE LITTLE OLD LADY .23 MISS JELLYBl 31 THE LORD CHANCELLOR COPIES FROM MEMORY 41 COAVINSES 52 THE VISIT TO THE BRICKMAKER's 75 IN RE GUPPY. EXTRAORDINARY PROCEEDINGS 88 MR. GUPPYS DESOLATION 121 THE FAMILY PORTRAITS AT MR. BAYHAM BADGERS 123 THE DANCING SCHOOL . 134 CONSECRATED GROUND . . . . _ 160 caddy's FLOWERS 170 THE LITTLE CHURCH IN THE PARK 177 MR. GUPPY's ENTERTAINMENT 195 THE SMALLWEED FAMILY 208 A MODEL OF PARENTAL DEPORTMENT . . 232 MR. CHADBAND "IMPROVING" A TOUGH SUBJECT 254 VISITORS TO THE SHOOTING GALLERY 261 THE YOUNG MAN OF THE NAME OF GUPPY 283 NURSE AND PATIENT . ^^^ xvi LIST OF PLATES. PAGE THE APPOINTED TIME 320 THE OLD MAN OF THE NAME OF TULKINGHORN 331 MR. SMALLWEED BREAKS THE PIPE OF PEACE 338 LADY DEDLOCK IN THE WOOD 367 THE ghost's WALK 361 ATTORNEY AND CLIENT, FORTITUDE AND IMPATIENCE 388 SUNSET IN THE LONG DRAWING-ROOM AT CHESNEY WOLD 397 SIR LEICESTER DEDLOCK 424 TOM ALL ALONE's 442 A NEW MEANING IN THE ROMAN 470 FRIENDLY BEHAVIOUR OF MR. BUCKET 477 LIGHT . 493 SHADOW 612 MRS. BAGNET RETURNS FROM HER EXPEDITION 530 THE LONELY FIGURE . 544 THE NIGHT . . ... . . . . . . . . 547 THE MORNING 576" MAGNANIMOUS CONDUCT OF MR. GUPPY 612 THE MAUSOLEUM AT CHESNEY WOLD 619 ERKATA. — -f — Page 235, lines 26 and 28, from top of page, /or." Gusher" read " Quale." 297, *' 24 and 46, from top of page, make the same correction. 305, line 3 from top of page, /or " Leonard " read " Harold." 307, lines 22 and 23, from top of page, make the same correction. 442, line 2, of new chapter, /or "swollen" read "swelled." BLEAK HOUSE. CHAPTER I. IN CHANCERY. LONDON. ^licliaelmas Term lately over, and tlie Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets, as if the waters had but newly retired from tlie face of the earth, and it would not be Avonderful to meet a ^Sleg-alosaunis, forty feet long or .so, waddUng like an elephanthie lizard up lIoll)orn-hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as fidl-grown snow-flakes — gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undis- tinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better ; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas, in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, Avhere tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest. Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows ; fog down the river, where it roUs defiled among tlie tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs ; fog Iving out on the vards, and liovering in the rigging of great ships ; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their Avards ; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the Avrathfid skipper, dowir in liis close cabin ; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if tliey were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds. Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husb;indman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look. The raAV afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the B 2 BLEAK HOUSE. muddy streets are muddiest, near tliat leadeii-lieaded old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation : Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln's Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery. Never can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud and mire too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering condition which 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 be sitting here — as here he is — with a foggy glory round his head, softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an interminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to the lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog. On such an afternoon, some score of members of the High Court of Chancery bar ought to be — as here they are — mistily engaged in one of the ten thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping- one another up on slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities, running their goat-hair and horse-hair warded heads against walls of words, and making a pretence of equity with serious faces, as players might. On such an afternoon, the various solicitors in the cause, some two or three of whom have inherited it from their fathers, vdio made a fortune by it, ought to be — as are they not ? — ranged in a line, in a long matted well (but you might look in vain for Truth at the bottom of it), between the registrar's red table and the silk gowns, with bills, cross- bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits, issues, references to masters, masters' reports, mountains of costly nonsense, piled before them. Well may the court be dim, .with wasting candles here and there ; well may the fog hang heavy in it, as if it would never get out ; well may the stained glass windows lose their color, and admit no light of day into the place ; well may the uninitiated fi-om the streets, who peep in through the glass panes in the door, be deterred from entrance by its owlish aspect, and by the drawl languidly echoing to the roof iTom the padded dais where the Lord High Chancellor looks into t!ie lantern that has no light in it, and where the attendant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank ! This is the Court of Chancery ; which has its decaying houses and its blighted lands in every shire ; which has its worn-out lunatic in every madhouse, and its dead in every churchyard ; which lias its ruined suitor, with his slipshod lieels and threadbare dress, borrowing and begging through the round of every man's acquaintance ; which gives to monied might the means abundantly of weai'j'ing out the rigiit ; which so exhausts finances, patience, com'age, hope ; so overthrows the brain and breaks the heart ; that there is not an honorable man among its practitioners avIio would not give — who does not often give — the Avarning, " Sufl:er any wrong that can be done you, rather than come here ! " Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor's court this murky afternoon besides the Lord Chancellor, the counsel in the cause, tAvo or three counsel who are never in any cause, and the well of solicitors before mentioned ? There is the registrar below the Judge, in wig and goAvn ; and there are two or three maces, or petty-bags, or privy-purses, or Avhatever they may be, in legal court suits. These are all yawning ; for no crumb of amuse- ment ever falls from Jarndyce and Jaendyce (the cause in hand), ^vhich was squeezed dry years iqoon years ago. The short-hand writers. BLEAK HOUSE. 3 tlie reporters of the coiu-t, and the reporters of the newspapers, invariably decamp with the rest of the regulars when Jamdyce and Jarndyce comes on. Their places are a blank. Standing on a seat at the side of the hall, the better to peer into the curtained sanctuary, is a little mad old woman in a squeezed bonnet, who is always in court, from its sitting to its rising, and always expecting some incomprehensible judgment to be given in her favor. Some say she really is, or was, a party to a suit ; but no one knows for certain, because no one cares. She carries some small litter in a reticide which she calls her documents ; principally consisting of paper matches and dry lavender. A sallow prisoner has come up, in custody, for the half-dozenth time, to make a personal application " to pui'ge liimself of his contempt ; " which, being a solitary surviving executor who has fallen into a state of conglomeration about accounts of which it is not pretended that he had ever any knowledge, he is not at all likely ever to do. In the meantime his prospects in life are ended. Another mined suitor, who periodically appears from Shropshire, and breaks out into efforts to address the Chancellor at the close of the day's business, and who can by no means be made to understand that the Chancellor is legally ignorant of his existence after making it desolate for a quarter of a century, plants himself in a good place and keeps an eye on the Judge, ready to call out " My lord ! " in a voice of sonorous complaint, on the instant of his rising. A few lawyers' clerks and others who know this suitor by sight, linger, on the chance of his fm-nishing some fun, and enlivening the dismal weather a little. Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scarecrow of a siut has, in coui'se of time, become so complicated, that no man alive knov/s what it means. The parties to it understand it least ; but it has been observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five minutes, without coming to a total disagTcement as to all the premises. Innumerable children have been born into the cause ; innumerable young people have married into it ; innumerable old people ,have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, without knowing how or why ; Avhole famibes have inherited legendary hatreds with the suit. The little plaintiff or defendant, who was promised a new rocking-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce shoidd be settled, has grown up, possessed liimself of a real horse, and trotted away into the other world. Fair wards of court ha^e faded into mothers and grandmothers ; a long procession of Chancellors has come in and gone out ; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere bills of mortality ; there are not three Jamdyces left upon the earth perhaps, since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew his brains out at a coffee-house in Chancery-lane; but Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its dreary leugi;h before the Com't, perennially hopeless, Jarndyce and Jarndyce has passed into a joke. That is the only good that has ever come of it. It has been death to many, but it is a joke in the profession. Every master in Chancery has had a reference out of it. Every Chancellor was "in it," for somebody or other, when he was counsel at the bar. Good things have been said about it by blue-nosed, bulbous-shoed old benchers, in select port-wine committee after dinner in hall. Articled Tlerks have been in the habit of fleshing their legal wit upon it. The last Lord Chancellor handled it neatly, when, correcting Mr. Blowers the eminent sdk govrn who said that such a B 2 4 BLEAK HOUSE. thing miglit happen wlien the sky rained potatoes, he observed, " or when we get throngh Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mr. Elow^ers ;" — a pleasantry that particidarly tickled the maces, bags, and purses. How many people out of the suit, Jarndyce and Jarndyce has stretched forth its unwholesome hand to spoil and corrupt, would be a very wide question. From the master, upon whose impaling files reams of dusty warrants in Jarndyce and Jarndyce have grimly writhed into many shapes ; down to the copying clerk in the Six Clerks' Office, who has copied his tens of thousands of Chancery-folio-pages under that eternal heading ; no man's nature has been made the better by it. In trickery, evasion, procrastination, spoliation, botheration, under false pretences of all sorts, there are influences that can never come to good. The ver}^ solicitors' boys wdio have kept the wretched suitors at bay, by protesting time out of mind that Mr. Chizzle, Mizzle, or otherwise, was- particularly engaged and had appointments until dinner, may have got an extra moral twist and shuffle into themselves out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The receiver in the cause has acquired a goodly sum of money by it, but has acquired too a distrust of his own mother, and a contempt for his own kind. Chizzle, Mizzle, and othenvise, have lapsed into a liabit of vaguely promising themselves tliat they will look into that outstanding little matter, and see what can he done for Drizzle — who was not well used — when Jarndyce and Janidyce shall be got out of the office. Shirking and sharking, in aU their many varieties, have been =;own broadcast by the ill-fated cause ; and even those who have contem- plated its history from the outermost circle of such eyii, have been insensibly tempted into a loose way of letting bad things alone to take their own bad course, and a loose belief that if the world go wi'ong, it was, in some ofi:-hand manner, never meant to go right. Thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery. " Mr. Tangle," says the Lord High Chancellor, latterly something restless under the eloquence of that learned gentleman, " Mlud," says Mr. Tangle. Mr. Tangle knows more of Jarndyce and Jarndyce than anybody. He is famous for it — supposed never to have read anything else since he left school. " Have you nearly concluded your argument ? " " Mlud, no — variety of points — feel it my duty tsubmit — ludship," is the reply that slides out of Mr. Tangle. " Several members of the bar are still to be heard, I believe?" says tlie Chancellor, with a slight smile. Eighteen of Mr. Tangle's learned friends, each armed with a little summary of eighteen hundred sheets, bob up like eighteen hammers in a piano-forte, make eighteen bows, and drop into their eighteen places of obscurity. " AVe Avill ]oroceed with tlie hearing on Wednesday fortniglit," says the Chancellor. For, the question at issue is only a question of costs, a mere bud on the forest tree of the parent suit, and really will come to a settle- ment one of these days. The Chancellor rises ; the bar rises ; the prisoi^- is brought forward in a hurry ; the man from Shropshire cries, "My lord!" Maces, bags, and purses, indignantly proclaim silence, and frown at the man from ShrojDshire. BLEAK HOUSE. O '•' 111 reference," proceeds tlie Ciiancelior, still on Jamdyce and Jarndyce, " to tlie young girl "' " Begludsliip's pardon — boy," says Mr. Tangle, prematurely. " In reference," proceeds tlie ClianccRor, with extra distinctness, ''• to the 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 my private room, I wlU see them and satisfy myself as to the expediency of making the order for their residing with their uncle." Mr. Tangle on his legs again. " Begludsliip's pardon — dead." " With their," Chancellor looking through his double eye-glass at the papers on his desk, " grandfather." " Begludship's pardon — victim of rash action — Ijrains." Suddenly a very little counsel, with a terrific bass voice, arises, fidly inflated, in the back settlements of the fog, and says, " AVill youi- lordship allow me ? I appear for him. He is a cousin, several times removed. I am not at the moment prepared to inform the Court in what exact remove he is a cousin ; but he is a cousin." Leaving this address (debvered like a sepidchral message) ringing in the rafters of the roof, the very little counsel cbops, and the fog knows him no more. Everyljody looks for him. Xobody can see him. " I ^vill speak Avith both the young people," says the Chancellor anew, " and satisfy myself on the subject of their residing with theii- cousin. I Anil mention the matter to-morrow morning when I take my seat." The Chancellor is about to bow to the bar, when the prisoner is presented. Nothing can possibly come of the prisoner's conglomeration, but his being sent back to prison; which is soon done. The man from Shropshire ventm'es another remonstrative " My lord ! " but the Chancellor, being aware of him, has dexterously vanished. Everybody else quickly vanishes too. A battery of blue bags is loaded with heavy charges of papers and carried off by clerks ; the little mad old woman marches oft" with her documents ; the empty court is locked up. If all the injustice it has committed, and all the misery it has caused, could only be locked up with it, and the whole biu"nt away in a great funeral pyre, — why, so much the better for other parties than the parties in Jarndyce and Jamdvce ! CHAPTEE II. IN FASHION. It is but a glimpse of the world of fashion that we want on this same miry afternoon. It is not so unlike the Court of Chancery, but that we may pass from the one scene to the other, as the crow flies. Both the world of fashion and the Court of Chancery are things of precedent and usage ; over-sleeping Rip Tan Winkles, who have played at strange games thi'ough a deal of thundery weather ; sleeping beauties, whom the Kniglit will 6 BLEAK HOUSE. wake one day, when all the stopped spits in the kitchen shall begin to turn ]orodigiously ! It is not a large world. Eelatively even to this world of ours, Avhicli has its limits too (as your Highness sliaU find when you have made the tour of it, and are come to the brink of the void beyond), it is a very little speck. There is much good in it ; there are many good and true people in it ; it has its appointed place. But the evd of it is, that it is a world ^\Tapped up in too much jev,"eUer's cotton and line wool, and cannot hear the rushing of the larger worlds, and cannot see them as they circle round the sun. It is a deadened world, and its growth is sometimes unhealthy for want of air. My Lady Dedlock has retiu'ued to her house in town for a few days previous to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks ; after which her movements are uncertain. The fashionable intelligence says so, for the comfort of the Paiisians, and it knows aU fashionable things. To laiow things otherwise, were to be unfashionable. My Lady Dedlock has been dov.ii at what she calls, in familiar conversation, her " place " in Lincolnshire. The Avaters are out in Lincolnshire. An arch of the bridge in the park lias been sapped and sojDped away. The adjacent loAV-lying ground, for half a mile in breadth, is a stagnant river, Avitli melancholy trees for islands in it, and a surface punctured aU. over, all day long, with falling rain. My Lady Dedlock's " place " has been extremely drearA'. The weather, for many a day and night, has been so wet that the trees seem wet through, and the soft loppings and prunings of the woodman's axe can make no crash or crackle as they fall. The deer, looking soaked, leave quagmires, where they pass. The shot of a rifle loses its sharp- ness in the moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud towards the green rise, coppice-topped, that makes a back-ground for the falling- rain. The view from my Lady Dedlock's own AvindoAvs is alternately a lead-colored vicAv, and a vicAV in Indian ink. The vases on the stone terrace in the foreground catch the rain all day ; and the heaAy drops fall, drip, drip, drip, upon the broad flagged pavement, called, from old time, the Ghost's Walk, all night. On Sundays, the little chui'ch in the park is moiddy ; the oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold sAveat ; and there is a general smell and taste as of the ancient Dedlocks in their gTaves. My Lady Dedlock (avIio is childless), looking out in the eai'ly tAvilight from her boudoir at a keeper's lodge, and seeing the light of a fire upon the latticed panes, and smoke rising from the chimney, and a child, chased by a Avoman, running out into the rain to meet the shining figure of a Avrapped-up man coming through the gate, has been put quite out of temper. My Lady Dedlock says she has been "bored to death." Therefore my Lady Dedlock has come aAvay from the place in Lincoln- shire, and has left it to the rain, and the croAvs, and the rabbits, and the deer, and the partridges and pheasants. The pictures of the Dedlocks past and gone have seemed to vanish into the damp Avails in mere loAvness of spirits, as the housekeeper has passed along the old rooms, shutting up the shutters. And Avhen they Avill next come forth again, the fashionable intelligence — ^AA^hich, like the fiend, is omniscient of the past and present, but not the future — cannot yet undertake to say. Sir Leicester Dedlock is only a baronet, but there is no mightier baronet than he. His family is as old as the liills, and infinitely more BLEAK HOUSE. / respectable. He lias a general opinion that tlie "uorkl miglit get on without hills, but would be clone up v.ithout DecUocks. He would on the whole admit Xature to be a good idea (a little low, perhaps, when not enclosed with a park-fence), but an idea dependent for its execution on your great county families. He is a gentleman of strict conscience, disdainful of all littleness and meanness, and ready, on the shortest notice, to die any death you may please to mention rather than give occasion for the least impeachment of his integrity. He is an honorable, obstinate, truthfid, high-spirited, intensely prejudiced, perfectly unreasonable man. Sir Leicester is twenty years, fidl measure, older than my Lady. He Avill never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet sixty-seven. He has a twist of the gout now and then, and walks a little stiffly. He is of a worthy presence, with his light gTcy hair and whiskers, his fine shirt-frill, his pure white waistcoat, and his blue coat wdth bright buttons always buttoned. He is ceremonious, stately, most polite on eveiy occasion to my Lady, and holds her personal attractions in the highest estimation. His gallantly 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, that she had not even family ; howbeit. Sir Leicester had so much family that perhaps he had enough, and could dispense with any more. But she had beauty, pride, ambition, insolent resolve, and sense enough to portion out a leg-ion of fine ladies. AYealth and station, added to these, soon fioated her upAvard ; and for years, now, my Lady Dcdlock has been at the centre of the fashionable intelligence, and at the top of the fashionable tree. Ho'>v Alexander wept wlien he had no more worlds to conquer, every- body knows — or has some reason to know by this time, the matter having been rather frequently mentioned. My Lady Dedlock, having con- quered lier world, fell, not into the melting but rather into the freezing mood. An exhausted composure, a vroni-out placidity, an equanimity of fatigue not to be ruflied by interest or satisfaction, are the trophies of her^-ictory. She is perfectly well 1)red. If she could be translated to Heaven to-morrow, she might be expected to ascend without any rapture. She has beauty stiU, and, if it be not in its heyday, it is not yet in its autumn. She has a fine face — originally of a character that Avould be rather caUed very pretty than handsome, but improved into classicality by the acquired expression of her fashionable state. Her figure is elegant, and has theeifect of being tall. Not that she is so, but that '"'the most is made," as the Honorable Eob Stables has frequently asserted upon oath, " of all her points." The same authority observes, that she is perfectly got up ; and remarks, in commendation of her hair especially, that she is tlie best-groomed woman in the whole stud. A^ ith all her perfections on her head, my Lady Dedlock has come up from her jjlace in Lincolnshire (hotly pursued by the fashionable intelli- gence), to pass a few days at her house in toAvn previous to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. And at her house in toA\m, upon this muddy, murky afternoon, presents himself an old-fashioned old gentleman, attornev-at-law, and eke solicitor of the Hi2;h Court of Chancerv, who has the honor of acting as legal adviser of the Dedlocks, and has as many cast-ii'on boxes in his office v^dth that name outside, as if the present 8 BLEAK HOUSE. baronet were the coin of tlie conjuror's trick, and Avere constantly bein^ juggled tliroLigli the whole set. Across the hall, and up the stairs, and along the passages, and through the rooms, which are very brilliant in the season and very dismal out of it — Fairy-land to visit, but a desert to live in — the old gentleman is conducted, by a Mercury in powder, to my Lady's presence. The old gentleman is rusty to look at, but is reputed to have made good thrift out of aristocratic marriage settlements and aristocratic wills, and to be very rich. He is surrounded by a mysterious halo of family confidences ; of which he is known to be the silent depository. There are noble Mausoleums rooted for centuries in retired glades of parks, among the growing timber and the fern, which perhaps hold fewer noble secrets than walk abroad among men, shut up in the breast of Mr. Tulkinghorn. He is of what is called the old school — a phrase generally meaning any school that seems never to have been young — and wears knee breeches tied with ribbons, and gaiters or stockings. One peculiarity of his black clothes, and of his black stockings, be they silk or worsted, is, that they never shine. IMute, close, irresponsive to any glancing light, his dress is like himself. He never converses, when not professionally consulted. He is found sometimes, speechless but quite at home, at corners of dinner- tables in great country houses, and near doors of dra^^dng-rooms, con- cerning which the fashionable intelligence is eloquent : where everybody knoAvs him, and where half the Peerage stops to say " How do you do, Mr. Tidkinghorn ? " He receives these salutations Avitli gravity, and buries them along Avith the rest of his knoAA'ledge. Sir Leicester Dedlock is Avitli my Lady, and is happy to see Mr. Tidking- horn. There is an air of prescription about him Avhicli is ahvays agreeable to Sir Leicester; he receives it as a kind of tribute. He likes Mr. Tulkinghorn's dress ; there is a kind of tribute in that too. It is eminently respectable, and likcAvise, in a general Avay, retainer-like. It expresses, as it Avere, the stcAvard of the legal mysteries, the butler of the legal cellar, of the Dedlocks. Has ]Mr. Tulkinghorn any idea of this himself? It may be so, or it may not ; but there is this remarkable circumstance to be noted in everything associated Avitli my Lady Dedlock as one of a class — as one of the leaders and representatives of her little Avdrld. She supposes lierseK to be an inscrutable Being, quite out of the reach and ken of ordinary mortals — seeing herself in her glass, AAdiere indeed she looks so. Yet, every dim little star revolving about her, from her maid to the manager of the Italian Opera, knoAvs her Aveaknesses, prejudices, foUies, haughtinesses, and caprices ; and lives upon as accurate a calculation and as nice a measm'e of her moral nature, as her dress-maker takes of her physical proportions. Is a neAV di'css, a ucav custom, a ucav singer, a ncAV dancer, a ucav form of jcAvellery, a ncAV dAvarf or giant, a ucav chapel, a ncAV anything, to be set up ? There are deferential people, in a dozen caUings, AA'hom my Lady Dedlock suspects of nothing but prostration before her, Avho can tell you hoAv to manage her as if she Avere a baby ; Avho do nothing but nurse her all their lives ; aaIio, humbly affecting to folloAv Avith profound subservience, lead her and her Avhole troop after them ; Avho, in hooking one, hook aU and bear them oft", as Lemuel GiJliver bore away tlie stately fleet of the majestic Lilliput. " If you AA^ant to address our people, sir," say Blaze and Sparkle the jcAvellers — meaning by our ]oeoj)le, Lady Dedlock and BLEAK HOUSE. 9 the rest — " you must remember that you are not dealing with the general public ; you must hit our people in their weakest place, and their weakest place is such a place." " To make this article go down, gentlemen," say Sheen and Gloss the mercers, to their friends the manufacturers, " you must come to us, because we know where to have the fashionable people, and we can make it fashionable." " If you want to get this print upon the tables of my high connexion, sir," says Mr. Sladdery the librarian, " or if you Avant to get this dwarf or giant into the houses of my high connexion, sir, or if you want to secure to this entertainment the patronage of my high connexion, sir, you must leave it, if you please, to me ; for I have been accustomed to study the leaders of my high connexion, sir ; and I may tell you, without vanity, that I can turn tliem roimd my finger," — in which Mr. Sladdery, who is an honest man, does not exaggerate at all. Therefore, while Mr. Tulkinghorn may not know what is passing in the Dedlock mind at present, it is very possible that he may. " My Lady's cause has been again before the Chancellor, has it, Mr. Tidkinghorn ?" says Sir Leicester, giving him his hand. " Yes. It has been on again to-day," Mr. Tidkinghorn replies ; making one of his quiet bows to my Lady Avho is on a sofa near the fire, shadino- her face with a hand-screen. " It would be useless to ask," says my Lady, with the dreariness of the place in Lincolnshire still upon her, " whether anything has been done. " " Nothing that you woidd call anything, has been done to-day," replies Mr. Tidkinghorn. "Nor ever will be," says my Lady. Sir Leicester has no objection to an interminable Chanceiy suit. It is a slow, expensive, British, constitutional kind of thing. To be sm-e, he has not a vital interest in the suit in question, her part in whicli was the only property my Lady brought him ; and he has a shadowy impression that for his name — the name of Dedlock — to be in a cause, and not in the title of that cause, is a most ridiculous accident. But he regards the Court of Chancery, even if it should involve an occasional delay of justice and a trifling amount of confusion, as a something, devised in conjiuiction with a variety of other somethings, by the perfection of liunian Avisdom, for the eternal settlement (humanly speaking) of every thing. And he is upon the whole of a fixed opinion, that to give the sanction of his countenance to any complaints respecting it, would be to encoiu'age some person in the lower classes to rise up somewhere — like AVat Tyler. "As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file," says Mr. Tidkinghorn, " and as they are short, and as I proceed upon the trouble- some principle of begging leave to possess my clients with any new proceedings in a cause ;" cautious man, Mr. Tulkinghorn, taking no more responsibility than necessary ; "and further, as I see you are going to Paris ; I have brought them in my pocket." (Sir I^eicester was going to Paris too, by-the-bye, but the delight of the fashionable intelligence was in his Lady.) ]\Ir. Tidkinghorn takes out his papers, asks permission to place them on a golden talisman of a table at my Lady's elbow, puts on his spectacles, and begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp. " ' In Chancery. Between John Jarndyce ' " jNIy Lady interrupts, reqiiestmg him to miss as many of the fonnal horrors as he can. 10 BLEAK HOUSE. Mr. Tiilkingiiorn glances over liis spectacles, and begins again lower down. My Lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts lier attention. Sir Leicester in a great chair looks at tlie fire, and appears to liave a stately liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities, as ranging among the national bidwarks. It happens that tiie fire is hot, where my Lady sits ; and that the hand-screen is more beautiful than useful, being priceless, but small. My Lady, changing her position, sees the papers on the table — looks at them nearer — looks at them nearer stiU — asks impidsively : "Who copied that?" Mr. Tulkinghorn stops short, surprised by my Lady's animation and her unusual tone, "Is it what you people call law-hand?" she asks, looldng full at him in her careless way again, and toying with her screen. " Not quite. Probably" — ]\Ir. Tulkinghorn examines it as he speaks — " the legal character it has, was acquired after the original hand was formed. Why do you ask ?" " Anything to vary this detestable monotony. O, go on, do !" Mr. Tidkinghorn reads again. The heat is greater, my Lady screens her face. Sir Leicester doses, starts up suddenly, and cries " Eh? what do you say ?" " I say I am afraid," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who has risen hastily, "that Lady Dediock is ill." "Faint," my Lady murmurs, with white lips, "only that; but it is like the faintness of death. Don't speak to me. Sing, and take me to my room ! Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into another chamber ; bells ring, feet shuffle and patter, silence ensues. Mercury at last begs ]Mr. Tulkinghorn to return. " Better now," quoth Sir Leicester, motioning the lawyer to sit do^vn and read to him alone. " I have been quite alarmed. I never knew my Lady swoon before. But the weather is extremely trying — and she really has been bored to death down at our place in Lincolnshire." CHAPTEE III. A PROGRESS. I HAVE a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion of these pages, for I know I am not clever. I always knew that. I can remember, when I was a very little girl indeed, I used to say to my doll, wdien we were alone together, " Now, Dolly, I am not clever, you know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a dear ! " And so she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair, with her beautifid complexion and rosy lips, staring at me — or not so much at me, I think, as at nothing — while I busily stitched away, and told her every one of my secrets. My dear old doll ! I was such a shy little thing that I seldom dared to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to anybody else. It almost makes irie cry to think Avliat a relief it used to be to me, when I BLEAK HOUSE. 11 came liome from scliool of a day, to run upstairs to my room, and say, " O you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you woidd be expecting me ! " and tlien to sit down on the floor, leaning on the elbow of her great chair, and tell her all I had noticed since we parted. I had always rather a noticing way — not a quick way, O no ! — a silent Avay of noticing what passed before me, and thinking I shoidd like to umlerstand it better. I have not by any means a quick understanding. AMien I love a person very tenderly indeed, it seems to brighten. I^ut even that may be my vanity. I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance — like some of the princesses in the fairy stories, only I was not charming — by my god- mother. At least I only knew her as such. She was a good, good woman ! She v^^ent to church three times every Sunday, and to morning prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and to lectures whenever there were lectures ; and never missed. She was handsome ; and if she had ever smiled, woidd have been (I used to think) like an angel — but she never smiled. She was always grave, and strict. She was so veiy good herself, I thought, that the badness of other people made her frown all her life. I felt so different from her, even making every allowance for the difl:erences between a child and a woman ; I felt so poor, so trifling, and so far off ; that I never coidd be unrcstrarned with her — no, coidd never even love her as I wished. It made me ^cry sorry to consider how good she was, and how nnwoiihy of her I was ; and I used ardently to hope that I might have a better heart ; and I talked it over very often with the dear old doll ; but I never loved my godmother as I ought to have loved her, and as I felt I must have loved her if I had been a better girl. This made me, I dare say, more timid and retiring than I naturally was, and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with whom I felt at ease. But something hap})ened when I was still qidte a little thing, that helped it very uiuch. I had never heard my mama spoken of. I had never heard of my papa either, but I felt more interested about my mama. I had never worn a black frock, that I coidd recollect. I had never been shown my mama's grave. I had never been told Avhere it was. Yet I had never been taught to pray for any relation but my godmother. I had more than once approached this subject of my thoughts with ]\Irs. Eachael, our only servant, who took my light away when I was in bed (another veiy 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 vv^here I Avas a day boarder, and although they called me little Esther Summerson, I knew none of them at home. All of them were older than I, to be sm-e (I was the youngest there by a good deal), but there seemed to be some other separation between us besides that, and besides their being far more clever than I Avas, and knovring much more than I did. One of them, in the iirst week of my going to the school (I remember it very well), invited me home to a little party, to my great joy. But my godmother wrote a stiff" letter declining for me, and I never went. I never went out at all. It was my birthday. There were holidays at school on other birthdays — ^none on mine. There were rejoicings at home on other birthdays, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one another — there were none 12 BLEAK HOUSE. on mine. My birthday was tlie most melanclioly day at home, in the whole year. I have mentioned, that, nnless my vanity shoidd deceive me (as I know it may, for I may be very vain, mthout suspecting it — thongh indeed I don't), my comprehension is qnickened when my affection is. My disposition is very affectionate ; and perhaps I might still feel such a wound, if such a wound could be received more than once, with the quickness of that birthday. Dinner was over, and my godmother and I were sitting at the table before the fire. The clock ticked, the fire clicked; not another sound had been heard in the room, or in the house, for I don't know how long. I happened to look timidly up from my stitching, across the table, at my godmother, and I saw in her face, looking gloomily at me, " It would have been far better, little Esther, that you had had no birthday ; that you had never been born ! " I broke out crying and sobbing, and 1 said, " 0, dear godmother, tell me, pray do tell me, did mama die on my birthday ? " " No," she returned. " x\sk me no more, child ! " " O, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, dear god- mother, if you please ! What did I do to her ? How did I lose her ? Why am I so different from other children, and why is it my faidt, dear godmother ? No, no, no, don't go away. 0, speak to me ! " I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief ; and I had caught hold of her dress, and was kneeling to her. She had been saying all the while, " Let me go ! " But now she stood still. Her darkened face had such power over me, that it stopped me in the midst of my vehemence. I put up my trembling little hand to clasp hers, or to beg her pardon with what earnestness I might, but withdrew it as she looked at me, and laid it on my fluttering heart. She raised me, sat in her chair, and standing me before her, said, slowly, in a cold, low voice — I see her knitted brow, and pointed finger : "Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. The time will come — and soon enough — when you will understand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can. I have forgiven her ;" but her face did not relent ; " the ^vrong she did to me, and I say no more of it, though it was greater than you will ever know — than any one will ever know, but I, the sufferer. Eor yourself, unfortunate girl, orphaned and degraded from the first of these evil anniversaries, pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon your head, according to what is written. Forget your mother, and leave all other people to forget her who "s\'ill do her unhappy child that greatest kindness. Now, go ! " She checked me, however, as I was about to depart from her — so frozen as I was! — and added this : " Submission, self-denial, diligent work, are the preparations for a life begun with such a shadow on it. You are different from other children, Esther, because you were not born, like them, in connnon sinfulness and wrath. You are set apart." I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll's cheek against mine wet witli tears ; and holding that solitary friend upon my bosom, cried myself to slec}). Imperfect as my understanding of my sorrow was, I kncAV that I had brought no joy, at any time, to anybody's heart, and that I was to no one upon earth wliat Dolly was to me. BLEAK HOUSE. 13 Dear, clear, to tliiiik how much time we passed alone together after- Avards, and how often I repeated to the doll the story of my birthday, and confided to her that I would try, as hard as ever I could, to repair the fault I had been born with (of Avhich I confusedly felt guilty and yet innocent), and would strive as I grew up to be industrious, contented and kind-hearted, and to do some good to some one, and mn some love to myself if I coidd. I hope it is not self-indulgent to shed these tears as I think of it. I am very thankfid, I am very cheerful, but I cannot quite help their coming to my eyes. There ! I have Aviped them aAvay noAV, and can go on again properly. I felt the distance betAveen my godmother and myself so much more after the birtlulay, and felt so sensible of filling a place in her house Avhich ought to have been empty, that I found her more difiicult of approach, though I Avas fervently gratefid to her in my heart, than ever. I felt in the same Avay toAvards my school companions ; I felt in the same Avay toAvards Mrs. Eachael, a\ ho Avas a Avidow ; and 0, toAvards her daughter, of Avhom she Avas proud, Avho came to see her once a fortnight ! I Avas very retired and quiet, and tried to be very diligent. One sunny afternoon, Avhen I had come home from school AAdth my books and portfolio, Avatching my long shadoAV at my side, and as I was gliding up stairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked out of the parlor door, and called me back. Sitting AA-ith her, I found — Avhich was very unusual indeed — a stranger. A portly important-looking gentleman, dressed all in black, Avith a Avliite cravat, large gold Avatch seals, a pair of gold eye- glasses, and a large seal-ring upon his little finger. " This," said my godmother in an under tone, " is the child." Then she said, in her naturally stern Avay of speaknig, " This is Esther, sir." The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me, and said, " Come here, my dear ! " He shook hands Avith me, and asked me to take off my bonnet — looking at me all the AAliile. When I had complied, he said, " Ah ! " and afterAvards " Yes ! " And tlien, taking ofi:" his eye-glasses and folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair, turning the case about in his tAVO hands lie gave my godmother a nod. Upon that, my godmother said, "You may go upstairs, Esther! " and I made him my curtsey and left him. It nnist have been tAvo years afterwards, and I Avas almost fourteen, Avhen one dreadfid nio-ht mv godmother and I sat at the fireside. I Avas reading aloud, and she Avas listening. I had come doAAii at nine o'clock, as I ahvays did, to read the Bible to her ; and Avas reading, from St. John, how our Saviour stooped doAvn, AATiting Avitli his finger in the dust, Avhen they brought the sinfid Avoman to him. " ' So Avhen they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said Tuito them. He that is Avithout sin among vou, let him first cast a stone at her!'" I Avas stopped by my godmother's rising, putting her hand to her head, and crying out, in an aAvful voice, from quite another part of the book : " ' Watch ye therefore ! lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping. And Avhat I say unto you, I say unto all. Watch ! ' " In an instant, AAdiile she stood before me repeating these Avords, she fell doAvn on the floor. I had no need to cry out ; her voice had sounded through the house, and been heard in the street. She Avas laid upon her bed. Eor more than a Aveek she lay tliere, little 14' BLEAK HOUSE. altered outwardly ; Avith. lier old handsome resolute frown that I so well knew, carved upon her face. Many and many a time, in the day and in the night, with my head upon the pillow by her that my whispers might be plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayed for her, asked her for her blessing and forgiveness, entreated her to give me the least sign that she knew or heard me. No, no, no. Her face was immoveable. To the veiy last, and even afterwards, her frown remained unsoftened. On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentle- man in black with the white neckcloth reappeared. I was sent for by Mrs. Racliael, and found him in the same place, as if he had never gone away. "My name is Kenge," he said; "you may remember it, my child; Kenge and Carboy, Lincoln's Inn." I replied, that I remembered to have seen him once before. "Pray be seated — here, near me. Don't distress yourself; it's of no use. Mrs. Eachael, I needn't inform you who were acquainted with the late Miss Barbery's affairs, that her means die with her ; and that this young lady, now her aunt is dead " " My aunt, sir ! " " It reaUy is of no use carrying on a deception when no object is to be gained 1)y it," said Mr. Kenge, smootldy. " Aunt in fact, though not in law. Don't distress yourself ! Don't weep ! Don't tremble 1 Mrs. Rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of — the — a — Jarndyce and Jarndyce ." " Never," said Mrs. Kachael. " Is it possible," pursued Mr Kenge, putting up his eye-glasses, " that our young friend — I leg you Avon't distress yoiu'self ! — never heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce ! " I shook my head, Avondering even Avhat it Avas. "Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?" said Mr. Kenge, looking OA^er his glasses at me, and softly turning the case about and about, as if he were petting something. " Not of one of the greatest Chanceiy suits knoAvn ? Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce — the — a — in itself a monument of Chancery practice ? In Avhicli (I -Avould say) every difficidty, eveiy contingency, every masterly fiction, every form of procedure knoAvn in that court, is represented over and over again ? It is a cause that could not exist, out of this free and great country. I should say that the aggregate of costs in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mrs. Hachael ; " I AA^as afraid he addressed himself to her, because I appeared inattentive ; " amounts at the present hour to from six-ty to SEVEN-ty thousand POUNDS ! " said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair. I felt very ignorant, luit Avhat could I do ? I Avas so entirely unacquainted AAdth the subject, that I understood nothing about it even then. " And she really never heard of the cause ! " said Mr. Kenge. " Surprising ! " " Miss Earbary, sir," returned Mrs. Eachael, " Avho is noAv among the Serapliim ' ' (" I hope so, I am sure," said Mr. Kenge, politely.) " — Wished Esther only to knoAv AA^hat Avould l3e serviceable to her. And slie knoAvs, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more." " Well ! " said Mr. Kenge. "Upon the Avhole, A^ery proper. Now to the point," addressing me. " Miss Earbary, your sole relation (in fact, BLEAK HOUSE. 15 that is ; for I aiii bound to observe that in law you had none), being deceased, and it naturally not being to be expected that Mrs. Eachael " " O dear no ! " said Mrs. Eachael, quickly. " Quite so," assented Mr. Kenge; — " that Mrs. Eachael should charge herself mth your maintenance and support (I beg you won't distress yourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offer which I was instructed to make to Miss Barljary some two years ago, and which, though rejected then, was understood to be renewable under the lamentable circumstances that have since occurred. Now, if I avoAV tliat 1 represent, in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and otherwise, a higldy humane, but at the same time singular man, sliall I compromise myself by any stretch of my professional caution ? " said INIr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair again, and looking calmly at us both. He appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of his o^vn voice. I couldn't wonder at that, for it was mellow and full, and gave great importance to every word he uttered. He listened to himself with obvious satisfaction, and sometimes gently beat time to his own music with his head, or rounded a sentence with his hand. I was very' much impressed by him — even then, before I knew^ that he formed himself on the model of a great lord who was his client, and that he was geiierally 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 a iirst- rate establishment ; where her education shall be completed, where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wants shall be anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified to discharge her duty in that station of life unto which it has pleased — shall I sav Providence ? —to can her." My heart was filled so full, both by what he said, and by his affecting manner of saying it, that I was not able to speak, though I tried. " Mr. Jarndyce," he went on, " makes no condition, beyond expressing his expectation, that our young friend will not at any time remove herself fi*om the establishment in question without his knowledge and concurrence. That she wiR faithfully apply herself to the acqidsition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of Avhich she vnl[ be ultimately dependent. That she will tread in the paths of virtue and honor, and — the — a so forth." I was still less able to speak, than before. " Now, what does om- young friend say ? " proceeded Mr. Kenge. " Take time, take time ! I pause for her reply. But take time ! " "What the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, I need not repeat. What she did say, I could more easily teU, if it were worth the telling. What she felt, and will feel to her dying hour, I coidd never relate. This interview took place at Windsor, where I had passed (as far as I knew) my whole life. On that day week, amply pro\dded Adth all necessaries, I left it, inside the stage-coach, for Eeading. Mrs. Eachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but I was not so good, and wept bitterly. I thought that I ought to have knoAAH her better after so many years, and ought to have made myself enough of a favorite with her to make her soriy then. When she gave me one cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-drop from the stone 16 BLEAK HOUSE. porch — it was a very frosty clay — I felt so miserable and self-reproaclifiil, that I clung to her and told her it was my fault, I knew, that she could say good bye so easily ! " No, Esther ! " she returned. " It is your misfortune !" The coach was at the little la^vn gate — we had not come out until we heard the wheels — and thus I left her, with a sorrowfid heart. She went in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof, and shut the door. As long as I could see the house, I looked back at it from the window, through my tears. My godmother had left Mrs. Rachael all the little property she possessed ; and there was to be a sale ; and an old hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to me the first thing in the world I had ever seen, Avas hanging outside in the frost and snow. A day or two before, I had wrapped the dear old doll in her own shawl, and qidetly laid her — I am half ashamed to tell it — in the garden- earth, under the tree that shaded my old window. I had no companion left but my bird, and him I carried with me in his cage. Wlien the house was out of sight, I sat, with my bird-cage in the straw at my feet, forward on the low seat, to look out of the high window ; watching the frosty trees, that were like beautiful pieces of spar ; and the fields all smooth and white with last night's snow ; and the sun, so red but yielding so little heat ; and the ice, dark like metal, where the skaters and sliders had brushed the snoAV away. There was a gentleman in the coach who sat on the opposite seat, and looked very large in a quantity of wrappings ; but he sat gazing out of the other window, and took no notice of me. I thought of my dead godmother ; of the night Avlien I read to her ; of her frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bed ; of the strange place I was going to ; of the people I should find there, and what they woidd be like, and what they woidd say to me ; when a voice in the coach gave me a temble 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 a whisper. "Me, sir?" For of course I kncAv it must have been the gentleman in the quantity of wrappings, though he was still looking out 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 ([uite opposite to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed one of Ins large funy cuff's across my eyes (but without hurting me), and showed jne that it was wet. " There ! Now vou know vou are," he said. » " Don't vou ? " " Yes, sir," I said. " And what are you crying for?" said the gentleman. "Don't you want to go there ? " " Where, sir ? " "Where ? AVhy, Avherever 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 of him was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and his face was almost hidden in a fur cap, with broad fur straps at the side BLEAK HOUSE. 17 of his head, fastened imder his chin ; but I was composed again, and not afraid of him. So I told him that I thought I must have been crying, because of my godmother's death, and because of Mrs. Kachael's not being sorry to part with me. " Con-found Mrs. Kachael ! " said the gentleman. " Let her fly away in a high wind on a broomstick ! " I began to be really afraid of him now, and looked at him with the greatest astonishment. But I thought that he had pleasant eyes, although he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner, and calling Mrs. Eachael names. After a little wdiile, he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared to me large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his ann do^ni into a deep pocket in the side. " Now, look here !" he said. " In this paper," which was nicely folded, " is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for money — sugar on the outside an inch thick, like fat on mutton chops. Here's a little pie (a gem this is, both for size and quality), made in France. And what do you suppose it's made of? Livers of fat geese. There's a pie ! Now let's see you eat 'em." "Thank you, sir," I replied, "thank you very much indeed, but I hope you won't be offended ; they are too rich for me." "Floored again!" said the gentleman, which I didn't at all under- stand ; and threw" them both out of window. He did not speak to me any more, until he got out of the coach a little way short of Reading, when he advised me to be a good girl, and to be studious ; and shook hands with me. I must say I was relieved by his departure. We left him at a milestone. I often walked past it aftenvards, and never, for a long time, without thinking 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 veiy neat lady looked up at the window, and 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, and begged ]\Iiss Donny's pardon for my mistake, and pointed out my boxes at her request. Under the direction of a very neat maid, they were put outside a veiy small green carriage ; an^ then Miss Donny, the maid, and I, got inside, and were driven away. " Everything is ready for you, Esther," said ]\Iiss Donny ; " and the scheme of your pursuits lia§ been arranged in exact accordance with the wishes of your guardian, IMr. Jarndyce." " Of ■ did you say, ma'am ? " " Of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce," said Miss Donny. I was so bewildered that Miss Donny thought the cold had been too severe for me, and lent me her smelling-bottle. "Do you know my — guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma'am?" I asked after a good deal of hesitation. " Not personally, Esther," said Miss Donny ; " merely through liis solicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London. A very superior gentleman, Mr. Kenge. Truly eloquent indeed. Some of his periods quite majestic ! " 18 BLEAK HOUSE. I felt tliis to be very true, but was too confused to attend to it. Our speedy arrival at om* destination, before I had time to recover myself, increased my confusion ; and I never shall forget the uncertain and unreal air of every thing at Greenleaf (Miss Doimy's house), that afternoon ! But I soon became used to it. I was so adapted to the routine of Greenleaf before long, that I seemed to have been there a great while ; and almost to have dreamed, rather than to have really lived, my old life at my godmother's. Nothing could be more precise, exact, and orderly, than Greenleaf. There was a time for everything all round the dial of the clock, and everything was done at its appointed moment. We were twelve boarders, and there were two Miss Donnys, twins. It was understood that I would have to depend, by-and-by, on my qualifications as a governess ; and I w^as not only instructed in every- thing that was taught at Greenleaf, but was very soon engaged in helping to instruct others. Although I was treated in every other respect like the rest of the school, this single difference was made in my case from the first. As I began to know more, I taught more, and so in course of time I had plenty to do, which I was very fond of doing, because it made the dear girls fond of me. At last, whenever a new pupil came who Avas a little downcast and unhappy, she was so sure — indeed I don't know why — to make a friend of me, that all new comers were confided to my care. They said I was so gentle ; but I am sure fJiey were 1 I often thought of the resolution I had made on my birthday, to try to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted, and to do some good to some one, and mn some love if I could ; and indeed, indeed, I felt ahnost ashamed to have done so little and have won so much. I passed at Greenleaf six happy, quiet years. I ne^'Cr saw in any face there, thank Heaven, on my birthday, that it woidd have been better if I had never been born. When the day came round, it brought me so many tokens of affectionate remembrance that my room was beautifid with them from New Year's Day to Christmas. In those six years I had never been away, except on visits at holiday time in the neighbourhood. After the first six months or so, I had taken Miss Donny's advice in reference to the propriety of writing to Mr. Kenge, to say that I was happy and gratefid ; and with her approval I had WTitten such a letter. I had received a formal answer acknowledging its receipt, and sa^dng, " We note the contents thereof, which shall be didy communicated to our client." After that, I sometimes heard Miss Donny and her sister mention how regularly my accounts were paid ; and about twice a year I ventiu'cd to write a similar letter. I always received by return of post exactly the same answer, in the same round hand ; with the signature of Kenge and Carboy in another ^viiting, which I supposed to be Mr. Kenge's. It seems so curious to me to be obliged to wi'ite all this about myself I As if this narrative were the naiTative of my life ! But my Mttle body ■\\dll soon fall into the back-ground now. Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for the second time) I had passed at Greenleaf, seeing in those around me, as it might be in a looking-glass, every stage of my own growth and change there, when, one November morning, I received this letter. I omit the date. BLEAK HOUSE. 19 ©ft) oauatej ^ucofu'd Juii. JUlaDatw, TauiDuce auc) Tat:uf)uce. ©tit: eft Jl^t. Tattle) liCe ^e'ma a6t to tece into ^lI£> ^lomcj uuiiet an 0j:()cj: o^ tUc Ct oj' Ciiij, a WatD oj' tfie (5t ill tdiA cau^e, for wfioiit lie wune^ to iiccure an cIqGic cotiipu, <)irect4 u5 to itiforut i^oii tliat iic wiCf -Ge n-fac) of -uour ;iej:cc5 iii ifie afdD capacttu. We '^ave ajstiiaD fot ijoiit ^cina ^ctdedj catziatje ^icCj p einfit o'cfoclv coacH ftOHi Ijleacluin, ott Jllotic)au iiioniiu^ uext^ to '^'VTitte '^^oue (BeUaty TtccaDiffu, e(^onc)oii5 where one of out: cfkA wiCf ^c in vvaitiim to coiu'cu iioii to out o^^e ad auo'^^e. We arc, JllaDaui, Ijour o^ed^ 5erv*^, 3i;euae aiiD Cazijou, JRid;j Edtnct ouiumcijjou. O, never, never, never shall I forget tlie emotion this letter caused iu the house ! It was so tender in them to care so much for me ; it was so gracious in that Father who had not forgotten me, to have made my orphan Avay so smooth and easy, and to have inclined so many youthful natm-es toAvards me ; that I could hardly bear it. Not that I would have had them less sorry — I am afraid not ; but the pleasm'e of it, and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it, and the hiunble regret of it, were so blended, that my heart seemed almost breaking while it was full^of rapture. The letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal, "^Mien every minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were given me in those five days ; and when at last the morning came, and when they took me through all the rooms that I might see them for the last time ; and when some cried, " Esther, dear, say good-bye to me here, at my bed- side, where you first spoke so kindly to me ! " and when others asked me only to TVTite their names, " With Esther's love ; " and when they all suiTounded me with their parting presents, and clung to me weeping, and cried, " "^^Qiat shall Ave do Avhen dear, dear Esther's gone ! " and when I tried to tell them hoAv forbearing, and hoAV good they had all been to me, and hoAV I blessed, and thanked them every one ; A\diat a heai*t I had ! And AA'hen the two j\Iiss Donnys gTieved as much to part with me, as the least among them ; and when the maids said, " Bless you, miss, wherever you go ! " and Avhen the uglv lame old gardener, who I thought c 2 20 BLEAK HOUSE. had hardly noticed me in ail tliose 3'ears, came panting after the coach to give me a little nosegay of geraniums, and told me I had been the light of his eyes — indeed the old man said so ! — what a heart I had then ! And could I help it, if Avith all this, and the coming to the little school, and the unexpected sight of the poor children outside waving their hats and bonnets to me, and of a grey -haired gentleman and lady, whose daughter I had helped to teach and at whose house I had visited (who were said to be the proudest people in all that country), caring for nothing but calling out, " Good bye, Esther. May you be very happy ! " — could I help it if I was quite bowed down in the coach by myself, and said " 0, I am so thankfid, I am so thankfid ! " many times over ! But of course I soon considered that I must not take tears where I was going, after all that had been done for me. Therefore, of course, I made myself sob less, and persuaded myself to be quiet by saying very often, " Esther, now, you really must ! This will not do ! " I cheered myself up pretty well at last, though I am afraid I was longer about it than I ought to have been ; and when I had cooled my eyes with lavender water, it was time to watch for London. I was quite persuaded that we were there, when we were ten miles off ; and when we really were there, tliat Ave should never get there. How- ever, when Ave began to jolt upon a stone pavement, and particularly AAdien every other conveyance seemed to be running into us and we seemed to be running into every other conveyance, I began to believe that Ave reaUy Avere .approaching the end of our journey. Yery soon afterAvards Ave stopped. A young gentleman AAdio had inked himself by accident, addressed me from the pavement, and said "I am from Kengc and Carboy's, miss, of Lincoln's Inn." " If you please, sir," said I. He Avas very obliging ; and as he handed me into a fly, after super- intending the removal of my boxes, I asked him Avhether there Avas a great fire anyAvhere ? For the streets Avere so full of dense broAvn smoke that scarcely anything Avas to be seen. " O dear no, miss," he said. " This is a London particidar." I had never heard of such a thing. " A fog, miss," said the yoimg gentleman. " O indeed ! " said I. We di'ove sloAvly through the dirtiest and darkest streets that everAvere seen in the Avorld (I thought), and in such a distracting state of confusion that I Avondered hoAv the people kept their senses, until Ave passed into sudden quietude under an old gatcAvay, and drove on through a silent square until we came to an odd nook in a corner, Avhere there Avas an entrance up a steep broad flight of stairs, like an entrance to a church. And there reaUy Avas a churchyard, outside under some cloisters, for I saw the gravestones from the staircase AvindoAV. This was Kenge and Carboy's. The young gentleman shoAved me through an outer office into Mr. Keno-e's rooui — there Avas no one in it — and politely put an arm-chair for me by the lire. He then called my attention to a little looking-glass, hanging from a nail on one side of the chimney-piece. " In case you slioidd Avish to look at yourself, miss, after the journey, as you're going before the Chancellor. Not that it's requisite, I am sure," said the young gentleman civilly. BLEAK HOUSE. 21 " Going before the Chancellor ? " I said, startled for a moment. "Only a matter of form, miss," retnmed the young gentleman. " Mr. Kenge is in court now. He left his compliments, and would you partake of some refreshment ; " there were biscuits and a decanter of wine on a smaU table ; " and look over the paper ;" which the young gentleman gave me as he spoke. He then stirred the fire, and left me. Eveiything was so strange — the stranger for its being night in tlic day-time, and the candles burning with a white flame, and looking raw and cold — that I read the words in the newspaper without knowing what they meant, and found myself reading the same words repeatedly. As it was of no use going on in that way, I put the paper down, took a peep at my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and looked at the room whicli was not half lighted, and at the shabby dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase full of the most inexpressive-looking books that ever had anything to say for themselves. Then I went on, thinking, thinking, thinking ; and the fire went on, bm-ning, burning, burning ; and the candles went on flickering and gTittering, and there were no snufl'ers — until the young gentleman by-and-by brought a ven- dirty pair ; for two hours. At last Mr. Kenge came. He was not altered ; but he was sm-prised to see how altered I was, and appeared quite pleased. "As you are going to be the companion of the young lady Avho is now in the Chancellor's private room, Miss Summerson," he said, "we thought it well that you should be in attendance also. You will not be discomposed by the Lord ChanceUor, I dare say ? " "No, sir," I said, " I don't tliink I shall." Eeally not seeing, on consideration, why I shoidd be. So Mr. Kenge gave me his arm, and we went round the corner, under a colonnade, 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 yomig gentleman Avere standing near a great, loud-roaring fire. A screen was interposed between them and it, and they were leaning on the screen, talking. They both looked up Avlien I came in, and I saw in the young lady, ^vith the fire shining upon her, such a beautifid girl ! \Vith such rich 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 few minutes we were sitting in the mndow-seat, \y\i\\ the light of tlie fire upon us, talking together, as free and happy as could be. What a load oft" my mind ! It was so delightful to know that she could confide in me, and like me ! It was so good of her, and so encouraging to me ! The young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and his name Richard Carstone. He was a handsome youth, with an ingenuous face, and a most engaging laugh ; and after she had caUed him up to Avliere we sat, he stood by us, in the light of the fire too, talking gaily, like a light-hearted boy. He was very young; not more than nineteen then, if quite so much, but nearly two years older than she was. They were both orphans, and (what was very unexpected and curious to me) had never met before that dav. Our all three cominii- too-ether for the first ll'Z BLEAK HOUSE. time, in sucli an unusual place, was a tiling to talk about ; and we talked about it ; and tlie fire, which had left oit" roaring, winked its red eyes at us — as Eichard said — like a droAvs}^ old Chancerv lion. We conversed in a low tone, because a full-dressed gentleman in a bag wig frequently came in and out, and when he did so, we could hear a drawling sound in the distance, which he said was one of the counsel in our case addressing the Lord Chancellor, He told Mr. Kenge that the Chancellor would be up in five minutes ; and presently we heard a bustle, and a tread of feet, and Mr. Kenge said that the Com't had risen, and his lordship was in the next room. The gentleman in the bag wig^ opened the door almost directly, and requested Mr. Kenge to come in. Upon that, we all went into the next room ; Mr. Kenge first, with my darling — it is so natural to me now, tliat I can't help wiiting it ; and there, plainly dressed in black, and sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the fire, was his lordship, whose robe, trimmed with beautiful gold lace, was thrown upon another chair. lie gave us a searching look as we entered, but his manner was both courtly and kind. The gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on his lordship's table, and his lordship silently selected one, and turned over the leaves. " Miss Clare," said the Lord Chancellor. " Miss Ada Clare ? " Mr. Kenge presented her, and his lordship begged her to sit down near him. That he admired her, and Avas interested by her, even / could see in a moment. It touched me, that the home of such a beautifid young- creature shotdd be represented by that dry ofiicial place. The Lord High Chancellor, at his best, appeared so poor a substitute for the love and pride of parents. " The Jarndyce in question," said the Lord Chancellor, still tm-ning over leaves, " is Jarndyce of Bleak House." " Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," said IMr. 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. Eichard Carstone is present ? " said the Lord Chancellor, glancing towards him. Eichard bowed and stepped forward. " Hum ! " said the Lord Chancelloi', turning over more leaves. " Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," Mr. Kenge observed, in a low voice, "if I may venture to remind your lordship, provides a suitable companion for " " For Mr. Eichard Carstone ? " I thought (but I am not quite sure) I heard his lordship say, in an equally low voice, and with a smile. " Por Miss Ada Clare. This is the young lady. Miss Summerson." His lordship gave me an indulgent look, and acknowledged my curtsey very graciously. " Miss Summerson is not related to any party in the cause, I think ? " " No, my lord." Mr. Kenge leant over before it was quite said, and Avhispercd. His lordship, with his eyes upon his papers, listened, nodded twice or thrice, -JV., a^:^: /^- ./y }^r.4.. BLEAK HOUSE. 23 turned over more leaves, and did not look towards me again, until we were going away. Mr. Kenge now retired, and Eicliard witli liim, to where I was, near tlie door, leaving my pet (it is so natm-al to me that again I can't help it !) sitting near the Lord Chancellor ; with whom his lordship spoke a little apart ; asking her, as she told me afterwards, Avhether she had well reflected on the proposed arrangement, and if she thought she would be happy under the roof of Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, and why she thought so ? Presently he rose coui-teously, and released her, and then he spoke for a minute or two with Eichard Carstone ; not seated, but standino', and altos-ether with more ease and less ceremonv — as if he still knew, though he teas Lord Cliancellor, how to go straight to the candor 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," and this was when he looked at me, " a very good companion for the young lady, and the arrangement altogether seems the best of which the circumstances admit." He dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much obliged to him for being so affable and polite ; by which he had certainly lost no dignity, but seemed to us to have gained some. When we got under the colonnade, Mr. Kenge remembered that he must go back for a moment to ask a question ; and left us in the fog, with the Lord Chancellor's carriage and servants waiting for him to come out. "Well ! " said Eichard Carstone, " tJiafs over ! And where do we go next. Miss Summerson? " " Don't you know ? " I said. " Not in the least," said he. " x\nd don't you know, mv 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 the children in the wood, when a curious little old woman in a squeezed bonnet, and carrying a reticule, came cm'tseying and smiling up to us, "\^T.th an air of great ceremony. " O ! " said she. " The wards in Jarndyce ! Ve-ry happy, I am sure, to have the honor ! It is a good omen for youth, and hope, and beauty, when they find themselves in this place, and don't know what's to come of it." " Mad ! " whispered Eichard, not thinking she coidd hear him. " Eight ! Mad, young gentleman," she retmTied so quickly that he was quite abashed. " I was a ward myself. I was not mad at that time," curtseying low, and smiling between every little sentence. " I had youth, and hope. I believe, beauty. It matters very little now. Neither of the three served, or saved me. I have the honor to attend court regidarly. With my documents. I expect a judgment. Shortly. On the Day of Judgment. I have discovered that the sixth seal men- tioned in the Eevelations is the Great Seal. It has been open a long time ! Pray accept my blessing." As Ada was a little fi-ightened, I said, to humor the poor old lady that we were much obliged to her. 24 BLEAK HOUSE. " Ye-es ! " she said mincingly. " I imagine so. And liere is Conversation Kenge. With Jus documents ! How does your honorable worship do?" " Quite well, quite well ! Now don't be troublesome, that's a good soul ! " 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, — which is not Ijeing troublesome, I trust ? I expect a judgment. Shortly. On the Day of Judgment, This is a good omen for you. Accept my blessing ! " She stopped at the bottom of the steep, broad flight of stairs ; but we looked back as we went up, and she was still there, saying, still with a curtsey and a smile between every little sentence, " Youth. And hope. x\nd beauty. And Chancery. And Conversation Kenge ! Ha ! Pray accept my blessing ! " CHAPTEE IV. TELESCOPIC PHILANTHEOPY. We were to pass the night, Mr. Kenge told us when we anived in his room, at Mrs. Jellyby's ; and tlien he turned to me, and said he took it for granted I knew who Mrs. Jellyby was ? " I really don't, sir," I returned. " Perhaps Mr. Carstone — or Miss Clare " But no, they knew nothing whatever about Mrs. Jellyby. " In-deed ! Mrs. Jellyby," said Mr. Kenge, standing with his back to the fire, and casting his eyes over the dusty hearth-rug as if it were Mrs. Jellyby's biography, " is a lady of very remarkable strength of character, who devotes herself entirely to the public. She lias devoted herself to an extensive variety of public subjects, at various times, and is at present (until something else attracts her) devoted to the subject of Africa ; with a view to the general cidtivation of the coffee berry — and the natives — and the happy settlement, on the banks of the African rivers, of our superabundant home population. ]Mr. Jarndyce, who is desirous to aid in any work that is considered likely to be a good work, and who is much sought after by philanthropists, has, I believe, a very high opinion of Mrs. Jellyby." Mr. Kenge, adjusting his cravat, then looked at us. " And Mr. Jellyby, sir? " suggested Richard. "Ah! Mr. Jellyby," said MryKenge, " is— a— I don't know tliat I can describe him to vou better than by saying that he is tlie husband of Mrs. JeUyby." " A nonentity, sir ? " said lli('hard 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 my knowledge, had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Jellyby. He may be a very superior man ; but he is, so to speak, merged — Merged — in the more shining qualities of his wife." Mr. Kenge proceeded to tell us that as BLEAK HOUSE. .CO the road to Bleak House would have been very long, dark, and tedious, on such, an evening, and as Ave had been travelling already, Mr. Jarndyce had himself proposed this aiTangement. A carnage would be at Mrs. Jellyby's to convey us out of town, early in 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 whether Miss Summerson's boxes and the rest of the baggage had been " sent round." Mr. Guppy said yes, they had been sent round, and a coach was Avaiting to take us round too, as soon as Ave pleased. " Then it only remains," said Mr. Kenge, shaking hands AA-ith us, " for me to express my lively satisfaction in (good day, Miss Clare !) the arrangement this day concluded, and my (ffood bye to you, Miss Summer- son !) lively hope that it Avill conduce to the happiness, the (glad to have had the honor of making your acquaintance, Mr. Carstone !) Avelfare, the advantage in all points of vicAV, of all concerned ! Guppy, see the party safely there." " Where is ' there,' ^Ir. Guppy ? " said Eichard, as we Avent doAvn stairs. "No distance," said Mr. Guppy; "round in Thavies' Inn, you know." " I can't say I knoAV Avhere it is, for I come from Winchester, and am strange in London." "Only round the corner," said Mr. Guppy. "We just tAvist up Chancery-lane, and cut along Holborn, and there Ave are in foiu- minutes time, as near as a toucher. This is about a London particular now, ain't it, miss ? " He seemed quite delighted AAdth it on my account. " The fog is very dense indeed ! " said I. " Not that it affects you, though, I am 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 Avell in paying me this compliment, so I laughed at myself for blushing at it, Avhen he had shut the door and got upon the box ; and Ave all three laughed, and chatted about our inexperience, and the strangeness of London, until Ave turned up under an archAvay, to our destination : a narroAv street of high houses, like an oblong cistern to hold the fog. There Avas a confused little croAvd of people, principally children, gathered about the house at AAdiieh Ave stopped, AAdiich had a tarnished brass plate on the door, AAdth the inscription, Jellyby. " Don't be frightened ! " said Mr. Guppy, looking in at the coach- Avindow. " One of the young Jellyby s been and got his head through the area railings !" " O poor child," said I, " let me out, if you please ! " " Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young Jellybys are ahvays up to something," said Mr. Guppy. I made my Avay to the poor child, avIio Avas one of the dirtiest little unfortunates I ever saAV, and found him veiy hot and frightened, and crying loudly, fixed by the neck betAveen two iron railings, Avhile a milk- man and a beadle, Avith the kindest intentions possible, were endeavouring to di'ag him back by the legs, under a general impression that his skidl was compressible by those means. As I fomid (after pacifying him), that he was a little boy, AAith a naturally large head, I thought that, perhaps, AA^hei-e his head could go, his body could follow, and mentioned that the 26 BLEAK HOUSE. best mode of extrication might be to push him fonvard. This was so favorably received by the milkman and beadle, that he would immediately have been pushed into the area, if I had not held his pinafore, while Eichard and Mr. Gruppy ran down through the kitchen, to catch him when he should be released. At last he was happity got down without any accident, and then he began to beat Mr. Gruppy with a hoop-stick in quite a frantic manner. Nobody had appeared belonging to the house, except a person in pattens, 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. I therefore supposed that Mrs. Jellyby was not at home ; and was quite surprised Avhen the person appeared in the passage without the pattens, and going up to the back room on the first floor, before Ada and me, announced us as, " Them two young ladies. Missis Jellyby ! " We passed several more children on the way up, whom it was difficult to avoid treading on in the dark ; and as we came into Mrs. Jellyby's presence, one of the poor little things fell do^Ta stairs — down a whole flight (as it sounded to me), with a great noise. Mrs, Jellyby, whose face reflected none of the imeasiness which we could not help showing in our ovvm faces, as the dear child's head recorded its passage with a bump on every stair — Eichard afterwards said he counted seven, besides one for the landing — ^received us with perfect equanimity. She was a pretty, very diminutive, plump woman, of from forty to fifty, with handsome eyes, though they had a curious habit of seeming to look a long way oft'. As if — I am quoting Eichard again — they could see nothing nearer than Africa ! " I am very glad indeed," said J\Irs. Jellyby, in an agreeable voice, " to have the pleasure of receiving you. I have a great respect for Mr. Jarndyce ; and no one in whom he is interested can be an object of indifterence to me." We expressed our acknowledgments, and sat do^^Ti behind the door where there was a lame invalid of a sofa. Mrs. Jellyby had very good hair, but was too much occupied with her African duties to brush it. The shawl in which she had been loosely muffled, di'opped on to her chair when she advanced to us ; and as she turned to resume her seat, we could not help noticing that her dress didn't nearly meet up the back, and that the open space was railed across with a lattice-work of stay-lace — like a summer-house. The room, which was strewn with papers and nearly filled by a great writing-table covered with similar litter, was, I must say, not only very untidy, but very dirty. We were obliged to take notice of that with our sense of sight, even while, with our sense of hearing, we followed the poor child who had tumbled down stairs : I think into the back kitchen, where somebody seemed to stifle him. But what principally struck us was a jaded, and unhealthy-looking, though by no means plain girl, at the writing-table, who sat biting the feather of her pen, and staring at us. I sup]30se nobody ever was in such a state of ink. And, from her tumbled hair to her pretty feet, which were disfigm-ed with frayed and broken satin slippers trodden down at heel, she really seemed to have no article of dress upon her, from a pin upwards, that was in its proper condition or its right place. " You find me, my dears," said Mrs. Jellyby, snufiing the two great BLEAK HOUSE. 27 office candles in tin candlesticks which made the room taste strongly of hot tallow (the fire had gone out, and there was nothing in the grate but ashes, a bmidle of wood, and a poker), " you find me, my dears, as usual, vei-y busy; but that you will excuse. The Afiican project at present employs my whole time. It involves me in correspondence with public bodies, and ■with private individuals anxious for the welfare of their species all over the country. I am happy to say it is advancing. We hope by this time next year to have from a hundi'ed and fifty to two hundred healthy families cidtivating coffee and educating the natives of Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the Niger. As Ada said nothing, but looked at me, I said it must be very gratifying. " it is gratifying," said Mrs. Jellyby. " It involves the devotion of aU my energies, such as they are ; but that is nothing, so that it succeeds ; and I am more confident of success every day. Do you know, IMiss Summerson, I abuost wonder that i/ou never turned voui* thoughts to Africa?" This application of the subject was reaUy so unexpected to me, that I was quite at a loss how to receive it. I hinted that the climate " The finest climate in the world ! " said ]\Irs. Jellyby. " Indeed, ma'am ? " " Certainly. With precaution," said ]Mrs. Jellyby. " You may go into liolborn, without precaution, and be run over. You may go into Holborn, with precaution, and never be mn over. Just so with Africa." I said, " No doubt." — I meant as to Holborn. " If you would like," said Mrs. Jellyby, putting a number of papers towards us, " to look over some remarks on tliat head, and on the general subject (which have been extensi^-ely circidatecl), while I finish a letter I am now dictating — to my eldest daughter, who is my amanuensis " The girl at the table left off" biting her pen, and made a return to our recognition, which was half bashfid and half sulky, " — I shall then have finished for the present," proceeded Mrs. Jellyby, with a sweet smile ; " though my work is never done. Where are vou, Caddy ? " " ' Presents her compliments to !Mr. Swallow, and begs ' " said Caddy. " ' — And begs,' " said Mrs. Jellyby, dictating, " ' to inform him, in reference to his letter of inquirj^ on the African project.' — No, Peepy ! Not on any account ! " Peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child who had fallen do-sra stairs, who now inteiTupted the correspondence by presenting himself, wdth a strip of plaister on his forehead, to exhibit his wounded knees, in which Ada and I did not know which to pity most — the briuses or the dirt. Mrs. JeUyby merely added, with the serene composm-e with which she said everything, " Go along, you naughty Peepy ! " and fixed her fine eyes on Africa again. However, as she at once proceeded with her dictation, and as I interrupted nothing by doing it, I ventured quietly to stop poor Peepy as he was going out, and to take him up to nurse. He looked very much astonished at it, and at Ada's kissing him ; but soon fell fast asleep in my arms, sobbing at longer and longer intervals, untd he was quiet. I was so occupied ^^ith Peepy that I lost the letter in detail, though I derived 28 BLEAK HOUSE. sucli a general impression from it of tlie momentous importance of Africa, and the utter insignificance of all otlier places and things, that I felt quite ashamed to have thought so little about it. " Six o'clock ! " said Mrs. Jellyby. "And our dinner hour is nominally (for we dine at all hours) five ! Caddy, show Miss Clare and Miss Sum- merson their rooms. You will like to make some change, perhaps ? You wall excuse me, I know, being so much occupied. O, that very bad child \ Pray put him do\vn, Miss Summerson ! " I begged permission to retain him, tndy saying that he was not at all troublesome ; and earned 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 my window was fastened up with a fork. " You would like some hot water, wouldn't you? " said Miss Jellyby, looking round for a jug with a handle to it, but looking in vain. " If it is not being troublesome," said we. " O, it's not the trouble," returned Miss Jellyby ; " the question is, if there is any." The evening was so very cold, and the rooms had such a marshy smell, that I must confess it was a little miserable ; and Ada was half crying. We soon laughed, however, and were busily unpacking, when Miss Jellyby came back to say, that she was sorry there was no hot water ; but they coiddn't find the kettle, and the boiler was out of order. We begged her not to mention it, and made all the haste we could to get down to the fire again. But all the little children had come up to the landing outside, to look at the phenomenon of Peepy lying on my bed ; and our attention was distracted by the constant apparition of noses and fingers, in situations of danger between the hinges of the doors. It was impossible to shut the door of either room ; for my lock, mth no knob to it, looked as if it wanted to be wound up ; and though the handle of Ada's went round and round with the greatest smoothness, it was attended Avitli no eft'ect whatever on the door. Therefore I proposed to the childi'en that they should come in and be very good at my table, and I would tell them the story of little Red Eiding Hood while I dressed ; which they did, and were as quiet as mice, including Peepy, who awoke opportunely before the appearance of the wolf. When we went downstairs we found a mug, witli "A Present from Tuubridge Wells " on it, lighted up in the staircase window with a floating wick ; and a young woman, with a swelled face bound up in a flannel bandage, blowing the fire of the drawing-room (now connected by an open door Avith Mrs. Jellyby's room), and choaking dreadfully. It smoked to that degree in short, that we all sat coughing and crying with the windows open for half an hour; during which Mrs. Jellyby, with the same sweetness of temper, directed letters about Africa. Her being so employed was, I must say, a great relief to me ; for Richard told us that he had washed his hands in a pie-dish, and that they had found the kettle on his dressing-table ; and he made Ada laugh so, that they made me laugh in the most ridiculous manner. Soon after seven o'clock we went down to dinner ; carefidly, by Mrs. Jellyby's advice ; for the stair-carpets, besides being very deficient in stair- wires, were so torn as to be absolute traps. We had a fine cod-fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, and a ])udding; an excellent BLEAK HOUSE. 29 dinner, if it had had any cooking to speak of, but it was ahnost raw. The young woman wdth the flannel bandage Avaited, and dropped eveiything on the table wherever it happened to go, and never moved it again until she put it on the stairs. The person I had seen in pattens (who I sup- pose to have been the cook), fi-equently 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 such accidents as the dish of potatoes being mislaid in the coal skuttle, and the handle of the corkscrew coming off, and striking the young woman in the chin ; Mrs. Jellyby preserved the evenness of her disposition. She told us a gi-eat deal that w^as interesting about Borrioboola-Gha and the natives ; and received so many letters that Eichard, v,ho sat by her, saw four envelopes in the gravy at once. Some of the letters Avere proceedings of ladies' committees, or resolutions of ladies'meetings, which she read to us; others were applications from people excited in various ways about the cultivation of coffee, and natives ; others required answers, and these she sent her eldest daughter from the table three or four times to write. She was full of business, and undoubtedly w^as, as she had told us, devoted to the cause. I was a little cunous to know who a mild bald gentleman in spectacles was, who dropped into a vacant chaii' (there was no top or bottom in particular) after the hsh was taken away, and seemed passively to submit himself to Bomoboola-Gha, but not to l3e actively interested in that settle- ment. As he never spoke a word, he might have been a native, but for his complexion. It was not until we left the table, and he remained alone with. Eichard, that the possibility of his being j\lr. Jellyby ever entered my head. But he was Mr. Jellyby; and a loquacious young man called Mr. Quale, Avith large shining knobs for temples, and his hair all brushed to the back of his head, Avho came in the evening, and told Ada he was a philanthropist, also informed her that he called the matrimonial alliance of ]\Irs. Jellyby A\-ith Mr. Jellyby the union of mind and matter. This young man, besides having a great deal to say for himself iibout Africa, and a project of his for teaching the coffee colonists to teach the natives to turn piano-forte legs and estabKsh an export trade, delighted in di-awing Mrs. Jellyby out by saying, " I believe noAV, Mrs. Jellyby, you have received as many as from one hundi'ed and fifty to two hundi-ed letters respecting Africa in a single day, have you not ?" or, " If my memory does not deceive me, IMrs. Jellyby, you once mentioned that you had sent oft" five thousand circidars from one post-office at one time?" — always repeating Mrs. JeUyby's ansAver to us like an intei-preter. During the Avhole evening, JNIr. JeUyby sat in a corner Avith his head against the AvaU, as if he Avere subject to Ioav spirits. It seemed that he had several times opened his mouth Avhen alone Avith Eichard, after dinner, as if he had something on his mind; but had ahvays shut it again, to Eichard's extreme confusion, A\dthout saying an}i;hing. Mrs. Jellyby, sitting in qiute a nest of waste paper, di'ank coffee aU the evening, and dictated at intervals to her eldest daughter. She also held a discussion Avitli Mr. Quale ; of Avhich the subject seemed to be — if I under- stood it — the Brotherhood of Hmnanity; and gave utterance to some beautiful sentiments. I Avas not so attentive an auditor as I might have Avished to be, hoAvever, for Peepy and the other childi'en came flocking about Ada and me in a corner of the draAvino--room to ask for another 30 BLEAK HOUSE. story : so we sat cloAvn among tliem, and told tliem in whispers Puss in Boots and I don't know what else, until Mrs. Jellyby, accidentally remembering- tliem, sent tliem to bed. As Peepy cried for me to take liim to bed, I carried liim upstairs ; where the young woman with the flannel bandage charged into the midst of the little family like a dragoon, and overturned them into cribs. After that, I occupied myself in making our room a little tidy, and in coaxing a very cross fire that had been lighted, to burn ; which at last it did, quite brightly. On my return do\\aistairs, I felt that ]\Irs. Jellyby looked down upon me rather, for being so frivolous ; and I was sorry for it ; though at the same time I knew that I had no higher pretensions. It was nearly midnight before we found an opportunity of going to bed ; and even then Ave left Mrs. Jellyby among her papers diinking coftee, and Miss Jellyby biting the feather of her pen. "What a strange house!" said Ada, when we got upstairs. "How curious of my cousin Jarndyce to send us here !" "My love," said 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. JeUyby to take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of Natives — and yet — Peepy and the housekeeping ! " Ada laughed ; and put her arm about my neck, as I stood looking at the fire ; and told me I was a quiet, dear, good creature, and had won her heart. " You are so thoughtful, Esther," she said, " and yet so cheerfid ! and you do so much, so unpretendingly ! Tou woidd make a home out of even this house." My simple darling ! She was quite unconscious that she only praised herself, and that it was in the goodness of her own heart that she made so much of me ! " May I ask you a question?" said I, when we had sat before the fire a little while. " Pive hundi-ed," said Ada. " Your cousin, Mr. Jarndyce. I owe so nmch to him. Would you mind describing him to me ? " Shaking back her golden hair, Ada turned her eyes upon me with such laughing Avonder, that I Avas fuU of Avonder too — partly at her beauty, partly at her surprise. " Esther ! " she cried. " My dear ! " " You Avant a description of my cousin Jarndyce ? " " ]\Iy dear, I never saAv him." " And / never saAv him ! " returned Ada. Well, to be sm-e ! No, she had never seen him. Young as she was when her mama died, she remembered Iioav tlu; tears AvoiQd come into her eyes aa-Iicu she s^Doke of him, and of the noble generosity of his character, AAdiich she had said was to be trusted above all eartldv thino-s ; and Ada trusted it. Her cousin Jarndyce had Avritten to her a fcAV months ago, — " a plain, honest letter," Ada said — proposing the arrangement Ave Avere noAv to enter on, and teUing her that, " in time it might heal some of the wounds made by the miserable Chancery suit." She had replied, "gratefidly accepting his G^^ oyj. BLEAK HOUSE. 31 proposal. Eicliard had received a similar letter, and liad 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 the fire where I found them, that he recollected him as "a bluff, rosy fellow." This was the utmost description Ada could give me. It set me thinking so, that when Ada Avas asleep, I still remained before the fire, wondering and wondering about Bleak House, and wondering and wondering that yesterday moraing shoidd seem so long ago. I don't know where my thoughts had wandered, when they were recalled by a tap at the door. I opened it softly, and found Miss Jellyljy shivering there, with a broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand, and an egg-cup in the other. " Good night ! " she said, veiT sulkily. *' Good night ! " said I. " May I come in ? " she shortly and unexpectedly asked nie in the same sulky way. "'Certainly," said I. " Don't wake Miss Clare." She would not sit down, but stood by the fire, dipping her inky middle finger in the egg-cup, which contained Adnegar, and smearing it over the ink stains on her face ; froA^niing, the whole time, and looking very gloomy. " I wish Africa was dead ! " she said, on a sudden. I was going to remonstrate. " I do ! " she said. " Don't talk to me. Miss Summerson. I hate it and detest it. It's a beast ! " I told her she was tired, and I was soriy. I put my hand upon her head, and touched her forehead, and said it w\as hot now, but would be cool to-morroAv. She still stood, pouting and fi-OAvning at me ; but presently put doAA^i her egg-cup, and timied softly towards the bed where Ada lay. " She is very pretty ! " she said, with the same knitted brow, and in the same uncivil manner. I assented Avith a smile. " An orphan. Ain't she ? " " Tfes." " But knows a quantity, I suppose ? Can dance, and play music, and sing ? She can talk Trench, I suppose, and do geograpliy, and globes, and needlcAvork, and every tiling ? " " No doubt," said I. " I can't," she retimied. " I can't do anything hardly, except A\Tite. I'm ahvays writing for Ma. I Avonder you two were not ashamed of yourselves to come in this afternoon, and see me able to do nothing else. It Avas like yoiu* ill-nature. Yet you think yom-selves veiy fine, I dare say ! " I coidd see that the poor girl Avas near ciying, and I resumed my chair Avithout speaking, and looked at her (I hope), as mildly as I felt toAvards her. " It's disgracefid," she said. " You knoAv it is. The Avhole house is disgracefid. The childi-en are disgracefid. /'m disgi'aceful. Pa's miserable, and no wonder ! Priscilla drinks — she's abvays diinking. It's a great shame and a great story, of you, if you say you didn't smeU her 32 BLEAK HOUSE. to-day. It was as bad as a public-lioiise, waiting at dinner ; you know it was 1 " " My dear, I don't know it," said I. " You do," she said, very shortly. " You sha'n't say you don't. You do ! " " 0, my dear ! " said I, " if you won't let mc speak ■" " You're speaking now. You know you are. Don't tell stories. Miss Summerson." " My dear,'^ said I, " as long as you won't hear me out " '• I don't want to hear you out." "O yes, I think you do," said I, "because that woidd be so very unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me, because the servant did not come near me at dinner ; but I don't doubt what you tell me, and I am sorry to hear it." "You needn't make a merit of that," said she. "No, my dear," said I. " That would be very foolish." She was still standing by the bed, and now stooped do^vn (but stiU with the same discontented face) and kissed Ada. That done, she came softly back, and stood by the side of my chair. Her bosom was heaving in a distressed manner that I greatly pitied ; but I thought it better not to speak. " I wish I was dead ! " she broke out. " I wish ^ye were all dead. It woidd be a great deal better for us." In a moment afterwards, she knelt on the ground at my side, hid her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. I comforted lier, and woidd have raised her, but she cried, No, no ; she wanted to stay there ! " You used to teach girls," she said. " If you coidd only have taught me, I could have learnt from you ! I am so very miserable, and I like you so much ! " I could not persuade her to sit by me, or to do anything but move a ragged stool to where she was kneeling, and take that, and still hold my dress in the same maimer. By degrees, the poor tired girl fell asleep ; and then I contrived to raise her head so that it should rest on my lap, and to cover us both with shawls. The fire went out, and all night long she slumbered thus before the ashy grate. At first I was painfidly awake, and vainly tried to lose myself, with my eyes closed, among the scenes of the day. At length, by slow degrees, they became indistinct and mingled. I began to lose the identity of the sleeper resting on me. Now, it was Ada ; now, one of my old Reading friends from whom I could not believe I had so recently parted. Now, it was the little mad woman worn out ^vitli cui'tseying and smiling ; now, some one in authority at Bleak House. Lastly, it was no one, and I was no one. The purblind day was feebly struggling with the fog, when I opened my eyes to encounter those of a dirty-faced little spectre fixed upon me. Peepy had scaled his crib, and crept doAvn in his bedgown and cap, and was so cold tliat his teeth were chatterino; as if he had cut them all. BLEAK HOUSE. • 33 CHAPTER V. A MORNING ADYENTUEE. Although the morning was raw, and altliougli the fog still seemed heavy — I say seemed, for the windows were so encnisted with dirt, that they wonld have made ]\Iidsmnmer sunshine dim — I was sufficiently forewarned of the discomfort within doors at that early hour, and suffi- ciently curious about London, to think it a good idea on the part of Miss Jellyby when she proposed that we should go out for a walk. " Ma won't be down for ever so long," she said, " and then it's a chance if breakfast's ready for an hour afterwards, they dawdle so. As to Pa, he gets what he can, and goes to the office. He never has what you woidd call a regular breakfast. Priscilla leaves him out the loaf and some milk, when there is any, over night. Sometimes there isn't any milk, and sometimes the cat cbinks it. But I'm afraid you must be tired. Miss Summerson ; and perhaps you would rather go to bed." " I am not at all tired, my dear," said I, " and would much prefer to go out." " If you're sure you woidd," returned Miss Jellyby, " I'll get my thino's on." Ada said she would go too, and was soon astir. 1 made a proposal to-' Peepy, in default of being able to do anything better for him, that he shoidd let me wash him, and afterwards lay him do'\\'n on my bed again. To this he submitted with the best grace possible ; staring at me during the whole operation, as if he never had been, and never could again be, so astonished in his life — looking very miserable also, certainly, but making- no complaint, and going snugly to sleep as soon as it was over. At first I was in two minds about taking such a liberty, but I soon rellected that nobody in the house was likely to notice it. What with the l3ustle of dispatching Peepy, and the bustle of getting myself ready, and helping Ada, I was soon quite in a glow. We found j\Iiss JeUyby trying to warm herself at the fire in the Avriting-room, which Priscilla was then lighting with a smutty parlor candlestick — thro\\^ng the candle in to make it burn better. Everything was just as we had left it last night, and was evidently intended to remain so. Eelow stairs the dinner-cloth had not been taken away, l)ut had been left ready for breakfast. Crumbs, dust, and waste paper were aU over tlie house. Some pewter-pots and a milk-can hung on the area railings ; the door stood open ; and we met the cook round the corner coming out of a public- house, wiping her mouth. She mentioned, as she passed ns, that she had been to see what o'clock it was. But before we met the cook, we met Eichard, who was dancing up and do^vn Thavies Inn to warm his feet. He was agreeably surprised to see us stirring so soon, and said he vv^ould gladly share our walk. So he took cai-e of Ada, and Miss Jellyby and I went first. I may mention tliat Miss JeUyby had relapsed into her sulky manner, and that I D o4 BLEAK HOUSE. really slioidd not liave tlioiiglit she liked me much, unless she had told me so. " Where woidd you wish to go ? " she asked. " Anywhere, my dear," I replied. " Anywhere's nowhere," said Miss JeUyby, 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, Miss Summerson, I say I don't care — but if he was to come to our house, with his great shining lumpy forehead, night after night till he Avas 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 the vigorous emphasis Miss Jellyby set upon it. " Yom* duty as a child " " O ! don't talk of duty as a child, Miss Summerson ; where's Ma's duty as a parent ? AU made over to the public and Africa, I suppose ! Then let the public and Africa show duty as a child ; it's much more their affair than mine. You are shocked, I dare say ! Very well, so am I shocked too ; so we are both shocked, and there's an end of it ! " She walked me on faster yet. " But for aU that, I say again, he may come, and come, and come, and I won't have anything to say to him. I can't bear him. If there's any stuff in the world that I hate and detest, it's the stuff' he and Ma talk. I wonder the very paving stones opposite our house can have the patience to stay there, and be a witness of such inconsistencies and contradictions as all that sounding nonsense, and Ma's management ! " I could not but understand her to refer to Mr. Quale, the young gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. I was saved the disagreeable necessity of piu'suing the subject, by Eichard and Ada coming up at a round pace, laughing, and asking us if we meant to run a race ? Thus interrupted, Miss Jellyby became silent, and walked moodily on at my side; while I admired the long successions and varieties of streets, the quantity of people already going to and fro, the number of vehicles passing and repassing, the busy preparations in the setting forth of shop windov>^s and the sweeping out of shops, and the extraordinary creatures in rags, secretly groping among the swept-out rubbish for pins and other refuse. " So, cousin," said the cheerful voice of Eichard to Ada, behind me. " We are never to get out of Chancery ! We have come by another way to our place of meeting yesterday, and — by the Great Seal, here's the old lady again ! " Truly, there she was, immediately in front of us, curtseying and smiling, and saying, with her yesterday's air of patronage : " The wards in Jarndyce ! Ye-ry happy, I am sure ! " " You are out early, ma'am," said I, as she cm'tsied to me. " Ye-es ! I usually walk here early. Before the Court sits. It's retired. I collect my thoughts here for the business of the day," said the old lady, mincingly. " The business of the day requires a great deal of thought. Chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult to follow." "Who's this. Miss Summerson?" whispered Miss Jellyby. drawing my arm tighter through her ovm. BLEAK HOUSE. 35 The little old lady's liearing was remarkably quick. She answered for herself directly. " A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honor to attend court regularly. With ray documents. Have I the pleasure of addressing another of the youthful parties in Jamdyce?" said the old lady, recovering herself, with her head on one side, from a very low curtsey. Richard, anxious to atone for his thoughtlessness of yesterday, good-naturedly explained that Miss Jellyby was not connected Avith the suit. " Ha !" said the old lady. " She does not expect a judgment ? She will still grow old. But not so old. O dear, no ! This is the garden of Lincoln's Inn. I call it my garden. It is quite a boAver in the summer-time. Where the birds sing melodiously. I pass the greater part of the long vacation here. In contemplation. You find the long vacation exceedingly long, don't you?" We said yes, as she seemed to expect us to say so. " AMien the leaves are faRing from the trees, and there are no more floAvers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the Lord Chancellor's court," said the old lady, " the vacation is fvdfilled; and the sixth seal, mentioned in the Ptevelations, agaui prevails. Pray come and see my lodging. It will be a good omen for me. Youth, and hope, and beauty, are very seldom there. It is a long long time since I had a visit from either." She had taken my hand, and, leading me and Miss JeUyby aAvay, beckoned Richard antl Ada to come too. I did not know how to excuse myself, and looked to Richard for aid. As he was half amused and half curious, and all in doubt hoAv to get rid of the old lady AAdthout offence, she continued to lead us away, and he and Ada continued to folloAV ; our strange conductress informing us all the time, Avith much smiling con- descension, that she liA'ed close by. It was quite true, as it soon appeared. She lived so close by, that Ave had not time to have done humoring her for a fcAv moments, before she Avas at home. Slipping us out at a little side gate, the old lady stopped most unexpectedly in a narrow back street, part of some courts and lanes immediately outside the Avail of the inn, and said, " This is my lodging. Pray Avalk up !" She had stopped at a shop, over which was written, Krook, Rag and Bottle Warehouse. Also, in long thin letters, Krook, Dealer in Marine Stores. In one part of the vrindoAv was a picture of a red paper miU, at Avhich a cart Avas unloading a quantity of sacks of old rags. In another, was the inscription. Bones Bought. In another, Kitchen- Stuff Bought. In another. Old Iron Bought. In another. Waste Paper I^ought. In another. Ladies' and Gentlemen's Wardrobes Bought. Everything seemed to be bought, and nothing to be sold there. In aU parts of the AAdndoAV, Avere quantities of dirty bottles: blacking bottles, medicine bottles, ginger-beer and soda-Avater bottles, pickle bottles, wine bottles, ink bottles : I am reminded by mentioning the latter, that the shop had, in several little particidars, the air of being in a legal neighbour- hood, and of being, as it Avere, a dirty hanger-on and disowned relation of the law. There AA'^ere a gi'cat many ink bottles. There was a little tottering bench of shabby old volumes, outside th^ door, labelled " LaAV Books, aU at 9t/." Some of the inscriptions I have enumerated were AAaitten in law-hand, like the papers I had seen in Kenge and Carboy's office, and d2 36 BLEAK HOUSE. ttie letters I liad so long received from the firm. Among tliem was one, in the same writing, having nothing to do with the business of the shop, but announcing that a respectable man aged forty-five wanted engrossing or copying to execute with neatness and dispatch : Address to Nemo, care of Mr. Krook within. There were several second-hand bags, blue and red, hanging up. A little way within the shop door, lay heaps of old crackled parchment scrolls, and discolored and dog's-eared law-papers. I coidd have fancied that all the rusty keys, of which there must have been hundreds huddled together as old iron, had once belonged to doors of rooms or strong chests in lawyers' offices. The litter of rags tumbled partly into and partly out of a one-legged wooden scale, hanging without any counterpoise from a beam, might have been counsellors' bands and goAMis torn up. One had only to fancy, as Eichard whispered to Ada and me while we all stood looking in, that yonder 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 besides by the wall of Lincoln's Inn, intercepting the light within a couple of yards, we shoidd not have seen so much but for a lighted lantern that an old man in spectacles and a hairy cap was carrying about in the shop. Turning towards the door, he now caught sight of us. He was short, cadaverous, and withered ; mth his head sunk sideways between his shoidders, and the breath issuing in visible smoke from his mouth, as if he were on fire within. His throat, chin, and eyebrows, were so frosted with white hairs, and so gnarled with veins and puckered skin, that he looked, from his breast upAvard, like some old root in a fall of snow. "Hi hi ! " said the old man coming to the door. " Have you anything to sell ? " We naturally drcAV back and glanced at our conductress, who had been tiying to open the house door with a key she had taken from her pocket, and to whom Eichard now said, that, as we had had the pleasure of seeing where she lived, we would leave her, being pressed for time. But she was not to be so easily left. She became so fantastically and j^ressingly earnest in her entreaties that we would walk up, and see her apart- ment for an instant ; and was so bent, in her harmless way, on leading me in, as part of the good omen she desired ; that I (whatever the others might do) saw nothing for 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, and said, "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 aU went in, stimidated by Eichard's laughing encourage- ment, and relying on his protection. " My landlord, Krook," said the little old lady, condescending to him from her lofty station, as she presented him to us. " He is called among the neighbours the Lord Chancellor. His shop is called the Court of Chancery. He is a very eccentric person. He is very odd. Oh, I assure you he is veiy odd !" She shook her head a gi-eat many times, and tapped her forehead with her finger, to express to us that we nnist have the goodness to excuse him, " For he is a little — you know ! — M — ! " said the old lady, with great stateliness. The old man overheard, and laughed. BLEAK HOUSE. 37 *' 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 shop Chancery ? " " 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 color, and. what texture ! " " That'll do, my good friend 1 " said Kichard, strongly disapproving of his having drawn one of Ada's tresses through his yellow hand. " You can admire as the rest of us do, without taking that liberty." The old man darted at him a sudden look, which even called my attention from Ada, who, startled and blushing, was so remarkably beautiful that she seemed to fix the wandering attention of the little old lady herself. But as Ada interposed, and laughingly said she could only feel proud of such genuine admiration, Mr. Ki'ook shrunk 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 the lantern, " of so many kinds, and all, as the neighbours think (but they know nothing), wasting away and going to rack and ruin, that that's why they have given me and my place a christening. And I have so many old parclmientses and papers in my stock. And I have a liking for nist ami must and cobwebs. And all's fish that comes to my net. And I can't abear to part with anything I once lay hold of (or so my neigh- bours think, but Avhat do tlmj know ?) or to alter anything, or to have any sweeping, nor scouring, nor cleaning, nor repairing going on about me. That's the way I've got the iU name of Chancery. / don't mind. I go to see my noble and learned brother pretty well eveiy day, when he sits in the Inn. He don't notice me, but I notice him. There's no great odds betwixt us. We both grub on in a muddle. Hi, Lady Jane ! " A large grey cat leaped from some neighbouring shelf on Ms shoulder, and startled us all. " Hi ! Shew 'em how you scratch. Hi ! Tear, my lady ! " said her master. The cat leaped down, and ripped at a bundle of rags with her tigerish claws, Avith a sound that it set my teeth on edge to hear. •' She'd do as much for any one I was to set her on," said the old man. " I deal in cat-skins among other general matters, and hers was offered to me. It's a very fine skin, as you may see, but I didn't have it stripped off ! That warn't like Chancery practice though, says you ! " He had by this time led us across the shop, and now opened a door in the back part of it, leading to the house-entry. As he stood with his hand upon the lock, the little old lady graciously observed to him before passing out : " That will do, Krook, You mean well, but are tiresome. My yoimg friends are pressed for time, I have none to spare myself, having to attend court very soon. My young friends are the wards in Jarndyce." " Jarndyce !" said the old man mtli a start, " Jarndyce and Jarndyce, The great suit, Ki'ook," returned his lodger. " Hi ! " exclaimed the old man, in a tone of thoughtful amazement, and with a wider stare than before, " Think of it !" 38 BLEAK HOUSE. He seemed so rapt all in a moment, and looked so curiously at us, that Ricliard said : " Why you appear to trouble yourself a good deal about tlie causes before your noble and learned brother, the other Chancellor !" " Yes," said the old man abstractedly. " Sui-e I Tour name now will be " " Eichard Carstone." ■" Carstone," he repeated, slowly checking off that name upon his fore- finger ; and each of the others he went on to mention, upon a separate finger. " Yes. There was the name of Barbary, and the name of Clare, and the name of Dedlock, too, I think." "He knows as much of the cause as the real salaried Chancellor!" said Eichard, quite astonished, to Ada and me. "Ay!" said the old man, coming slowly out of his abstraction. " Yes ! Tom Jarndyce — you'll excuse me, being related ; but he was never known about court by any other name, and was as well known there, as — she is now;" nodding slightly at his lodger; "Tom Jarndyce was often in here. He got into a restless habit of strolling about when the cause v/as on, or expected, talking to the little shopkeepers, and telling 'em to keep out of Chancery, whatever they did. ' For,' says he, ' it's being ground to bits in a slow mill ; it's being roasted at a slow fire ; it's being stung to death by single bees ; it's being drowned by drops ; it's going mad by grains.' He was as near making away with himself, just where the young lady stands, as near could be." We listened Avith horror. " He come in at the door," said the old man, slowly pointing an imaginary track along the shop, "on the day he did it — the whole neighbourhood had said for months before, that he woidd do it, of a certainty, sooner or later — he come in at the door that day, and Avalked along there, and sat himself on a bench that stood there, and asked me (you'll judge I was a mortal sight younger then) to fetch him a pint of vnne. ' Eor,' says he, ' Krook, I am much depressed ; my cause is on again, and I think I 'm nearer Judgment than I ever was.' I hadn't a mind to leave him alone ; and I persuaded him to go to the tavern over the way there, t'other side my lane (I mean Chancery -lane) ; and I followed and looked in at the window, and saw him, comfortable as I thought, in the arm-chair by the fire, and company with him. I hadn't hardly got back here, when I heard a shot go echoing and rattling right away into the inn. I ran out — neighbours ran out — twenty of us cried at once, ' Tom Jarndyce !' " The old man stopped, looked hard at us, looked down into the lantern, blew the light out, and shut the lantern up, " We were right, I needn't tell the present hearers. Hi ! To be sure, how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon while the cause was on ! How my noble and learned brother, and all the rest of 'em, grubbed and muddled away as usual, and tried to look as if they hadn't heard a word of the last fact in the case ; or as if they had — O dear me ! nothing at all to do with it, if they had heard of it by any chance ! " Ada's color had entirely left her, and Eichard was scarcely less pale. Nor coidd I wonder, judging even from my emotions, and I was no party, in the suit, that to hearts so untried and fresh, it was a shock to come' BLEAK ]IOUSE. 89 into the inheritance of a protracted misery, attended in the minds of many people with snch dreadful recollections. I had another uneasiness, in the application of the painfid story to the poor half-witted creature who had brought us there ; but, to my surprise, she seemed perfectly unconscious of that, and only led the way upstairs again ; informing us, with the toleration of a superior creatui'e for the infirmities of a common mortal, that her landlord Avas " a little — M — , you know ! '' She lived at the top of the house, in a pretty large room, from which she had a glimpse of the roof of Lincoln's Inn Hall. This seemed to have been her principal inducement, originally, for taking up her residence there. She could look at it, she said, in the night : especially in the moonshine. Her room was clean, but very, very bare. I noticed the scantiest necessaries in the way of fimiiture ; a few old prints from books, of Chancellors and barristers, wafered against the wall ; and some half- dozen reticules and Avork-bags, " containing documents," as she informed us. There were neither coals nor ashes in the grate, and I saw no articles of clothing anywliere, nor any kind of food. Upon a shelf in an open cupboard were a plate or two, a cup or two, and so forth ; but all dry and empty. There was a more affecting meaning in her pinched appearance, I thought as I looked round, than I had understood before. " Extremely honored, I am sure," said our poor hostess, with the greatest suavity, " by this visit from the Avards in Jarndyce. And very much indebted for the omen. It is a retired situation. Considering. I am limited as to situation. In consequence of the necessity of attending on the Chancellor. I have lived here many years. I pass my days in court ; my evenings and my nights here. I find the nights long, for I sleep but little, and think much. That is, of course, unavoidable ; being in Chancery. I am sorry I cannot oft'er chocolate. I expect a judgment shortly, and shall then place my establishment on a superior footing. At present, I don't mind confessing to the Avards in Jarndyce (in strict con- fidence), that I sometimes find it difticidt to keep up a genteel appearance. I have felt the cold here. I have felt something sharper than cold. It matters very little. Pray excuse the introduction of such mean topics." She partly cbeAV aside the curtain of the long Ioav garret -AvindoAV, and called our attention to a nmnber of bird-cages hanging there : some, containing several birds. There Avere larks, linnets, and goldfinches — I should think at least tAventy. " I began to keep the little creatures," she said, " Avith an object that the wards avlU readily comprehend. AYith the intention of restoring them to liberty. When my judgment shoidd be given. Ye-es ! They die in prison, though. Their lives, poor silly things, are so short in comparison Avith Chancery proceedings, that, one by one, the Avhole collection has died over and over again. I doubt, do you knoAv, Avhether cue of these, though they are all young, Avill Uve to be free ! Ye-ry mortifying, is it not ? " Although she sometimes asked a question, she never seemed to expect a reply ; but rambled on as if she Avere in the habit of doing so, Avhen no one but herself Avas present. " Indeed," she pursued, " I positively doubt sometimes, I do assure you, whether Avhile matters are stiU unsettled, and the sixth or Great Seal 40 ^ BLEAK HOUSE. still prevails, / may not one day be found lying stark and senseless here, as I have found so many birds ! " Richard, answering what he saw in Ada's compassionate eyes, took the opportunity of laying some money, softly and unobserved, on the chimney- piece. We all drew nearer to the cages, feigning to examine 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 idea that they are singing, while I am following the arguments in court. And my mind requires to be so very clear, you know ! Another time, I'll tell you their names. Not at present. On a day of such good omen, they shall sing as much as they like. In honor of youth," a smile and curtsey ; " hope," a smile and curtsey ; " and beautv," a smile and curtsey. " There ! We'll let in the fidl light." The birds began to stir and chirp, " I cannot admit the air freely," said the little old lady ; the room was close, and would have been the better for it ; " because the cat you saw down stairs — called Lady Jane — is greedy for their lives. She crouches on the parapet outside, for hours and hours. I have discovered," whispering mysteriously, " that her natural cruelty is sharpened by a jealous fear of their regaining their liberty. In consequence of the judg- ment I expect being shortly given. She is sly, and fidl of malice. I half believe, sometimes, that she is no cat, but the wolf of the old saying. It is so very difficult to keep her from the door." Some neighbouring beUs, reminding the poor soid that it was half-past nine, did more for us in the way of bringing our visit to an end, than we could easily have clone for ourselves. She hurriedly took up her little bag of documents, which she had laid upon the table on coming in, and asked if we were also going into court ? On our answering no, and that we woidd on no account detain her, she 02:)ened the door to attend us do^vn stairs. " With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that I should be there before the Chancellor confes in," said she, " for he might mention my case the first thing. I have a presentiment that he icill mention it the first thing this morning." She stopped to teU us, in a whisper, as we were going down, that the whole house was fiUed with strange lumber which her landlord had bought piecemeal, and had no wish to seU — in consequence of being a little — M — . This was on the first floor. But she had made a previous stoppage on the second floor, and had silently pointed at a dark door there. " The only other lodger," she now whispered, in explanation ; " a law-writer. The children in the lanes here, say he has sold himself to the devil. I don't know what he can have done with the money. Hush ! " She appeared to mistrust that the lodger might hear her, even there ; and repeating " Hush ! " went before us on tiptoe, as though even the sound of her footsteps might reveal to him what she had said. Passing through the shop on our way out, as we had passed through it on our way in, we found the old man storing a quantity of packets of waste paper, in a kind of well in the floor. He seemed to be working hard, with the perspiration standing on his forehead, and had a piece of chalk by him ; with which, as he put each separate package or bundle down, he made a crooked mark on the panelling of the wall. ^MiiTilliftffiWiiyili M' % BLEAK HOUSE. -.. 41 Eicliard and Ada, and Miss Jellyby, and the little old lady, had gone by 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 Avith the end of the letter and shaping it backward. , It was a capital letter, not a printed one, but just such a letter as any clerk in Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's office Avould 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 it out, and turned an a in its place (not a capital letter this time), and said, "What's that?" I told him. He then rubbed that out, and turned tlie letter r, and asked me the same question. He went on quickly, until he had formed, in the same curious manner, beginning at the ends and bottoms of the letters, the word Jarndyce, without once leaving two letters on the wall together. " What does tliat speU? " he asked me. When I told him, he laughed. In the same odd way, yet with the same rapidity, he then produced singly, and rubbed out singly, the letters forming the words Bleak House. These, in some astonishment, I also read ; and he laughed again. " Hi!" said the old man, laying aside the chalk, " I have a turn for copying from memory, you see, miss, though I can neither read nor write." He looked so disagreeable, and his cat looked so wickedly at me, as if I were a blood-relation of the birds upstairs, that I was quite relieved by Richard's appearing at the door and saying : " Miss Smnmerson, I hope you are not bargaining for the sale of yoiu* hair. Don't be tempted. Three sacks below are quite enough for Mr. Krook ! " I lost no time in wishing j\Ir. Krook good morning, and joining my friends outside, where we parted with., the little old lady, who gave us her blessing with great ceremony, and renewed her assurance of yesterday in reference to her intention of settling estates on Ada- and me. Before we finally turned out of those lanes, we looked back, and saw Mr. Krook standing at his shop-door, in his spectacles, looking after us, \\\\\\ his cat upon his shoulder, and her tail sticking up on one side of his hairy cap, Kke a taU leather. " Quite an adventure for a morning in London ! " said Eichard, svvWx a sigh. "Ah, cousin, cousin, it's a wear}^ word this Chancery ! '* " It is to me, and has been ever since I can remember," returned Ada. "I am grieved that I should be the enemy — as I suppose I am — of a great number of relations and others ; and that they should be my enemies — as I suppose they are ; and that we should all be ruining one another, Avithout knowing hoAv or why, and be in constant doubt and discord aU our lives. It seems very strange, as there must be right somewhere, that an honest judge in real earnest has not been able to find out tlirough all these years Avhere it is." "Ah, cousin!" said Richard. "Strange, indeed! aU this wasteful wanton chess-plapng u very strange. To see that composed Court 4S BLEAK HOUSE. yesterday jogging on so serenely, and to tliink of the WTetcliedness of tlie pieces on the board, gave me the headache and the heartache both together. My head ached with wondering how it happened, if men were neither fools nor rascals ; and my heart ached to think they could possibly be either. But at all events, Ada — I may call you Ada ? " " Of course you may, cousin Richard." " At all events, Ada, Chancery will work none of its bad influence on us. We have happily been brought together, thanks to our good kinsman, and it can't divide us now ! " " Never, I hope, cousin Richard ! " said Ada, gently. Miss Jellyby gave my arm a squeeze, and me a very significant look. I smiled in return, and we made the rest of the way back very pleasantly. In half-an-hour after our arrival, jMrs. Jellyby appeared ; and in the course of an hour the various things necessary for breakfast straggled one by one into the dining-room. I do not doubt that Mrs. Jellyby had gone to bed, and got up in the usual manner, but she presented no appearance of having changed her dress. She was greatly occupied during breakfast ; for the morning's post brought a heavy correspondence relative to Borrio- boola-Gha, which would occasion her (she said) to pass a busy day. The children tumbled about, and notched memoranda of their accidents in their legs, which vv^ere perfect little calendars of distress ; and Peepy was lost for an hour and a half, and brought home from Newgate market by a policeman. The equable manner in which ]\Irs. Jellyby sustained both his absence, and his restoration to the family circle, surprised us all. She was by that time perseveringly dictating to Caddy, and Caddy was ftist relapsing into the inky condition in which we had found her. At one o'clock an open carriage arrived for us, and a cart for our luggage. Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many remembrances to her good friend, Mr. Jarndyce ; Caddy left her desk to see us depart, kissed me in the passage, and stood, biting her pen, and sobbing on the steps ; Peepy, I am happy to say, was asleep, and spared the pain of separation (I was not without misgivings that he had gone to Newgate market in search of me) ; and all the other childi'cn got up behind the barouche and fell off, and we saw them, with great concern, scattered over the surface of Thavies Inn, as we rolled out of its precincts. CHAPTER YI. QUITE AT HOME. The day had brightened very much, and still brightened as wc went westward. We went om- way through the sunshine and the fresh air, wondering more and more at the extent of the streets, the biilliancy of the shops, the great traffic, and the crowds of people whom the pleasanter weather seemed to have brought out like many-colored floAvers. By- and-by we began to leave the wonderful city, and to proceed through suburbs which, of themselves, would have made a pretty large towai, in BLEAK HOUSE. 4S my eyes ; and at last we got into a real country road again, with wind- mills, rickyards, milestones, farmers' waggons, scents of old hay, swinging signs and horse troughs : trees, fields, and hedgerows. It was delightful to see the green landscape before us, and the immense metropolis beliind ; and when a waggon with a train of beautiful horses, furnished with red trappings and clear-sounding bells, came by us with its music, I believe we could all three have sung to the bells, so cheeifid were the influences around. " The whole road has been reminding me of my namesake "VMiit- tington, " 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 changed as the horses came to a stand, and subsided to a gentle tinkling, except when a horse tossed his head, or shook himself, and sprinkled off a little shower of bell-ringing. " Our postilion is looking after the waggoner," said Richard ; " and the waggoner is coming back after us. Good day, friend!" The waggoner was at our coach-door. " ^^^^Ji here's an extraordinary thing ! " added Richard, looking closely at the man. " Pie has got your name, Ada, in his hat ! " He had all our names in his hat. Tucked within the band, Avere three small notes ; one, addressed to Ada ; one, to Richard ; one, to me. These the waggoner delivered to each of us respectively, reading the name aloud first. In answer to Richard's inquiry from whom they came, he briefly answered, " Master, sir, if you please ; " and, putting on his hat again (which was like a soft bowl), cracked his whip, re-awakened his music, and went melodiously away. " Is that Mr. Jarndyce's waggon ? " said Richard, calling to our postboy. . " Yes, sir," he replied. " Going to London." We opened the notes. Each was a counterpart of the other, and contained these words, in a solid, plain hand. " I look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily, and without constraint on either side. I therefore have to propose that we meet as old friends, and take the past for granted. It will be a relief to you possibly, and to me certainly, and so my love to you. John .Jarxdyce." I had perhaps less reason to be surprised than either of my companions, having never yet enjoyed an opportunity of thanking one who had been my benefactor and sole earthly dependance through so many years. I had not considered how I coidd thank him, my gratitude Ipng too deep in my heart for that ; but I now began to consider how I could meet him without thanking him, and felt it would be verv difficult indeed. The notes revived, in Richard and Ada, a general impression that they both had, -svithout quite knowing how they came by it, that then* cousin Jarndyce coidd never bear acknowledgments for any kindness he performed, and that, sooner than receive any, he would resort to the most singidar expedients and evasions, or woidd even run away. Ada dimly remembered to have heard her mother tell, when she was a veiy little child, that he had once done her an act of uncommon generosity, and 44 BLEAK HOUSE. that on lier going to his house to thank him, he happened to see her through a window coming to the door, and immediately escaped by the back gate, and was not heard of for three months. This discourse led to a great deal more on the same theme, and indeed it lasted us all day, and w^e talked of scarcely anything else. If we did, by any chance, diverge into another subject, we soon returned to this ; and wondered what the house woidd be like, and when we should get there, and whether we should see Mr. Jarndyce as soon as we arrived, or after a delay, and what he Avould say to us, and what we should say to him. All of which we wondered about, over and over again. The roads were very heavy for the horses, but the pathway was generally good ; so we alighted and walked up all the hills, and liked it so well that we prolonged our walk on the level ground when we got to the top. At Barnet there were other horses waiting for us ; but as they had only just been fed, we had to wait for them too, and got a long- fresh walk, over a common and an old battle field, before the carriage came up. These delays so protracted the journey, that the short day was spent, and the long night had closed in, before we came to Saint Albans ; near to w^hich town Bleak House was, Ave knew. By that time we were so anxious and nervous, that even Eichard confessed, as we rattled over the stones of the old street, to feeling an irrational desire to drive back again. As to Ada and me, whom he had wrapped up with great care, the night being shai"}! and frosty, we trembled from head to foot. AVlien Ave turned out of the toAvn, round a comer, and Richard told us that the post-boy, Avho had for a long time sympathised with our heightened expectation, was looking back and nodding, Ave both stood up in the carnage (Richard holding Ada, lest she should be jolted doAAm), and gazed round upon the open country and the star- light night, for our destination. There Avas a light sparlding on the top of a hill before us, and the driver, pointing to it AAdtli his Avhip and crying, " That's Bleak House ! " put his horses into a canter, and took us forward at such a rate, up-hiU though it Avas, that the Avheels sent the road-drift flying about our heads like spray from a Avater-mill. Presently Ave lost the light, presently saAv it, presently lost it, presently saAv it, and turned into an avenue of trees, and cantered up toAvards Avhere it Avas beaming brightly. It was in a Avindow of Avhat seemed to be an old- fashioned house, A\ith three peaks in the roof in front, and a circular SAveep leading to the porch. A beU Avas rung as Ave drcAV up, and amidst the sound of its deep voice in the still air, and the distant barking of some dogs, and a gush of light from the opened door, and the smoking and steaming of the heated horses, and the quickened beating of our OAvn hearts, Ave alighted in no inconsiderable confusion. " Ada, my love, Esther, my dear, you are AA'elcomc. I rejoice to see you ! Rick, if I had a hand to spare at present, I Avoidd give it you ! " The gentleman aa'Iio said these Avords in a clear, bright, hospitable voice, had one of his arms round Ada's Avaist, and the other round mine, and kissed us both in a fatherly Avay, and bore us across the hall into a ruddy little room, all in a gloAv with a blazing fire. Here he kissed us again, and, opening his arms, made us . sit doAAii side by side, on a sofa ready draAvn out near the hearth. I felt that if we had been at all demonstrative, he Avould have run aAvay in a moment. BLEAK HOUSE. 45 " Now, Eick ! " said he, " I have a hand at liberty. A word in earnest is as good as a speech. I am heartily glad to see you. You are at home. Warm yourself ! " Eichard shook him by both hands with an intuitive mixture of respect and frankness, and only saying (though with an earnestness that rather alarmed me, I was so afraid of ]\Ir. Jarndyce's suddenly disappearing), " You are very kind, sir ! We are very much obliged to you ! " laid aside his hat and coat, and came up to the tire. " 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 say with how much interest) at his face. It was a handsome, lively, quick face, full of change and motion ; and his hair was a silvered iron-gTcy. I took him to be nearer sixty than fifty, but he was upright, hearty, and robust. From the moment of his first speaking to us, his voice had connected itself with an association in my mind that I could not define ; but now, all at once, a something sudden in his manner, and a pleasant expression in his eyes, recalled the gentleman in the stage-coach, six years ago, on the memorable day of my journey to Eeading. I was certain it was he. I never was so frightened in my life as when I made the discovery, for he caught my glance, and appearing to read my thoughts, gave such a look at the door that I thought we had lost him. However, I am happy to say he remained where he was, and asked me what /thought of jNIrs. Jellyby? " She exerts herself very much for Africa, sir," I said. " Nobly ! " returned Mr. Jarndyce. " But you answer like Ada." Whom I had not heard. '•' You all think something else, I see." " We rather thought," said I, glancing at Eichard and Ada, who entreated me with their eyes to speak, " that perhaps she was a littl(^ unmindful of her home." " Floored ! " cried j\Ir. Jarndyce. I was rather alarmed again. " Well 1 I want to know your real thoughts, my dear. I may have sent you there on pm-pose." " We thought that, perhaps," said I hesitating, " it is right to begin with the obligations of home, sir; and that, perhaps, while those are overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possiblv be substituted for them?" " The little Jellybys," said Eichard, coming to my relief, " are really — I can't help expressing myself strongly, sir — in a devil of a state." " She means well," said Mr. Jarndyce, hastily. " The wind's in the cast." " It was in the north, sir, as we came do^m," observed Eichard. " My dear Eick," said Mr. Jarndyce, poking the fire ; " I'U take an oath it's either in the east, or going to be. I am always conscious of an uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowing in the east." "Eheumatism, sir?" said Eichard. " I dare say it is, Eick. I believe it is. And so the Httle JeU — I had my doubts about 'em — are in a — oh. Lord, yes, it's easterly ! " said Mr, Jarndvce. iC T 46 BLEAK HOUSE. He had taken two or three undecided turns up and do^\T.i while uttering these broken sentences, retaining the poker in one hand and rubbing his hair with the other, with a good-natured vexation, at once so whimsical and so loveable, that I am sure we were more delighted with him than we could possibly have expressed in any words. He gave an arm to Ada and an arm to me, and bidding Richard bring a candle, was leading the way out, when he suddenly turned us aU back again. " Those little Jelly by s. Couldn't you — didn't you — now, if it had rained sugar-plums, or three-cornered raspberry tarts, or anything of that sort ! " said Mr. Jarndyce. " O cousin — ! " Ada hastily began. Good, my pretty pet. I like cousin. Cousin John, perhaps, is better." Then, cousin John ! " Ada laughingly began again. " Ha, ha ! Very good indeed ! " said Mr. Janidyce, A\ith gTeat enjoy- ment. " Sounds uncommonly natural. Yes, my dear ? " " It did better than that. It rained Esther." " Ay ? " said Mr. Jarndyce. " What did Esther do ? " " Wliy, cousin John," said Ada, clasping her hands upon his arm, and shaking her head at me across liim — for I wanted her to be quiet : " Esther was their friend directly. Esther nursed them, coaxed them to sleep, washed and di-essed them, told them stories, kept them quiet, bought them keepsakes " — My dear girl ! I had only gone out with Peej)y, after he was found, and given him a little, tiny horse ! — " and, cousin John, she softened poor Caroline, the eldest one, so much, and v/as so thoughtful for me and so amiable ! — No, no, I won't be contradicted, Esther dear ! You know, you know, it's true ! " The warm-hearted darling leaned across her cousin John, and kissed me ; 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, Pack ? " asked IMr. 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 iiTcgular houses where you go up and doAvn steps out of one room into another, and where you come upon more rooms when you think you have seen all there are, and where there is a bountifid provision of little haUs and passages, and where you find still older cottage-rooms in unexpected places, with lattice windoAvs and green growth pressing through them. Mine, Avhich we entered first, was of this kind, with an up-and-down roof, that had more corners in it than I ever counted afterwai-ds, and a chimney (there was a wood-fire on the hearth) paved all round with pure white tiles, in eveiy one of which a bright miniature of the fire was blazing. Out of this room, you Avent down tAvo steps, into a chaniiing little sitting-room, looking doAvn upon a floAver- garden, Avhich room Avas henceforth to belong to Ada and me. Out of this you Avent up three steps, into Ada's bed-room, Avhich had a fine broad AvindoAv, commanding a beautifid vicAv (avc saAV a great expanse of dark- ness lying underneath the stars), to which there Avas a hoUoAV windoAV- seat, in Avhich, Avith a spring-lock, three dear Adas might have been lost at once. Out of this room, you passed into a little galleiy, Avith which BLEAK HOUSE. 47 the other best rooms (only two) communicated, and so, by a little stair- case of shallow steps, with a nmnber of corner stairs in it, considering- its length, down into the hall. But if, instead of going out at Ada's door, you came back into my room, and Avent out at the door by which you had entered it, and tui-ned up a few crooked steps that branched olf in an unexpected manner from the stairs, you lost yourself in passages, with mangles in them, and three-cornered tables, and a Native-Hindoo chair, which was also a sofa, a box, and a bedstead, and looked, in every form, something between a l3amboo skeleton and a great bird-cage, and had been brought from India nobody knew by whom or when. From these, you came on Richard's room, which was part library, part sitting-room, part bed-room, and seemed indeed a comfortable compound of many rooms. Out of that, you went straight, with a little interval of passage, to the plain room where Mr. Jarndyce slept, all the year round, with his window open, his bedstead without any furniture standing in the middle of the floor for more air, and his cold-bath gaping for him in a smaller room adjoining. Out of that, you came into another passage, where there were back-stairs, and where you could hear the horses being- rubbed down, outside the stable, and being told to Hold up, and Get over, as they slipped about very much on the uneven stones. Or you might, if you came out at another door (every room had at least two doors), go straight down to the hall again by half-a-dozen steps and a low archway, Avondering how you got back there, or had ever got out of it. The furnitiu'e, old-fashioned rather than old, like the house, AVas as pleasantly irregidar. Ada's sleeping-room Avas all floAvers — in chintz and paper, in velvet, in needle-Avork, in the brocade of tAvo stifl:" courtly chairs, Avhich stood, each attended by a little page of a stool for gTcater state, on either side of the fire-place. Om- sitting-room Avas green ; and had, framed and glazed, upon the Avails, numbers of sui-prising and sui'prised birds, staring out of pictures at a real trout in a case, as broAvn and shining as if it had been seiwed Avith gravy ; at the death of Captain Cook ; and at the Avhole process of preparing tea in China, as depicted by Chinese artists. In my room there Avere oval engTavings of the months — ladies haymaking, in short Avaists, and large hats tied under the chin, for June — smooth-legged noblemen, pointing, A\ath cocked-hats, to village steeples, for October. Half-length portraits, in crayons, abounded all through the house ; but Avere so dispersed that I found the brother of a youthful officer of mine in the china-closet, and the grey old age of my pretty young bride, Avitli a floAver in her boddice, in the breakfast room. As substitutes, I had foiu' angels, of Queen Anne's reign, taking a complacent gentleman to heaven, in festoons, Avith some difiiculty; and a composition in needle-Avork, representing fruit, a kettle, and an alphabet. All the moveables, from the Avardrobes to the chairs and tables, hangings, glasses, even to the pincushions and scent-bottles on the dressing-tables, displayed the same quaint variety. They agreed in nothing but their perfect neatness, their display of the whitest linen, and their storing-up, wheresoever the existence of a di-aAver, small or large, rendered it possible, of quantities of rose-leaves and SAveet lavender. Such, AAitli its illuminated AvindoAvs, softened here and there by shadows of cui'tains, shining out upon the star-light night ; Avith its light, and Avarmth, and comfort ; with its hospitable jingle, at a distance, of preparations for dinner ; with the 48 BLEAK HOUSE. face of its generous master brightening everytliing we saw ; and just wind enougli mthout to sound a low accompaniment to everything we heard ; were our first impressions of Bleak House. " I am glad you like it," said Mr. Jarndyce, when he had brought us round again to Ada's sitting-room. " It makes no pretensions ; but it is a comfortable little place, I hope, and wiU be more so with such bright young looks in it. You have barely half an hour before dinner. There's no one here but the finest creature upon earth — a child." " More children, Esther ! " said Ada. " I don't mean literally a child," pui'sued Mr. Jamdyce ; " not a child in years. He is grown up — he is at least as old as I am — but in simplicity, and freshness, and enthusiasm, and a fine guileless inaptitude for all worldly aft'airs, he is a perfect child." We felt that he must be very interesting. " He knows Mrs. Jellyby," said Mr. Jamdyce. " He is a musical man ; an Amateur, but might have been a Professional. He is an Artist, too ; an Amateur, but might have been a Professional. He is a man of attainments and of captivating manners. He has been imfortunate in his afi^airs, and unfortunate in his pursuits, and unfortunate in his family ; but he don't care — he's a child ! " " Did you imply that he has children of his own, sir ? " inquired Eichard. " Yes, Eick! Half-a-dozen. jMore! Nearer a dozen, I should think. But he has never looked after them. How could he ? He Avanted somebody to look after Jiim. He is a child, you know ! " said Mr. Jarndyce. " And have the childi'en looked after themselves at all, sir ? " inquired Eichard. " Why, just as you may suppose," said Mr. Jamdyce : his countenance suddenly falling. " It is said that the children of the very poor are not brought up, but dragged up. Harold Skimpole's children have tumbled up somehow or other. — The wind's getting round again, I am afraid. I feel it rather ! " Eichard observed that the situation w^as exposed on a sharp night. " It is exposed," said Mr. Jarndyce. " No doubt that's the cause. Bleak House has an exposed sound. But you are coming my way. Come along ! " Our luorsrao'c havins; arrived, and beins; all at hand, I was dressed in a few minutes, and engaged in putting my worldly goods away, when a maid (not the one in attendance upon Ada, but another whom I had not seen) brought a basket into my room, with two bunches of keys in it, aU labelled. " For you, miss, if you please," said she. , " Por me ? " said I. " The housekeeping keys, miss." I showed my surprise ; for she added, with some little surprise on her 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 bimch is the cellars, miss. Any time you was pleased to appoint to-morrow morning, I was to show you the presses and tilings they belong to.' BLEAK HOUSE. 49 I said I "vvould be ready at lialf-past six ; and, after she was gone, stood looking at the basket, quite lost in the magnitude of my trust. Ada found me thus ; and had such a deliglitfid coniidence in me when I showed her the keys, and told her aljout them, that it woidd have been insensibility and ingratitude not to feel encouraged. I knew, to be sure, that it was the dear girl's kindness ; but I liked to be so pleasantly cheated. When we went down stairs, we were presented to Mr. Skimpole, who was standing before the fire, telling Richard how fond he used to be, in his school-time, of football. He was a little bright creature, with a rather large head; but a delicate face, and a sweet voice, and there was a perfect charm in him. All he said was so free fi'om effort and spontaneous, and was said with such a captivating gaiety, that it Avas fascinating to hear him talk. Being of a more slender figure than Mr. Jarndyce, and having a richer complexion, with browner hair, he looked younger. Indeed, he had more the appearance, in all respects, of a damaged young man, tlian a well-preserved elderly one. There was an easy negligence in his manner, and even in his dress (his hair carelessly disposed, and his neck-kerchief loose and flowing, as I have seen artists paint their own portraits), which I could not sejDarate from the idea of a romantic youth who had undergone some unique process of depreciation. It struck me as being not at all like the manner or appearance of a man who hatl advanced in life, by the usual road of years, cares, and experiences. I gathered from the conversation, tliat Mr. Skimpole had been educated for the medical profession, and had once lived, in his professional capacity, in the household of a German prince. He told us, however, that as he had always been a mere child in point of weights and measures, and had never known anything about them (except that they disgusted him), he had never been able to prescribe with the requisite accuracy of detail. In fact, he said, he had no head for detail. . And he told us, with great limnour, that when he was wanted to bleed the prince, or physic any of his people, he was generally found lying on his back in bed, reading the newspapers, or making fancy-sketches in pencil, and coiddn't come. The prince, at last, objecting to this, " in which," said Mr. Skimpole, in the frankest manner, " he was perfectly right," the engagement termi- nated ; and Mr. Skimpole having (as he added with delightful gaiety) " nothing to live upon but love, fell in love, and mamed, and surrounded himself with rosy cheeks." His good friend Jarndyce and some other of his good friends then helped him, in quicker or slower succession, to several openings in life ; but to no purpose, for he must confess to two of the oddest infirmities in the world : one was, that he had no idea of time ; the other, that he had no idea of money. In consequence of which, he never kept an appointment, never could transact any business, and never knew the value of anything ! Well ! So he had got on in Hfe, and here he was ! He Avas veiy fond of reading the papers, very- fond of making fancy-sketches with a pencil, very fond of nature, very fond of art. All he asked of society Avas, to let him live. That Avasn't much. His Avants Avere few. Give him the papers, conversation, music, mutton, coftee, landscape, fruit in the season, a few sheets of Bristol-board, and a little claret, and he asked no more. He was a mere child in the Avorld, but he didn't cry for the moon. He said to the 50 BLEAK HOUSE. 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 Kve ! " All this, and a great deal more, he told us, not only with the utmost brilliancy and enjoyment, but with a certain vivacious candor — speaking of himself as if he were not at all his own afiair, as if Skimpole were a third person, as if he knew that Skimpole had his singularities, but still had his claims too, which were the general business of the community and must not be slighted. He was quite enchanting. If I felt at all confused at that early time, in endeavoiuing to reconcile anything he said with anything I had thought about the duties and accountabilities of life (which I am far from sm-e of), I was confused by not exactly miderstanding why he was fi-ee of them. That he ivas free of them, I scarcely doubted ; lie was so very clear al)out it himself. " I covet nothing," said Mr. Skimpole, in the same light way. " Pos- session is nothing to me. Here is my fiiend Jarndyce's excellent house. I feel obliged to him for possessing it. I can sketch it, and alter it. I can set it to music. When I am here, I have sufficient possession of it, and have neither trouble, cost, nor responsibility. My steward's name, in short, is Jarndyce, and he can't cheat me. We have been mentioning Mrs. Jellyby. There is a bright-eyed woman, of a strong will and immense power of business-detail, who throws herself into objects with surprising ardor ! I don't regret that I have not a strong will and an immense power of business-detail, to throw myself into objects with surprising ardor. I can admire her without envy. I can sympathise with the objects. I can di-eam of them. I can lie down on the grass — in fine weather — and lioat along an African river, embracing all the natives I meet, as sensible of the deep silence, and sketching the dense over- hanging tropical growth as accurately, as if I were there. I don't know that it's of any direct use my doing so, but it's all I can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then, for heaven's sake, having Harold Skimpole, a confiding child, petitioning you, the world, an agglomeration of practical people of business haljits, to let him live and admire the human family, do it somehow or other, like good souls, and suffer him to ride his rocking horse !" ■ It was plain enough that Mr. Jarndyce had not been neglectfid of the adjuration. Mr. Skimpole's general position there woidd have rendered 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 yoiu- power of doing what you do. It is what I should level in, myself. I don't feel any vulgar gratitude to you. I almost feel as if you ought to be gratefid to me, for giving you the oppor- tunity of enjoying the luxury of generosity. I know you like it. Por anything I can tell, I may have come into the world expressly for the pur- pose of increasing your stock of happiness. I may have been born to be a benefactor to you, by sometimes giving you an opportunity of assisting me in my little perplexities. Why should I regret my incapacity for details and worldly affairs, when it leads to such pleasant consequences ? 1 don't regret it therefore." BLEAK HOUSE. 51 Of all liis playful speeches (playful, yet always fully meaning what they expressed) none seemed to be more to the taste of Mr. Jarndyce than this. I had often new temptations, afterwards, to wonder whether it was really singular, or only singular to me, that he, who was probably the most gratefid of mankind upon the least occasion, should so desire to escape the gratitude of others. We were all enclianted. I felt it a merited tribute to the engaging- qualities of Ada and Kichard, that ]\Ir, Skimpole, seeing them for the first time, should be so unreserved, and should lay himself out to be so exquisitely agreeable. They (and especially Eichard) Avere natm-ally pleased for similar reasons, and considered it no common privilege to be so freely confided in by such an attractive man. The more we listened, the more gaily Mr. Skinq:)ole talked. And what with his fine hilarious manner, and his engaging candor, and his genial way of lightly tossing his OAvn Aveaknesses about, as if he had said, " I am a child, you know ! You are desig-ning people compared with me ;" (he really made me con- sider myself in that light) ; " but I am gay and innocent ; forget yoiu* worldly arts and play with me 1" — the effect was absolutely dazzling. He Avas so fidl of feeling too, and had such a delicate sentiment for what was beautiful or tender, that he could have won a lieait by that alone. In the evening when I Avas preparing to make tea, and Ada was touching the piano in the adjoining room and softly hmmning a tune to her cousin Richard, which they had happened to mention, he came and sat doAvn on the sofa near me, and so spoke of Ada that I almost loved him. " She is like the morning," he said. "With that golden hair, those blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she is like the simimer moraing. The birds here will mistake her for it. AVe Avill not call such a lovely yomig creature as that, Avho is a joy to all mankind, an oi-phan. She is the child of the universe." ]Mr. Jarndyce, I found, was standing near us, Avith his hands behind him, and an attentive smile upon his face. " The universe," he observed, " makes rather an indifferent parent, I am afraid." " ! I don't knoAV ! " cried jMr. Skimpole, buoyantly. " I think I do knoAV," said Mr. Jarndyce. "Well!" cried Mr. Skim])ole, " you knoAv the Avorld (Avhich in yom* sense is the universe), and I knoAv nothing of it, so you shall have yom* Avay. But if I had mine," glancing at the cousins, "there should be no brambles of sordid realities in such a path as that. It should be strewn with roses ; it should lie through boAvers, where there Avas no spring, autumn, nor AAdnter, but peiiDctual summer. Age or change shoidd never wither it. The base Avord money shoidd never be breathed near it!" Mr. Jarndyce patted him on the head AA^th a smile, as if he had been reaUy a child ; and passing a step or two on, and stopping a moment, glanced at the young cousins. His look Avas thoughtful, but had a benignant expression in it Avhich I often (Iioav often !) saAv again : which has long been engi-aven on my heart. The room in Avhich they were, communicating with that in Avliich he stood, was only lighted by the fire. Ada sat at the piano ; Eichard stood beside her, bending doAvn. Upon the Avail, theii' shadoAvs blended together, suiToimded by strange forms, e2 52 ' BLEAK HOUSE. not without a ghostly motion canght from the unsteady fire, though reflected from motionless objects. Ada touched the notes so softly, and sang so low, that the wind, sighing aAvay to the distant hills, was as audible as the music. The mystery of the future, and the little clue afforded to it by the voice of the present, seemed expressed in the whole picture. But it is not to recal this fancy, well as I remember it, that I recal the scene. First, I was not quite unconscious of the contrast, in respect of meaning and intention, between the silent look directed that way, and the flow of words that had preceded it. Secondly, though Mr. Jarndyce's glance, as he withdrew it, rested for l)ut 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 Eichard might one day enter on a dearer relationship. Mr. Skimpole coidd play on the piano, and the violoncello; and he was a composer — had composed half an opera once, but got tired of it — and played what he composed, Avith taste. After tea we had quite a little con- cert, in which Kichard — who Avas enthralled by Ada's singing, and told me that she seemed to know all the songs that ever were Aviitten — and Mr. Jarndyce, and I, w^ere the audience. After a little while I missed, first Mr. Skimpole, and afterwards Eichard ; and while I was thinking how coidd Eichard stay away so long, and lose so much, the maid who had given me the keys looked in at the door, saying, " If you please, miss, coidd you spare a minute ? " When I Avas shut out with her in the hall, she said, holding up her hands, " Oh if you ]:)lease, miss, Mr. Carstone says would you come upstairs to Mr. Skimpole's room. He has been took, miss ! " "Took?" said I. " Took, miss. Sudden," said the maid. T was apprehensive that his illness might be of a dangerous kind ; but of course, I begged her to be quiet and not disturb any one ; and collected myself, as I followed her quickly upstairs, sufficiently to consider what were the best remedies to be applied if it should prove to be a fit. She threw open a door, and I Avent into a chamber ; Avhere, to my unspeakable surprise, instead of finding ]\Ir. Skimpole stretched upon the bed, or prostrate on the floor, I found him standing before the fire smiling at Eichard, Avhile Eichard, Avith a face of great embarrassment, looked at a person on a sofa, in a Avhite great coat, Avith smooth hair upon his head and not much of it, Avliich he was Aviping smoother, and making less of, Avith a pocket-handkerchief. " Miss Summerson," said Eichard, hm-riedly, " I am glad you are come. You Avill be able to advise us. Oiu' friend, Mr. Skimpole — don't be alarmed ! — is arrested for debt." " And, really, my dear Miss Summerson," said Mr. Skimpole, with his agreeable candor, " I never Avas in a situation, in Avhich that excellent sense, and quiet habit of method and usefulness, Avhich anybody must observe in you avIio has tlu; happiness of being a quarter of an hour in your society, Avas more needed." The person on the sofn, Avho appeared to have a cold in his head, gave such a very loud snort, that he startled me. "Are you an-ested for much, sir? " I inquired of Mr. Skimpole. " My dear Miss Summerson," said he, shaking his head pleasantly, " I _-. ^ js^ '-- . 'x ^ 1 BLEAK HOUSE. 53 don't know. Some pounds, odd sliillings, and halfpence, I think, were mentioned. " It 's twenty-four pound, sixteen, and sevenpence ha'penny," obseiTed the stranger. " That 's wot it is." " And it sounds — somehow it sounds," said !Mr. Skimpole, " like a small sum ? " The strange man said nothing, but made another snort. It was such a powerful one, that it seemed quite to lift him up out of his seat. "Mr. Skimpole," said Richard to me, " has a delicacy in applying to lay cousin Jarndyce, because he has lately — I think, sir, I understood you that you had lately " " Oh, yes ! " returned Mr. Skimpole, smiling. " Though I forgot how much it was, and when it was. Jarndyce would readily do it again ; but I liave the epicui*e-like feeling that I woidd prefer a novelty in help ; that I would rather," and he looked at Eichard and me, " develop generosity in a new soil, and in a new form of flower." " What do you think will be best, Miss Simimerson ? " said Eichard, aside. I ventured to enquire generally, before replying, what would happen if tlie money were not produced. " Jail," said the strange man, coolly putting his handkerchief into his hat, which was on the floor at his feet. " Or Coavinses." " May I ask, sir, what is " *' Coavinses ? " said the strange man. " A ousc." Eichard and I looked at one another again. It was a most singular thing that the arrest was our embaiTassment, and not Mr. Skimpole's. He observed us with a genial interest ; but there seemed, if I may venture on such a contradiction, nothing selfish in it. He had entirely washed jiis hands of the difficidty, and it had become ours. " I thought," he suggested, as if good-naturedly to help us out, " that, being parties in a Chancery suit concerning (as people say) a large amount of property, ]\Ir. Eichard, or his beautiful cousin, or both, could sign something, or make over something, or give some sort of undertaking, or pledge, or bond ? I don't know what the business name of it may be, but I suppose there is some instrument within their power that would settle this?" "Not a bit on it," said the strange man. "Eeally?" returaed Mr. Skimpole. "That seems odd, now, to one who is no judge of these things ! " " Odd or even," said the stranger, gniffly, " I tell you, not a bit on it!" " Keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper ! " Mr. Skim- pole gently reasoned with him, as he made a little di*awing of his head on the fly-leaf of a book. " Don't be ruffled by yom* occupation. We can separate you from your office ; we can separate the individual from the pursuit. We are not so prejudiced as to suppose that in private life you are othein^'ise than a very estimable man, with a great deal of poetr\- in your nature, of which you may not be conscious." The stranger only answered with another violent snort ; whether in acceptance of the poetry -tribute, or in disdainfid rejection of it, he did not express to me. " Now, my dear Miss Summerson, and my dear Mr. Eichard," said 54 BLEAK HOUSE. Mr. Skimpole, gaily, innocently, and confidingly, as lie looked at his drawing vnih his head on one side ; " here yon see me utterly incapable of helping myself, and entirely in your hands ! I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not deny to Harold Skimpole Avhat it concedes to the butterflies ! " " My dear Miss Summerson," said Richard, in a Avhisper, " I have ten pounds that I received from Mr. Kenge. I must try what that will do." I possessed fifteen pounds, odd shillings, which I had saved from my quarterly alloAvance during several years. I had ahvays thought that some accident might happen which would throw me, suddenly, without any relation or any property, on the world ; and had always tried to keep some little money by me, that I might not be quite penniless. I told Richard of my having tliis little store, and having no present need of it ; and I asked him delicately to inform Mr. Skimpole, while I should be gone to fetch it, that we woidd have the pleasure of paying his debt. When I came ])ack, Mr. Skimpole kissed my hand, and seemed quite touched. Not on his own account (I was again aware of that perplexing and extraordinary contradiction), but on ours ; as if personal considerations were impossible with him, and the contemplation 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 called him), I counted out the money and received the necessary acknowledgment. This, too, delighted Mr. Skimpole. His compliments were so delicately administered, that I blushed less than I might have done ; and settled with the stranger in the white coat, Avithout making any mistakes. He put the money in his pocket, and shortly said, " Well then, I'll wish you a good evening, miss." " My friend," said Mr. Skimpole, standing with his back to the fire, after giving up the sketch wlien it was half finished, " I should like 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 this errand ? " said Mr. Skimpole. " Know'd it yes'day aft'noon at tea time," said Coavinses. " It didn't affect your appetite? Didn't make you at all imeasy?" " Not a bit," 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 a fine day. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the lights and shadows were passing across the fields, the birds were singing." " Nobody said they warn't, in ?//y hearing," returned Coavinses. " No," observed Mr. Skimpole. " But what did you tliink upon the road? " "Wot do you mean?" growled Coavinses, with an appearance of strong resentment. " Think ! I've got enough to do, and little enough to get for it, without thinking. Thinking ! " (with profound contempt.) " Then you didn't tliink, at all events," proceeded Mr. Skimpole, " to this effect. ' Harold Skimpole loves to see the sun shine ; loves to hear the Avind blow ; loves to watch the changing liglits and shadows ; loves to hear the birds, those choristers in Nature's great cathedral. And BLEAK HOUSE. 55 does it seem to me tliat I am about to deprive Harold Skimpole of his share in such possessions, which are his only birthright ! ' You thought nothing to that effect ? " " I_certainly — did — not," said Coavinses, whose doggedness in utterly renouncing the idea was of that intense kind, that he could only give aflequate expression to it by putting a long interval between each word, and accompanying the last with a jerk that might have dislocated his neck. " Vei7 odd and very curious, the mental process is, in you men of business'!" said Mr. Skimpole, thoughtfully. " Thank you, my friend, Good night." ■ As our absence had been long enough already to seem strange down stairs, I returned at once, and found Ada sitting at work by the fireside talking to her cousin John. Mr. Skimpole presently appeared, and Eichard shortly after him. I was sufficiently engaged, during the remainder of the evening, in taking my first lesson in backgammon from Mr. Jamdyce, who was very fond of the game, and from whom I wished of course to leam it as quickly as I could, in order that I might be of the veiy small use of being able to play when he had no better adversary. But I thought, occasionally wlien Mr. Skimpole played some fragments of his own "compositions ; or when, both at the piano and the \doloncello, and at our table, he preserved, with an absence of all eftbrt, his delightful spirits and his easy flow of convci'sation ; that Richard and I seemed to retain the transferred impression of having been aiTested since dinner, and that it was very ciu'ious altogether. It was late before we separated : for when Ada was going at eleven o'clock, Mr. Skimpole went to the piano, and rattled, hilariously, that the best of all ways, to lengthen our days, was to steal a few hours from Night, my dear ! It was past tAvelve before he took his candle and his radiant face out of the room ; and I think he might have kept us there, if he had seen fit, until daybreak. Ada and Eichard were lingering for a few moments by the fire, wondering whether Mrs. Jelly by 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 head and walking about with his good-humoured vexation. " What 's this, they tell me? Eick, my boy, Esther, my dear, what have you been doing ? Why did you do it ? How coidd you do it ? How much apiece was it ? — The wind's round again. I feel it all over me ! " We neither of us qidte kncAv what to answer. *' Come, Eick, come ! I must settle this before I sleep. How much are you out of pocket ? You two made the money up, you know ! Why did you? How could you? — O Lord, yes, it's due east — must be ! " " Eeally, sir," said Eichard, " I don't think it woidd be honorable in me to teU you. INIr. 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'U be in the same scrape again, next week ! " said Mr. Jarndyce, walking again at a great pace, with a candle in his hand that had gone out. " He's alvrays in the same scrape. He was born in the same scrape. I verily believe that the announcement in the 56 BLEAK HOUSE. newspapers when liis mother was confined, was ' On Tuesday last, at her residence in Botheration Buildings, Mrs. Skimpole of a son in difficulties,' " Eichard laughed heartily, but added, " Still, sir, I don't want to shake his confidence, or to break his confidence ; and if I submit to your better knowledge again, that I ought to keep his secret, I hope you will consider before you jiress me any more. Of course, if you do press me^ sir, I shall knoAv I am wrong, and will tell you." " Well ! " cried Mr. Jarndyce, stopping again, and making several absent endeavours to put his candlestick in his pocket. " I — here 1 Take it away, my dear. I don't know what I am about with it ; it's all the wind — invariably has that effect — I won't press you, Eick ; you may be right. But, really — to get hold of you and Esther — and to squeeze you like a couple of tender young Saint Michael's oranges ! — It'll blow a gale in the course of the night ! " He was now alternately putting his hands into his pockets, as if he were going to keep them there a long time ; and taking them out again, and vehemently rubbing them all over his head. I ventured to take this opportunity of hinting that Mr. Skimpole, being in aU 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 other people " " You are right ! " said Mr. Jaradyce, brightening. " Your woman's wit hits the mark. He is a cliild — an absolute child. I told you he was a child, you know, Avhen 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 in you — I mean me — " said Mr. Jarndyce, " to regard him for a moment as a man. You can't make him responsible. The idea of Harold Skimpole with designs or plans, or knoAvledge of consequences ! Ha, ha, ha ! " It was so delicious to see the clouds about his bright face clearing, and to see him so heartily pleased, and to know, as it was impossible not to know, that the source of his pleasure was the goodness Avhich was tortured by condemning, or mistrusting, or secretly 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, " to require reminding of it ! The whole business shows the child from beginning to end. Nobody but a child would have thought of singling you two out for parties in the aftair ! Nobody but a child would have thought of yom' having the money ! If it had been a thousand pounds, it woidd liave 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, Eick, Esther, and you too, Ada, for I don't know that even your little purse is safe from his inexperience — I must have a promise all round, that nothing of this sort shall ever be done any more. No advances ! Not even sixpences." BLEAK HOUSE. 57 We all promised faithfully ; Eicliard, with a merry glance at me, touching his pocket, as if to remind me that there was no danger of our transgressing. " As to Skimpole," said Mr. Jamdyce, " a habitable doll's house, with good board, and a few tin people to get into debt with and boiTow money of, would set the boy up in life. He is in a child's sleep by this time, I suppose ; it's time I shoidd take my craftier head to my more worldly pillow. Good night, my dears. God bless you ! " He peeped in again, with a smiling face, before we had lighted our candles, and said, " ! I have been looking at the Aveather-cock. I find it was a false alarm about the wind. It's in the south ! " And went away, singing to himself. Ada and I agreed, as we talked together for a little while upstairs, that this caprice about the wind was a tiction ; and that he used the pretence to account for any disappointment he could not conceal, rather than he would blame the real cause of it, or disparage or depreciate any one. AVe thought this very characteristic of his eccentric gentleness ; and of the difference between him and those petulant people who make the weather and the winds (particularly that unlucky wind which he had chosen for such a different purpose) the stalking-horses of their splenetic and gloomy humours. Indeed, so much affection for him had been added in this one evening to my gratitude, that I hoped I already began to understand him through that mingled feeling. Any seeming inconsistencies in ]Mr. Skimpole, or in Mrs. Jellyby, I could not expect to be able to reconcile ; having so little ex- perience or practical knowledge. Neither did I try ; for my thoughts were busy when I was alone, with Ada and Richard, and with the confidence I had seemed to receive concerning tliem. My fancy, made a little wild by the wind perhaps, would not consent to be all unselfish either, though I would have persuaded it to be so if I could. It wandered back to my godmother's house, and came along the intervening track, raising up shadowy speculations which had sometimes trembled there in the dark, as to what knowledge Mr. Jarndyce had of my earliest histoiy — even as to the possibility of his being my father — though that idle (beam was quite gone now. It was all gone now, I remembered, getting up from the fire. It was . not for me to muse over bygones, but to act with a cheerfid spirit and a grateful heart. So I said to myself, " Esther, Esther, Esther ! Duty, my dear ! " and gave my little basket of housekeeping keys such a shake, that they sounded like little bells, and rang me hopefidly to bed. CHAPTER VII. THE ghost's walk. While Esther sleeps, and while Esther wakes, it is stiU wet weather down at the place in Lincolnshire. The rain is ever falling, drip, drip, drip, by day and night, upon the broad flagged teiTace-pavement, The Ghost's Walk. The weather is so veiy bad, down in Lincolnshire, that 58 BLEAK HOUSE. tlie liveliest imagination can scarcely apprehend its ever being fine again. Not tliat there is any superabundant life of imagination on the spot, for Sir Leicester is not here (and, tridy, even if he Avere, would not do much for it in that pai*ticular), but is in Paris, with my Lady ; and solitude, "with dusky wings, sits brooding upon Chesney Wold. There may be some motions of fancy among the lower animals at Chesney Wold. The horses in the stables^ — -the long stables in a barren, red-brick courtyard, where there is a gi'cat bell in a turret, and a clock with a large face, which the pigeons who live near it, and who love to perch upon its shoidders, seem to be always consulting — they may con- template some mental pictm'es of fine weather, on occasions, and may be better artists at them than the grooms. The old roan, so famous for cross-comitry work, tm-ning his large eyeball to the grated window near his rack, may remember the fi'esh leaves that glisten there at other times, and the scents that stream in, and may have a fine run mth the hounds, while the human helper, clearing out the next stall, ne^v^er stirs beyond his pitchfork and birch-broom. The grey, whose place is opposite the door, and who, with an impatient rattle of his halter, pricks his ears and turns his head so wistfully when it is opened, and to whom the opener says, " Woa grey, then, steady ! Noabody wants you to-day ! " may know it quite as well as the man. The whole seemingly mono- tonous and uncompanionable half-dozen, stabled together, may pass the long wet hours, when the door is shut, in livelier communication than is held in the servants' hall, or at the Dedlock Arms ; — or may even beguile the time by improving (perhaps coiTupting) the pony in the loose-box in the corner. So, the mastiff, dozing in his kennel, in the courtyard, with his large head on his paws, may think of the hot sunshine, when the shadows of the stable-buildings tire his patience out by changing, and leave him, at one time of the day, no broader refuge than the shadow of his OAvn house, wdiere he sits on end, panting and growling short, and very much wanting something to worry, besides himself and his chain. So, now, half-waking and all-winking, he maj^ recal the house fidl of company, the coach-houses full of vehicles, the stables fidl of horses, and the out- buildings full of attendants upon horses, until he is undecided about the present, and comes forth to see how it is. Then, with that impatient shake of himself, he may growl, in the spirit, " Eain, rain, rain ! Nothing but rain, — and no family here ! " as he goes in again, and lies do\Aai with a gloomy yawn. So with the dogs in the kennel-buildings across the park, who have their restless fits, and whose doleful voices, when the wind has been verj'- obstinate, have even made it known in the house itself: up stairs, down stairs, and in my lady's chamber. They may hunt the whole country- side, while the rain-drops are pattering round their inactivity. So the rabbits with their self-l)etraying tails, frisking in and out of holes at roots of trees, may be lively with ideas of the breezy days when their ears are blown about, or of those seasons of interest when there are sweet young plants to gnaw. The turkey in the poultry-yard, always troubled with a class-grievance (probably Christmas), may be reminiscent of that summer-morning wrongfully taken from liim, when he got into the lane among the felled trees, where there was a barn and barley. The dis- contented goose, who stoops to pass under the old gateway, twenty feet BLEAK HOUSE. 59 higli, may gabble out, if- we only kne^v it, a waddling preference for weather when the gateway casts its shadow on the ground. Be this as it ma}', there is not much fancy otherwise stin'ing at Chesney Wold. If there be a little at any odd moment, it goes, like a little noise in that old echoing place, a long way, and usually leads off to ghosts and mysteiy. It has rained so hard and rained so long, down in Lincolnshire, that Mrs. EounceweU, the old housekeeper at Chesney Wold, has several times taken oft" her spectacles and cleaned them, to make certain that the drops were not upon the glasses. Mrs. RounceweU might have been sufficiently assured by hearing the rain, but that she is rather deaf, which nothing "v^ill induce her to believe. She is a fine old lady, handsome, stately, won- derfidly neat, and has such a back, and such a stomacher, that if her stays should tm'n out when she dies to have been a broad old-fashioned family fire-grate, nobody who knows her would have cause to be sui-prised. Weather aftects INIrs. EounceweU. little. The house is there in all weathers, and the house, as she expresses it, " is what she looks at." She sits in her room (in a side passage on the ground floor, with an arched window commanding a smooth quadrangle, adorned at regular inteiTals with smooth round trees and smooth round blocks of stone, as if the trees were going to play at bowls with the stones), and the whole house reposes, on her mind. She can open it on occasion, and be busy and flut- tered ; but it is shut-up nov\', and lies on the breadth of Mrs. Eouncewell's iron-bound bosom, in a majestic sleep. It is the next difficult thing to an impossibility to imagine Chesney Wold without Mrs. EounceweU, but she has only been here fifty years. Ask her how long, this rainy day, and she shaU answer ''fifty year three months and a fortnight, by the blessing of Heaven, if I live tiU Tuesday." Mr. EounceweU died some time before the decease of the pretty fashion of pig-tails, and modestly hid his own (if he took it with him) in a corner of tlie churchyard in the park, near the moiddy porch. He was bom in the market town, and so was his young widow. Her progress in the famUy began in the time of the last Sir Leicester, and originated in the still-room. The present representative of the Dedlocks is an excellent master. He supposes aU Ms dependents to be utterly bereft of individual characters, intentions, or opinions, and is persuaded that he was bom to supersede 'the necessity of their having any. If he were to make a discoveiy to the contrary, he woidd be simply stunned — would never recover himself, most Hkely, except to gasp and die. But he is an exceUent master stiU, hold- ing it a part of his state to be so. He has a great Hking for ^Irs. Eounce- weU ; he says she is a most respectable, creditable woman. He always shakes hands with her, when he comes do^^m to Chesney Wold, and when he goes away ; and if he were veiy iU, or if he were knocked down by accident, or run over, or placed in any situation expressive of a Dedlock at a disadvantage, he would say if he could speak, " Leave me, and send Mrs. EounceweU here ! " feeling his dignity, at such a pass, safer vdih. her than Avith anybody else. Mrs. EounccAveU has known trouble. She has had two sons, of whom the younger ran wild, and Avent for a soldier, and never came back. Even to this hour, Mrs. EounceAveU's cahn hands lose their composm'e when she speaks of liim, and unfolding themselves from lier stomacher, 60 BLEAK HOUSE. hover about lier in an agitated manner, as slie says, what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay, good-humoured, clever lad he was ! Her second son would have been provided for at Chesney Wold, and would have been made stcAvard in due season ; but he took, when he was a schoolboy, to constructing steam-engines out of saucepans, and setting l)irds to draw their own water, with the least possible amount of labor ; so assisting them with artful contrivance of hydraulic pressure, that a thirsty canary had only, in a literal sense, to put his shoulder to the wheel, and the job was done. This proj^ensity gave Mrs. llouncewell great uneasiness. She felt it, with a mother's anguish, to be a move in the Wat Tyler direction : well knowing that Sir Leicester had that general impression of an aptitude for any ai-t to which smoke and a tall chimney might be considered essential. But the doomed young rebel (otherwise a mild youth, and very persevering), showing no sign of grace as he got older ; but, on the contraiy, constructing a model of a power-loom, she was fain, with many tears, to mention his backslidings to the baronet. " Mrs. Rouncewell," said Sir Leicester, " I can never consent to argue, as you know, with any one on any subject. You had better get rid of your boy ; you had better get him into some Works. The iron country- farther north is, I suppose, the congenial direction for a boy with these tendencies." Farther north he went, and farther north he grew up ; and if Sir Leicester Dedlock ever saw him, Avhen he came to Chesney Wold to visit his mother, or ever tliought of him afterwards, it is certain that he only regarded him as one of a body of some odd thousand conspi- rators, swarthy and grim, who w^ere in the habit of turning out by torch- light, two or three nights in the week, for unlawful pui-poses. Nevertheless Mrs. Rouncewell's son has, in the course of nature and art, gi'own up, and established himself, and married, and called unto him Mrs. Eouncewell's grandson : who, being out of his apprenticeship, and home from a journey in far countries, whither he was sent to enlarge his knowledge and complete his preparation for the venture of this life, stands leaning against the chimney-piece this very day, in Mrs. Eouncewell's room at Chesney Wold. " And, again and again, I am glad to see you. Watt ! And, once again, I am glad to see you. Watt ! " says Mrs. Rouncewell. " You are a fine young fellow. You are like your poor uncle George. x\.h ! " Mrs. Eouncewell'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. Eouncewell folds her hands again. " He is weU?" " Thriving, grandmother, in every way." " I am thankful ! " Mrs. Eouncewell is fond of her son, but has a plaintive feeling towards him — much as if he were a very honorable soldier, who had gone over to the enemy. " He is quite happy ? " says she. " Quite." " I am thankful ! So, he has brought you up to follow in his ways, and has sent you into foreign countries and the like ? Well, he knows best. There may be a world beyond Chesney Wold that I don't understand. Though I am not young, either. And I have seen a quantity of good company too ! " BLEAK HOUSE. 61 " Grandmother," says the young man, changing the subject, " what a very pretty girl that "was, I found with you just now. You called her Rosa ? " " Yes, child. She is daughter of a widow in the village. Maids are so hard to teach, now-a-days, that I have put her about me young. She 's an apt scholar, and will do well. She shcAvs the house already, very pretty. She lives with me, at my table here." " I hope I have not diiveii her away? " " She supposes we have family affairs to speak about, I dare say. She is very modest. It is a fine quality in a young woman. And scarcer," says Mrs. Eouncewell, expanding her stomacher to its utmost limits, " than it formerly was ! " The young man inclines his head, in acknowledgment of the precepts of (;xperience. Mrs. Rouncewell listens. " Wheels ! " says she. They have long been audible to the younger ears of her companion. " What Avheels on such a day as this, for gracious 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 her rosy and yet delicate bloom, that the drops of rain, which have beaten on her hair, look like the dew upon a flower fresh-gathered. " What company is this, Eosa ? " says Mrs. RounceAvell. " It 's tAvo young men in a gig, ma'am, Avho Avant to see the house — yes, and if you please, I told them so ! " in quick reply to a gesture of dissent from the housekeeper. " I Avent to the hall door, and told them it Avas the AVTong day, and the Avrong hour ; but the young man Avho was , driving took off his hat in tlie Avet, and begged me to bring this card to you." ** " Eead it, my dear W'att," says the housekeeper. Eosa is so shy as she gives it to him, that they drop it between them, and almost knock their foreheads together as they pick it up. Eosa is shyer than before. "Mr. Guppy" is all the information the card yields. " Guppy ! " repeats Mrs. EounccAA^ell. " il/r. Guppy! Xonsense, I never heard of him ! " " If you please, he told vie that ! " says Eosa. " But he said that he and the other young gentleman came from London only last night by the mail, on business at the magistrates' meeting ten miles off, this morning; and that as their business was soon over, and they had heard a great deal said of Chesney Wold, and really didn't knoAV Avhat to do Avith them- selves, they had come through the Avet to see it. They are laAvyers. He says he is not in Mr. Tulkinghorn's office, but is sure he may make use of Mr. Tulkinghorn's name, if necessary." binding, now she leaves off, that she has been making quite a long speech, Eosa is shyer than ever. Now, Mr, Tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel of the place ; and, besides, is supposed to haA'c made Mrs. EounccAvell's will. The old lady relaxes, consents to the admission of the visitors as a favor, and dis- misses Eosa. The grandson, however, being smitten by a sudden Avish to see the house himself, proposes to join the party. The grandmother, Avho is pleased tliat he should have that interest, accompanies him — though, to do him justice, he is exceedingly unAVilling to trouble her. " Mucli obliged to you, ma'am ! " says Mr, Guppy, divesting himself of his wet di-eadnought in the hall. " Us London laAvj-ers don't often 62 BLEAK HOUSE. get an out ; and wlieii we do, we like to make the most of it, you know." The old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deportment, waves her hand towards the great staircase. Mr. Guppy and his friend follow Rosa, Mrs. E-ouncewell and her grandson follow them, a young gardener goes before to open the shutters. As is usually the case with people who go over houses, Mr. Guppy and his friend are dead beat before they have well begun. They straggle about in wrong places, look at Avrong things, don't care for the right things, gape when more rooms are opened, exhibit profound depression of spirits, and are clearly knocked up. In each successive chamber that they enter, Mrs. Rouncewell, who is as upright as the house itself, rests apart in a window seat, or other such nook, and listens with stately approval to Eosa's exposition. Her grandson is so attentive to it, that Eosa is shyer than ever — and prettier. Thus they pass on from room to room, raising the pictured Dedlocks for a few brief minutes as the young gardener admits the light, and reconsigning them to their gTaves as he shuts it out again. It appears to the afflicted Mr. Guppy and his inconsolable friend, that there is no end to the Dedlocks, whose family greatness seems to consist in their never having done anything to distinguish themselves, for seven hundred years. Even the long drawing-room of Chesney Wold cannot revive Mr. Guppy 's spirits. He is so low that he droops on the threshhold, and has hardly strength of mind to enter. But a portrait over the chimney-piece, painted by the fashionable artist of the day, acts upon liim like a charm. He recovers in a moment. He stares at it with uncommon interest ; he seems to be fixed and fascinated by it. " Dear me ! " says Mr. Guppy. " Who's that ? " "The picture over the fire-place," says Eosa, "is the portrait of the present Lady Dedlock. It is considered a perfect likeness, and the best work of the master." " 'Blest ! " says Mr. Guppy, staling in a kind of dismay at his fiiend, " if I can ever have seen her. Yet I know her ! Has the picture been engraved, miss? " " The picture has never been engraved. Sir Leicester has always refused pennission." " Well ! " says Mr. Guppy in a low voice, " I'll be shot if it an't very cm-ious how well I know that picture ! So that's Lady Dedlock, is it ! " " The picture on the right is the present Sir Leicester Dedlock. The picture on the left is his father, the late Sir Leicester." Mr. Guppy has no eyes for either of these magnates. " It's unac- countable to me," he says, stiU staring at the portrait, " how well I know that picture ! I'm dashed ! " adds Mr. Guppy, looking round, " if I don't think I must have had a dream of that picture, you know ! " As no one present takes any especial interest in IVIi-. Guppy 's dreams, the probability is not pursued. But he still remains so absorbed by the portrait, that he stands immoveable before it until the young gardener has closed the shutters ; when he comes out of the room in a dazed state, that is an odd though a sufficient substitute for interest, and foUows into the succeeding rooms with a confused stare, as if he were looking everywhere for Lady Dedlock again. He sees no more of her. He sees her rooms, which are the last BLEAK HOUSE. 63 shewn, as being very elegant, and he looks ont of the windows from which she looked out, not long ago, upon the weather that bored her to death. All tilings have an end — even houses that people take infinite pains to see, and are tired of before they begin to see them. He has come to the end of the sight, and the fresh village beauty to the end of her description ; which is always this : " The teiTace below is much admired. It is called, from an old story in the family. The Ghost's Walk." " No ?" says Mr. Guppy, gTcedily curious ; " what's the stoiy, miss ? Is it anything about a picture ? " " Pray tell us the story," says Watt, in a half whisper. " I don't know it, sir." liosa is shyer than ever. "It is not related to visitors ; it is ahnost forgotten," says the house- keeper, advancing. " It has never been more than a family anecdote." " You'U excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with a pictm'c, ma'am," observes Mr. Guppy, " because I do assm*e you that the more I think of that pictiu'e the better I know it, without knowing how I know it ! " The story has nothing to do with a picture; the housekeeper can giiarantee that. Mr. Guppy is obliged to her for the inlbiTuation ; and is, more- over, generally obliged. He retires with his friend, guided down another staircase by the young gardener ; and presently is heard to drive away. It is now dusk. Mrs. EounceweU can trust to the discretion of her two young hearers, and may tell them liow the terrace came to have that ghostly name. She seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window, and teUs them : " In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles the First — I mean, of course, in the wdcked days of the rebels who leagued themselves against that excellent King — Sir Morbmy Dedlock w^as the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there was any accoimt of a ghost in the family before those days, I can't say. I should tliink it very likely indeed." Mrs. EounceweU holds this opinion, because she considers that a family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ghost. She regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes ; a genteel distinction to which the common people have no claim. "Sir Morbury Dedlock," says ]\L's. EounceweU, "was, I have no occasion to say, on the side of the blessed martyr. But it is supposed that his lady, w^ho had none of the famUy blood in her veins, favored the bad cause. It is said that she had relations among King Charles's enemies ; that she Avas in correspondence with them ; and that she gave them information. When any of the country gentlemen w-ho foUowed His Majesty's cause met here, it is said that my Lady was always nearer to the door of their council-room than they su])posed. Do you hear a sound Uke a footstep passing along the terrace, Watt ? " Eosa draws nearer to the housekeeper. " I hear the rain-drip on the stones," repUes the young man, " and I hear a cmious echo — I suppose an echo — which is verv like a halting step." The housekeeper gravely nods and continues : " Partly on account of this di\dsion between them, and partly on other accounts, Sir Morbury and his Lady led a troubled Hfe. She was a lady of a haughty temper. They wttc not weU suited to each other in age or 64 BLEAK HOUSE. character, and they had no children to moderate between them. After her favorite brother, a young gentleman, was killed in the civil wars (by Sir Morbury's near kinsman), her feeling was so violent that she hated the race into which she had married. When the Dedlocks were about to ride out from Chesney Wold in the King's cause, she is supposed to have more than once stolen down into the stables in the dead of night, and lamed their horses ; and the story is, that once, at such an hour, her hus- band saw her gliding down the stairs, and followed her into the stall where his own favorite horse stood. There he seized her by the wrist ; and in a struggle or in a fall, or through the horse being frightened and lashing- out, she was lamed in the hip, and from that hour began to pine away." The housekeeper has dropped her voice to little more than a whisper. " She had been a lady of a handsome figure and a noble carriage. She never complained of the change ; she never spoke to any one of being crippled, or of being in pain ; but, day by day, she tried to walk upon the terrace ; and, with the help of a stick, and with the help of the stone balustrade, went up and down, up and down, up and down, in smi and shadow, with greater difficidty every day. At last, one afternoon, her husband (to whom she had never, on any persuasion, opened her lips since that night), standing at the great south window, saw her drop upon the pavement. He hastened down to raise her, but she repulsed him as he bent over her, and looking at him fixedly and coldly, said ' I win die here, where I have walked. And I will walk here, though I am in my gi-ave. I will w^alk here, until the pride of this house is humbled. And when calamity, or when disgrace is coming to it, let the Dedlocks listen for my step ! ' " Watt looks at Uosa. Eosa in the deepening gloom looks down upon the ground, half frightened, and half shy. " There and then she died. And from those days," says Mrs, Eounce- well, " the name has come down — The Ghost's Walk. If the tread is an echo, it is an echo that is only heard after dark, and is often unheard for a long while together. But it comes back, from time to time ; and so sure as there is sickness or death in the family, it will be heard then.'* " — And disgrace, grandmother — " says Watt. "Disgrace never comes to Chesney Wold," returns the housekeeper. ' Her grandson apologises, with " True. True." "That is the stoiy. Whatever the sound is, it is a wonying sound," says Mrs. Rouncewell, getting up from her chair, " and what is to be noticed in it, is, that it must be heard. My lady, who is afraid of nothing, admits that when it is there, it must be heard. You cannot shut it out. Watt, there is a tall French clock behind you (placed there, 'a pui'pose) that has a loud beat when it is in motion, and can play music. You understand how those things are managed? " "Pretty well, grandmother, I think." " Set it a going." Watt sets it a going — music and all. " Now, come hither," says the housekeeper. " Hither, child, towards my lady's pillow. I am not sure that it is dark enough yet, but listen ! Can you hear the sound upon the teiTace, through the music, and the beat, and everything ? " " I certainly can ! " " So my lady says." BLEAK HOUSE. 65 CHAPTER YIII. COVEEING A MULTITUDE OF SINS. It was interesting, when I dressed before daylight, to peep out of window, where my candles were reflected in the black panes like two beacons, and, finding all beyond still enshrouded in the indistinctness of last night, to watch how it turned out when the day came on. As the prospect gradually revealed itself, and disclosed the scene over which the wind had wandered in the dark, like my memory over my life, I had 11 pleasure in discovering the unkno^Mi objects that had been around me in my sleep. At first they were faintly discernible in the mist, and above them the later stars still glimmered. That pale iiiterk^al over, the picture began to enlarge and fill up so fast, that, at every new peep, I could have found enough to look at for an hour. Imperceptibly, my candles became the only incongruous part of the morning, the dark places in my room all melted away, and the day shone bright upon a cheerful landscape, prominent in which the old Abbey Church, with its massive toAver, threw a softer train of shadow on the view than seemed compatil)le with its nigged character. But so from rough outsides (I hope I have Icanit), serene and gentle influences often proceed. Every'- part of the house was in such order, and every one was so attentive to me, that I had no trouble with my two bunches of keys : though what with tiying to remember the contents of each little store- room drawer, and cupboard; and what with making notes on a slate about jams, and pickles, and preserves, and bottles, and glass, and china, and a great many other things ; and what with being generally a methodical, old-maidish sort of foolish little person ; I was so busy that I could not believe it was breaktast-time when I heard the bell ring. Away I ran, however, and made tea, as I had already been installed into the responsibility of the tea-pot ; and then, as they were all rather late, and nobody was down yet, I thought I would take a peep at the garden and get some knowledge of that too. I found it quite a delightfid. place ; in front, the pretty avenue and drive by which we had approached (and where, by-the-bye, we had cut up the gravel so terribly with our Avheels that I asked the gardener to roU it) ; at the back, the flower-garden, with my darling at her window up there, throwing it open to smile out at me, as if she would have kissed me from that distance. Beyond the flower- garden was a kitchen-garden, and then a paddock, and then a snug little rick-yard, and then a dear little farm-yard. As to the House itself, with its three peaks in the roof; its various-shaped AvindoAvs, some so large, some so small, and all so pretty ; its trellis-work against the south-front for roses and honey-suckle, and its homely, comfortable, welcoming look ; it was, as Ada said, when she came out to meet me with her arm through that of its master, worthy of her cousin John — a bold thing to say, though he only pinched her dear cheek for it. 66 BLEAK HOUSE. Mr. Skimpole was as agreeable at breakfast, as he had been over-night. There was honey on the table, and it led him into a discourse about Bees. He had no objection to honey, he said (and I shoidd think he had not, for he seemed to like it), but he protested against the overweening assumptions of Bees. He didn't at all see why the busy Bee should be proposed as a model to him ; he supposed the Bee liked to make honey, or he wouldn't do it — nobody asked him. It was not necessary for the Bee to make such a merit of his tastes. If every confectioner went buzzing about the world, banging against everything that came in his way, and egotistically calling upon everybody to take notice that he was going to his work and must not be interrupted, the world would be quite an insupportable place. Then, after all, it was a ridiculous position, to be smoked out of your fortune with brimstone, as soon as you had made it. You would have a very mean opinion of a Manchester man, if he spun cotton for no other purpose. He must say he thought a Drone the embodiment of a pleasanter and wiser idea. The Drone said, unaffectedly, " You will excuse me ; I reaUy cannot attend to the shop ! I find myself in a world in which there is so much to see, and so short a time to see it in, that I must take the liberty of looking about me, and begging to be provided for by somebody who doesn't want to look about him." This appeared to Mr. Skimpole to be the Drone philosophy, and he thought it a very good philosophy — always supposing the Drone to be willing to be on good terms with the Bee : which, so far as he knew, the easy feUow always was, if the consequential creature would only let him, and not be so conceited about his honey ! He pursued this fancy with the lightest foot over a variety of ground, and made us all meily ; though again he seemed to have as serious a meaning in what he said as he was capable of having. I left them still listening to him:, when I withdrew to attend to my new duties. They had occupied me for some time, and I was passing through the passages on my return Avith my basket of keys on my arm, when Mr. Jarndyce called me into a small room next his bedchamber, which I found to be in part a little library of books and papers, and in part quite a little museimi of his boots and shoes, and hat -boxes. " Sit down, my dear," said Mr. Jarndyce. " This, you must know, is the Growlery. When I am out of humour, I come and growl here." " You must be here very seldom, sir," said I. " O, you don't know me ! " he returned. " T\Tien I am deceived or disappointed in — the wind, and it's Easterly, I take refuge here. The Growlery is the best used room in the house. You are not aware of half my humours yet. My dear, how you are trembling ! " I could not help it : I tried very hard : but being alone with that benevolent presence, and meeting his kind eyes, and feeling so happy, and so honored 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 believed with an intention of jumping out, until he turned, and I was reassured by seeing in his eyes what he had gone there to hide. He gently patted me on the head, and I sat down. " There ! There ! " he said. " Tliat's over. Pooh ! Don't be foolish." BLEAK HOUSE. 67 " It sliall not happen again, sir," I retiu-necl, "but at first it is difficult " " Nonsense ! " he said, " it's easy, easy. "WTiy not ? I hear of a good little orphan girl without a protector, and I take it into my head to be that protector. She grows nji, and more than justifies my good opinion, and I remain her guardian and her friend. What is there in all this ? So, so ! Now, we have cleared oft' old scores, and I have before me thy pleasant, tnisting, trusty face again." I said to myself, " Esther, my dear, you surprise me ! This really is not what I expected of you ! " and it had such a good eftect, that I folded my hands upon my basket and quite recovered myself. Mr. Jarndyce, expressing his approval in his face, began to talk to me as confidentially, as if I had been in the habit of conversing with him every morning for I don't know how lom>:. I almost felt as if I had. " Of course, Esther," he said, " you don't understand this Chancery business?" And of course I shook my head. " I don't know who does," he returned. " The Lawyers have twisted it into such a state of bede\'ilment that the original merits of the case have long disappeared from the face of the earth. It's about a Will, and the trusts under a Will — or it was, once. It's about nothing but Costs, now. We are always appearing, and disappearing, and SAvearing, and interrogating, and filing, and cross-filing, and arguing, and sealing, and motioning, and referring, and reporting, and revolving about the Lord Chancellor and all his satellites, and equitably waltzing ourselves oft' to dusty death, about Costs. That's the great question. All the rest, by some extraordinary means, has melted away." "But it was, sir," said I, to bring him back, for he began to rub his head, "about a Will?" "Why, yes, it was about a Will when it was about anything," he returned. "A certain Jarndyce, in an evil hoiu", made a great fortune, and made a great Will. In the question how the trusts under that Will are to be administered, the fortune left by the WiU is squandered away ; the legatees under the WiU are reduced to such a miserable condition that they would be sufficiently punished, if they had committed an enormous crime in having money left them ; and the Will itself is made a dead letter. AM through the deplorable cause, everything that everybody in it, except one man, knows ali-eady, is refeiTed to that only one man who don't know it, to find out — all through the deplorable cause, eveiybody must have copies, over and over again, of everything that has accumulated about it in the way of cartloads of papers (or must pay for them witliout having them, which is the usual course, for nobody wants them) ; and must go down the middle and up again, througii such an infernal comitry-dance of costs and fees and nonsense and comiption, as was never di*eamed of in the wildest visions of a Witch's Sabbatli. Equity sends questions to Law, Law sends questions back to Equity ; Law finds it can't do this. Equity finds it can't do that; neither can so much as say it can't do anything, without this solicitor instructing and this counsel appearing for A, and that solicitor instnicting and that counsel appealing for B ; and so on through the whole alphabet, like the history of the Apple Pie. And thus, tlirough years and years, and lives and lives, F 2 68 BLEAK HOUSE. eveiything goes on, constantly beginning over and over again, and nothing 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, whether we like it or not. But it won't do to think of it ! When my great Uncle, poor Tom Jamdyce, began to think of it, it was the beginning of the end 1" . " 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 the signs of his misery upon it." , " How changed it must be now !" I said. " It had been called, before his time, the Peaks. He gave it its present name, and lived here shut up : day and night poring over the wicked heaps of papers in the suit, and hoping against hope to dis- entangle it from its mystification and bring it to a close. In the mean- time, the place became dilapidated, the ^\dnd Avhistled through the cracked walls, the rain fell through the broken roof, the weeds choked the passage to the rotting door. When I brought what remained of him home here, the brains seemed to me to have been blown out of the house too ; it was so shattered and ruined." He walked a little to and fro, after saying this to himself with a shudder, and then looked at me, and brightened, and came and sat down again with his hands in his pockets. " I told you this was the Growlery, my dear. Where was I?" I reminded him, at the hopefid change he had made in Bleak House, " Bleak House : true. There is, in that city of London there, some property of ours, which is much at this day what Bleak House was then, — I say property of ours, meaning of the Suit's, but I ought to call it the property of Costs ; for Costs is the only power on earth that will ever get anything out of it noAV, or wiU ever know it for anything but an eyesore and a heartsore. It is a street of perishing blind houses, with their eyes stoned out ; without a pane of glass, without so much as a window-frame, with the bare blank shutters tumbling from their hinges and falling asunder ; the iron rails peeling away in iiakes of rust ; the chimneys sinking in ; the stone steps to every door (and every door might be Death's Door) turning stagnant green ; the very crutches on which the ruins are propped, decaying. Although Bleak House was not in Chancery, its master was, and it was stamped with the same seal. These are the Great Seal's impressions, my dear, all over England — the childi'en know them!" " How changed it is !" I said again. " Why, so it is," he answered much more cheerfully; " and it is wisdom in you to keep me to the bright side of the picture." (The idea of my wisdom!) "These are things I never talk about, or even think about, excepting in the Growlery, here. If you consider it right to mention them to Hick 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 — 1 taxed myself with it, " Esther, now, you know you are !" — wlien he feigned to say this sbghtly, as if it were a whim, instead of a thoughtful tenderness. But I gave the BLEAK HOUSE. 69 housekeeping keys the least shake in the world as a reminder to myself, and folding my hands in a still more determined manner on the basket, looked at him quietly. " I hope, Guardian," said I, '' that you may not trust too much to my discretion. I hope you may not mistake me. I am afraid it will be a disappointment to you to know that I am not clever — but it really is the truth ; anS. you Avould soon find it out if I had not the honesty to confess it." He did not seem at all disappointed : quite the contrary. He told me, with a smile all over his face, that he knew me very well indeed, 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." "Tou are clever enough to be the good little woman of our lives here, my dear," he returned, playfully ; " the little old woman of the Cliild's (I don't mean Skimpole's) lihyme. *' ' Little old woman, and whitlier so high?' — ' To swesp the cobwebs out of the sky.' You will sweep them so neatly out of oiw sky, in the course of your housekeeping, Esther, that one of these days, we shall have to abandon the Growlery, and nail up the door." This was the beginning of my being called Old Woman, and Little Old Woman, and Cobweb, and Mrs. Shipton, and Mother Hubbard, and Dame Durden, and so many names of that sort, that my own name soon became quite lost among them. "HoAvever," said Mr. Jarndyce, "to return to our gossip. Here's Eick, a fine young fellow fidl of promise. What's to be done with him?" O my goodness, the idea of asking my advice on such a point ! " Here he is, Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce, comfortably putting his hands in his pockets and stretching out his legs. " He must have a profession ; he must make some choice for himself. There Avill be a world more Wiglomeration about it, I suj^pose, but it must be done." *' More what. Guardian ? " said I. *' More Wiglomeration," said he. " It's the only name I know for the thing. He is a ward in Chancery, my dear. Kenge and Carboy will have something to say about it ; Master Somebody — a sort of ridicidous Sexton, digging graves for the merits of causes in a back room at the end of Quality Court, Chancery Lane — will have something to say about it ; Counsel will have something to say about it ; the Chancellor will have something to say about it ; the Satellites will have something to say about it ; they Avill all have to be handsomely fee'd, all round, about it ; the whole thing will be vastly ceremonious, wordy, misatisfactoiy, and expensive, and I call it, in general, Wiglomeration. How mankind ever came to be afflicted with Wiglomeration, or for whose sins these yoimg people ever fell into a pit of it, I don't know ; so it is." He began to nib his head again, and to hint that he felt the wind. But it was a delightful instance of his kindness towards me, that whether he rubbed his head, or walked about, or did both, his face was sure to recover its benignant expression as it looked at mine; and he was sure to 70 BLEAK HOUSE. turn eomfortable again, and put liis liands in his pockets and stretcli out his legs. " Perhaps it would be best, first of all," said I, " to ask Mr. Eichard what he inclines to himself'." " Exactly so," he returned. " That's what I mean ! You know, just accustom 3rourself to talk it over, with your tact and in your quiet way, with him and Ada, and see what you all make of it. * We are sure to come at the heart of the matter by your means, little woman." I really was frightened at the thought of the importance I was attaining, and the number of things that were being confided to me. I had not meant this at all; I had meant that he should speak to Eichard. But of course I said nothing in reply, except that I woidd do my best, though I feared (I really felt it necessary to repeat this) that he thought me much more sagacious than I was. At which my guardian only laughed the pleasantest laugh I ever heard. " Come 1 " he said, rising and pushing back his chair. " I think we may have done with the Growlery for one day ! Ofily a concluding word. Esther, my dear, do you vdsk to ask me any tiling ? " He looked so attentively at me, that I looked attentively at him, and felt sure I understood him. " About myself, sir ? " said I. « Yes." " Guardian," said I, venturing to put my hand, which was suddenly colder than I could have wished, in his, " nothing ! I am quite sure that if there were anything I ought to know, or had any need to know, I should not have to ask you to tell it to me. If my whole reliance and confidence were not placed in you, I must have a hard heart indeed. I have nothing to ask you ; nothing in the world." He drew my hand through his arm, and we went away to look for Ada. Erom fhat hour I felt quite easy with him, quite unreserved, quite con- tent to know no more, quite happy. We lived, at first, rather a busy life at Bleak House ; for we had to become acquainted with many residents in and out of the neighbourhood who knew Mr. Jarndyce. It seemed to Ada and me that everybody knew him, who wanted to do anything with anybody else's money. It amazed us, when we began to sort his letters, and to answer some of them for him in the Growlery of a morning, to find how the great object of the lives of nearly all his correspondents appeared to be to form themselves into committees for getting in and laying out money. The ladies were as desperate as the gentlemen ; indeed, I think they were even more so. They threw themselves into committees in the most impassioned manner, and collected subscriptions with a vehemence quite extraordinary. It appeared to us that some of them must pass their whole lives in dealing out sub- scription-cards to the whole Post-office Directory — shilling cards, half- crown cards, half-sovereign cards, penny cards. They wanted everything. They wanted wearing apparel, they wanted linen rags, they wanted money, they wanted coals, they wanted soup, they wanted interest, they wanted autogi'aphs, they wanted flannel, they wanted whatever Mr. Jarndyce had — or had not. Their objects were as various as their demands. They were going to raise new buildings, they were going to pay off debts on old buildings, they were going to establish in a picturesque BLEAK HOUSE. 71 building (engraving of proposed West Elevation attached) tlie Sister- hood of Mediaeval Marys ; they were going to give a testimonial to Mrs. Jellyby ; they were going to have their Secretary's portrait painted, and presented to his mother-in-law, whose deep devotion to him was well known ; they were going to get up everything, I really believe, from five hundred thousand tracts to an annuity, and from a marble monument to a silver tea-pot. They took a midtitudc of titles. They were the Women of England, the Daughters of Britain, the Sisters of all the Cardinal Virtues separately, the Females of America, the Ladies of a hundred denomina- tions. They appeared to be always excited about canvassing and electing. They seemed to our poor wits, and according to their own accounts, to be constantly polling people by tens of thousands, yet never bringing their 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 rapacious benevolence (if I may use the expression), was a Mrs. Pardiggie, who seemed, 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. Pardiggie became the subject of conversation : and that it invariably interrupted Mr. Jarn- dyce, and prevented his going any farther, when he had remarked that there were two classes of charitable people ; one, the people who did a little and made a great deal of noise ; the other, the people who did a great deal and made no noise at all. We were therefore curious to see Mrs. Pardiggie, suspecting her to be a type of the former class ; and were glad when she called one day with her five young sons. She Avas a formidable style of lady, with spectacles, a prominent nose, and a loud voice, who had the effect of wanting a great deal of room. And she really did, for she knocked doAvn little chairs A\T.th her skirts that were quite a great way off. As only Ada and I were at home, we received her timidly ; for she seemed to come in like cold weather, and to make the little Pardiggles blue as they followed. " These, young ladies," said Mrs. Pardiggie, with great volubility, after the first salutations, " are my five boys. You may have seen their names in a printed subscription list (perhaps more than one), in the possession of our esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce. Egbert, my eldest (twelve), is the boy who sent out his pocket-money, to the amount offive- and-threepence, to the Tockahoopo Indians. Oswald, my second (ten- and-a-half), is the child who contributed two-and-ninepence to the Great National Smithers Testimonial. Erancis, my third (nine), one-and-six- pence-halfpenny ; Eelix, my fourth (seven), eightpence to the Super- annuated Widows ; ^Ufred, my youngest (five), has voluntarily enroUed himself in the Infant Bonds of Joy, and is pledged never, through life, to use tobacco in any form." We had never seen such dissatisfied children. It was not merely that they were weazen and shrivelled — though they were certainly that too — but they looked absolutely ferocious with discontent. At the mention of the Tockahoopo Indians, I could really have supposed Egbert to be one of the most baleful members of that tribe, he gave me such a savage frown. The face of each child, as the amount of his contribution was men- tioned, darkened in a .peculiarly vindictive manner, but his was by 72 BLEAK HOUSE. far tlie worst. I must except, however, tlie little recruit into the Infant Bonds of Joy, who was stolidly and evenly miserable. " You have been visiting, I understand," said Mrs. Pardiggle, " at Mrs. JeUyby's ? " We said yes, we had passed one night there. " Mrs. Jellyby," pursued the lady, always speaking in the same demonstrative, loud, hard tone, so that her voice impressed my fancy as if it had a sort of spectacles on too — and I may take the opportunity of remarking that her spectacles were made the less engaging by her eyes being what Ada called " choking eyes," meaning very prominent : " Mrs. Jellyby is a benefactor to society, and deserves a helping hand. My boys have contributed to the African project — Egbert, one-and-six, being the entire allowance of nine weeks ; Oswald, one-and-a-penny- halfpenny, being the same; the rest, according to their little means. Nevertheless, I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in all things. I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in her treatment of her young family. It has been noticed. It has been observed that her young family are excluded from participation in the objects to which she is devoted. She may be right, she may be wrong; but, right or wrong, this is not my course with my young family. I take them everywhere." I was afterwards convinced (and so w^as Ada) that from the ill- conditioned eldest child, these words extorted a sharp yell. He tui'ued it off into a yawn, but it began as a yeU. " They attend Matins with me (very prettily done), at half-past six o'clock in the morning all the year round, including of course the depth of winter," said Mrs. Pardiggle rapidly, " and they are with me during the revolving duties of the day. I am a School lady, I am a Visiting lady, I am a Eeading lady, I am a Distributing lady ; I am on the local Linen Box Committee, and many general Committees; and my canvassing alone is very extensive — perhaps no one's more so. But they are my companions everywhere ; and by these means they acquire that know- ledge of the poor, and that capacity of doing charitable business in general — in short, that taste for the sort of thing — which will render them in after life a service to their neighbours, and a satisfaction to themselves. My young family are not frivolous ; they expend the entire amount of their allov/ance, in subscriptions, under my direction; and they have attended as many public meetings, and listened to as many lectures, orations, and discussions, as generally fall to the lot of few grown people. Alfred (five), who, as I mentioned, has of his own election joined the Infant Bonds of Joy, was one of the very few children wdio manifested consciousness on that occasion, after a fervid address of two hours from the chairman of the evening." Alfred glowered at us as if he never could, or Avould, forgive the injury of that night. " Ton may have observed, Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Pardiggle, " in some of the lists to which I have referred, in the possession of our esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce, that the names of my young family are concluded with the name of O. A. Pardiggle, F.ll. S., one pound. That is their father. We usually observe the same routine, I put down my mite first ; then my young family enrol their contributions, according to their ages and their little means ; and then ]\Ir. Pardiggle brings up the BLEAK HOUSE. 73 rear. ^Ir. Pardiggle is liappy to tlirovv- in liis limited donation, under my direction ; and thus things are made, not only pleasant to ourselves, but, we trust, improving to others." Suppose Mr. Pardiggle were to dine with Mr. Jellyby, and suppose Mr. Jellyby were to relieve his mind after dirmer to Mr. Pardiggle, woidd Mr. Pardiggle, in return, make any confidential communication to Mr. Jellyby ? I was quite confused to find myself thinking this, but it came into my head. " You are very pleasantly situated here ! " said Mrs. Pardiggle. We were glad to change the subject ; and, going to the window, pointed out the beauties of the prospect, on which the spectacles appeared to me to rest with curious inditterence. . *' You know Mr. Gusher ? " said our visitor. We were obliged to say that we had not the pleasure of Mr. Gusher's acquaintance. " The loss is yours, I assure you," said j\Irs. Pardiggle, with her com- manding deportment. " He is a very fervid impassioned speaker — fidl of fire ! Stationed in a waggon on this lawn now, which, from the shape of the land, is naturally adapted to a public meeting, he would improve almost any occasion you could mention for hours and hours ! By this time, young ladies," said Mrs. Pardiggle, moving back to her chair, and overturning, as if by invisible agency, a little round table at a considerable distance with my work-basket on it, " by this time you have found me out, I dare say? " This was really such a confusing question that Ada looked at mo in perfect dismay. As to the guilty nature of my own consciousness, after what I had been thinking, it must have been expressed in the color of my cheeks. " Found out, I mean," said Mrs. Pardiggle, " the prominent point in my character. I am aware that it is so prominent as to be discoverable immediately. I lay myself open to detection, I know. Well ! I freely admit, I am a woman of business. I love hard work ; I enjoy hard work. The excitement does me good. I am so accustomed and inured to hard work, that I don't know what fatigue is." We murmured that it was veiy astonishing and very gratifying ; or something to that effect. I don't think we knew wliy it was either, but this was what our politeness expressed. " I do not understand what it is to be tired ; you cannot tire me if you try ! " said j\Irs. Pardiggle. " The quantity of exertion (which is no exertion to me), the amount of business (which I regard as nothing) that I go through, sometimes astonishes myself. I have seen my yomig family, and ]\Ir. Pardiggle, quite worn out with witnessing it, when I may truly say I have been as fresh as a lark ! " If that dark-visaged eldest boy could look more malicious than he had already looked, this was the time when he did it. I observed that he doubled his right fist, and delivered a secret blow into the crown of his cap, which was under his left arm. " This gives me a great advantage when I am making my rounds," said Mrs. Pardiggle. " If I find a person unwilling to hear what I have to say, I tell that person directly, ' I am incapable of fatigue, my good friend, I am never tired, and I mean to go on until I have done.' It 74 BLEAK HOUSE. answers admirably ! Miss Siimmerson, I hope I shall have your assistance in my visiting rounds immediately, and Miss Clare's very soon ? " At first I tried to excuse myself, for the present, on the general ground of having occupations to attend to, which I must not neglect. But as this was an ineffectual protest, I then said, more particularly, that I was not sure of my qualifications. That I was inexperienced in the art of adapting my mind to minds very differently situated, and address- ing them from suitable points of view. That I had not that delicate knowledge of the heart which must be essential to such a work. That I had much to learn, myself, before I coidd teach others, and that I could not confide in my good intentions alone. For these reasons, I thought it best to be as usefid as I coidd, and to render what kind services I coidd, to those immediately about me ; and to try to let that circle of duty gradually and natui-ally expand itself. All this I said, with anything but confidence ; because Mrs. Pardiggle was much older than I, and had great experience, and was so very military in her manners. " You are wrong, Miss Summerson," said she : " but perhaps you are not equal to hard work, or the excitement of it ; and that makes a vast difference. If you woidd like to see how I go through my work, I am now about — with my young family — to visit a brickmaker in the neigh- bourhood (a very bad character), and shall be glad to take you with me. Miss Clare also, if she will do me the favour." Ada and I interchanged looks, and, as we were going out in any case, accepted the offer. When we hastily returned from putting on our bonnets, we found the young family languishing in a corner, and Mrs. Pardiggle sweeping about the room, knocking down nearly all the light objects it contained. Mrs. Pardiggle took possession of Ada, and I followed with the family. Ada told me afterwards that Mrs. Pardiggle talked in the same loud tone (that, indeed, I overheard), all the way to the brickmaker's, about an exciting contest which she had for two or three years waged against another lady, relative to the bringing in of their rival candidates for a pension somewhere. There had been a quantity of printing, and promising, and proxying, and polling ; and it appeared to have imparted great liveliness to all concerned, except the pensioners — who were not elected yet. I am very fond of being confided in by childi'en, and am happy in being usually favored in that respect, but on this occasion it gave me great uneasiness. As soon as we were out of doors, Egbert, with the manner of a little footpad, demanded a shilling of me, on the ground that his pocket-money was " boned " from him. On my pointing out the great impropriety of the word, especially in connexion with his parent (for he added sidkily " By her ! "), he pinched me and said " O then ! Now ! Who are yoii ! Yoic wouldn't like it, I think ? What does she make a sham for, and pretend to give me money, and take it away again? Why do you call it rat/ allowance, and never let me spend it?" These exasperating questions so inflamed his mind, and the minds of Oswald and Francis, that they all pinched me at once, and in a dreadfully expert way : screwing up sucli little pieces of my arms that I coidd hardly forbear crying out. Felix, at the same time, stamped upon my toes. And the Bond of Joy, who, on account of always having the whole of his little BLEAK HOUSE. 79 income anticipated, stood in fact pledged to abstain from cakes as well as tobacco, so swelled with grief and rage when we passed a pastry-cook's shop, that he terrified me by becoming purple. I never underwent so much, both in body and mind, in the course of a Avalk with young people, as from these unnaturally constrained children, when they paid me the compliment of being natural. I Avas glad when we came to the brickmaker's house ; though it was one of a cluster of wTetched hovels in a brickfield, with pigsties close to the broken windows, and miserable little gardens before the doors, growing nothing but stagnant pools. Here and there, an old tub was put to catch the droppings of rain-water from a roof, or they were banked up with mud into a little pond like a large dirt-pie. At the doors and windows, some men and women lounged or prowled about, and took little notice of us, except to laugh to one another, or to say something as we passed, about gentlefolks minding their own business, and not troubling their heads and muddying their shoes with coming to look after other people's. Mrs. Pardiggle, leading the way with a great show of moral deter- mination, and talking with much volubility about the untidy habits of the people (though I doubted if the best of us could have been tidy in such a place), conducted us into a cottage at the farthest comer, the gi'ound- floor room of which Ave nearly filled. Besides ourselves, there were in this damp oftensive room — a woman with a black eye, nursing a poor little gasping baby by the fire ; a man, all stained Avith clay and mud, and looking very dissipated, lying at full length on the ground, smoking a pipe ; a powerfid young man, fastening a collar on a dog ; and a bold girl, doing some kind of Avashing in very dirty Avater. They all looked up at us as we came in, and the Avoman seemed to turn her face toAvards the fire, as if to hide her bruised eye ; nobody gave us any welcome. "WeU, my fi'iends," said Mrs. Pardiggle; but her voice had not a friendly sound, I thought ; it was much too business-like and systematic. " How do you do, all of you ? I am here again. I told you, you couldn't tire me, you know. I am fond of hard work, and am true to my word." " There an't," growled the man on tht ]loor, whose head rested on his hand as he stared at us, " any more on you to come in, is there ? " " No, my fi'iend," said ]\Ii's. Pardiggle, seating herself on one stool, and knocking down another. " We are all here." "Because I thought there Avarn't enough of you, perhaps?" said the man, Avith his pipe betAveen his lips, as he looked round upon us. The young man and the giii both laughed. Tavo friends of the young men Avhom Ave had attracted to the doorAvay, and Avho stood there AAitli their hands in their pockets, echoed the laugh noisily. " You can't tire me, good people," said Mrs. Pardiggle to these latter. " I enjoy hard Avork ; and the harder you make mine, the better I like it." "Then make it easy for her !" growled the man upon the floor. "I wants it done, and over. I Avants a end of these liberties took A^"ith my place. I Avants a end of being drawed like a badger. Noav you're a going to poll-pry and question according to custom — I knoAv Avhat you're a going to be up to. Well ! You haven't got no occasion to be iip to it. I'll saAT you the trouble. Is my daughter a Avashin ? Yes, she is 76 BLEAK HOUSE. a wasliin. Look at the water. Smell it ! That's wot we drinks. How do you like it, and what do you 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 had five dirty and onwholesome children, as is all dead infants, and so much the better for them, and for us besides. Have I read the little book wot you left ? No, I an't read the little book wot you left. There an't nobody here as knows how to read it ; and if there wos, it wouldn't be suitable to me. It's a book lit for a babby, and I 'm not a babby. If you was to leave me a doU, I shouldn't nuss it. How have I been conducting of myself? Why, I've been drunk for three days; and I'd a been drunk four, if I'd a had the money. Don't I never mean for to go to church ? No, I don't never mean 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 mfe get that black eye ? Why, I giv' it her ; and if she says I didn't, she's a Lie !'" He had pulled his pipe out of his mouth to say all this, and he now turned over on his other side, and smoked again. Mrs. Pardiggle, who had been regarding him through her spectacles with a forcible composure, calcidated, I could not help thinking, to increase his antagonism, pulled out a good book, as if it were a constable's staff, and took the whole family into custody. I mean into religious custody, of course ; but she really did it, as if she Avere an inexorable moral Policeman carrying them all off to a station house. Ada and I were very uncomfortable. We both felt intrusive and out of place ; and we both thought that Mrs. Pardiggle would have got on iniinitely better, if she had not had such a mechanical way of taking possession of people. The children sulked and stared ; the family took no notice of us whatever, except when the young man made the dog bark : which he usually did, when Mrs. Pardiggle was most emphatic. We both felt painfully sensible that between us and these people there was an iron barrier, which could not be removed by our new friend. By whom, or how, it could be removed, we did not know ; but we knew that. Even what she read and said, seemed to us to be ill chosen for such auditors, if it had been imparted ever so modestly and with ever so much tact. As to the little book to which the man on the floor had referred, we acquired a knowledge of it afterwards ; and Mr. Jarndyce said he doubted if Kobinson Crusoe could have read it, though he had had no other on his desolate island. We were much relieved, under these circumstances, when Mrs. Pardiggle left oft". The man on the floor then tm'ning his head round again, said morosely, " Well ! You've done, have you? " *' For to-day, I have, my friend. But I am never fatigued. I shall come to you again, in your regular order," returned Mrs. Pai'diggle with demonstrative cheerfidness. " So long as you goes now," said he, folding his arms and shutting his eyes with an oath, "you may do wot you like ! " Mrs. Pardiggle accordingly rose, and made a little vortex in the conflned room from which the pipe itself very narrowly escaped. Taking one of her young family in each hand, and telling the others to foUow closely, and expressing her hope that the brickmaker and aU his house BLEAK HOUSE. 77 would be improved when slie saw tliem next, she then proceeded to another cottage. I hope it is not unkind in me to say that she certainly did make, in this, as in everything else, a show that was not conciliatory, of doing charity by wholesale, and of dealing in it to a large extent. She supposed that we were following her ; but as soon as the space was left clear, we approached the woman sitting by the fire, to ask if the baby were ill. She only looked at it as it lay on her lap. We had observed before, that when she looked at it she covered her discolored eye with her hand, as though she wished to separate any association with noise and violence and ill-treatment, from the poor little child. Ada, whose gentle heart was moved by its appearance, bent down to touch its little face. As she did so, I saw what happened and drew her back. The child died. " Esther ! " cried Ada, sinking on her knees beside it. " Look here ! O Esther, my love, the little thing ! The suffering, quiet, pretty little thing ! I am so sorry for it. I am so sony for the mother. I never saw a sight so pitiful as this before ! O baby, baby ! " Such compassion, such gentleness, as that with w^hicli she bent down weeping, and put her hand upon the mother's, might have softened any mother's heart that ever beat. The woman at first gazed at her in astonishment, and tlien burst into tears. Presently I took the light burden from her lap ; did what I could to make the baby's rest the prettier and gentler ; laid it on a shelf, and covered it with my own handkerchief. We tried to comfort the mother, and we whispered to her what Our Saviour said of chikben. She answered nothing, but sat weeping — v,Teping very much. When I turned, I found that the young man had taken out the dog, and was standing at the door looking in upon us ; with dry eyes, but quiet. The girl was quiet too, and sat in a corner looking on the ground. The man had risen. He still smoked his pipe with an air of defiance, but he was silent. An ugly woman, very poorly clothed, hurried in while I was glancing at them, and coming straight up to the mother, said, " Jenny ! Jenny ! " The mother rose on being so addressed, and fell upon the woman's neck. ' She also had upon her face and arms the marks of ill-usage. She had no kind of grace about her, but the grace of sympathy ; but when she condoled with the woman, and her own tears fell, she wanted no beauty. 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 and shabby and l)eaten, so united ; to see what they could be to one another ; to see how they felt for one another ; how the heart of each to each was softened by the hard trials of their lives. I think the best side of such people is almost hidden from us. What the poor are to the poor is little known, excepting to themselves and God. We felt it better to withdraw and leave them uninternipted. We stole out quietly, and without notice from any one except the man. He was leaning against the wall near the door ; and finding that there was scarcely room for us to pass, went out before us. He seemed to want to hide 78 BLEAK HOUSE. that lie did tliis on our account, but we perceived that he did, and thanked him. He made no answer. , Ada was so full of grief all the way home, and Eichard, whom we found at home, was so distressed to see her in tears (though he said to me when she was not present, hoAV beautiful it was too !) that we arranged to return at night with some little comforts, and repeat oiu- visit at the brickmaker's house. We said as little as we coidd to Mr. Jarndyce, but the wind changed directly. Eichard accompanied us at night to the scene of our morning expe- dition. On our way there, we had to pass a noisy diinking-house, where a number of men were flocking about the door. Among them, and prominent in some dispute, was the father of the little child. At a short distance, we passed the young man and the dog, in congenial company. The sister was standing laughing and talking with some other young women, at the corner of the row of cottages ; but she seemed ashamed, and turned away as we went by. We left our escort within sight of the brickmaker's dwelling, and proceeded by ourselves. When Ave came to the door, we found the woman who had brought such consolation with her, standing there, looking anxiously out. " It's you, young ladies, is it ? " she said in a whisper. " I'm a watching for my master. My heart's in my mouth. If he was to catch me away from home, he'd pretty near murder me." " Do you mean your husband ? " said I. " Yes, miss, my master. Jenny's asleep, qmte worn out. She's scarcely had the child off her lap, poor thing, these seven days and nights, except when I've been able to take it for a minute or two." As she gave way for us, we went softly in, and put what we had brought, near the miserable bed on which the mother slept. No eftbrt had been made to clean the room — it seemed in its nature almost hopeless of being clean ; but the small waxen form, from which so much solemnity diffused itself, had been composed afresh, and washed, and neatly dressed in some fragments of white linen ; and on my handkerchief, which still covered the poor baby, a little bunch of sweet herbs had been laid by the same rough scarred hands, so lightly, so tenderly ! *'May Heaven reward you!" we said to her. "You are a good woman." "^e, young ladies?" she retm-ned with sui'prise. "Hush! Jenny, Jenny !" The mother had moaned in her sleep, and moved. The sound of the familiar voice seemed to calm her again. She was quiet once more. How little I thought, when I raised my handkerchief to look upon the tiny sleeper underneath, and seemed to see a halo shine around the child through Ada's drooping hair as her pity bent her head — how little I thought in whose unquiet bosom that handkerchief woidd come to lie, after cover- ing the motionless and peaceful breast ! I only thought that perhaps the Angel of the child might not be all unconscious of the woman who replaced it with so compassionate a hand ; not all unconscious of her presently, when we had taken leave, and left her at the door, by turns looking, and listening in terror for herself, and saying in her old soothing manner, "Jenny, Jenny!" BLEAK HOUSE. 79 CHAPTER IX. SIGNS AND TOKENS. I don't know how it is, I seem to be always writing about myself. I mean all the time to write about other people, and I try to think about myself as little as possible, and I am sure, when I find myself 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 write, will understand that if these pages contain a great deal about me, I can only suppose it must be because I have really something to do with them, and can't be kept out. My darling and I read together, and worked, and practised; and found so much employment for om* time, that the A\dnter days flew by us like bright-winged birds. Generally in the afternoons, and always in the evenings, Richard gave us his company. Although he was one of the most restless creatures in the world, he certainly was very fond of our society. ' He was very, very, very fond of Ada. I mean it, and I had better say it at once. I had never seen any young people falling in love before, but I found them out quite soon. I could not say so, of coui'se, or show that I knew anything about it. On the contrary, I was so demui'e, and used to seem so imconscious, that sometunes I con- sidered within myself while I was sitting at work, whether I was not growdng quite deceitful. But there was no help for it. All I had to do was to be quiet, and I was as quiet as a mouse. They were as quiet as mice, too, so far as any words were concerned; but the innocent manner in which they relied more and more upon me, as they took more and more to one another, was so charming, that I had great difficulty in not showing how it interested me. ^ " Our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman," Richard would say, coming np to meet me in the garden early, with his pleasant laugh and perhaps the least tinge of a blush, " that I can't get on without her. Before I begin my harum-scarum day — giinding av,^"^ at those books and instrimients, and then galloping up hill and down dale, all the country round, like a highwayman — it does me so much good to come and have a steady walk with oiu- comfortable friend, that here I am again !" " You know, Dame Burden, dear," Ada Avoidd say at night, with her head upon my shoulder, and the firelight shining in her thoughtful eyes, *' I don't want to talk when we come up-stairs here. Only to sit a little wdiile, thinking, with your dear face for company; and to hear the wind, and remember the poor sailors at sea " Ah ! Perhaps Richard was going to be a sailor. We had talked it over verv often, now, and there was some talk of o-ratifvino; the inclination of his childhood for the sea, IMr. Jarndyce had written 80 BLEAK HOUSE. to a relation of the family, a great Sir Leicester Dedlock, for his interest in Eichard's favor, generally ; and Sir Leicester had replied in a gracious manner, " that he woidd be happy to advance the prospects of the young gentleman if it should ever prove to be within his power, which was not at all probable — and that my Lady sent her compliments to the young gentleman (to whom she perfectly remembered that she was allied by remote consanguinity), and trusted that he would ever do his duty in any honorable profession to which he might devote himself." -V "So I apprehend it's pretty clear, "said Eichard to me, "that I shall have to work my own way. Never mind ! Plenty of people have had to do that before now, and have done it. I only wish I had the command of a clipping privateer, to begin with, and could carry off the Chancellor and keep him on short allowance until he gave judgment in our cause. He'd find himself growing thin, if he didn't look sharp ! " With a buoyancy and hopefulness and a gaiety that hardly ever flagged, Eichard had a carelessness in his character that qidte perplexed me — principally because he mistook it, in such a very odd way, for prudence. It entered into all his calculations about money, in a singular manner, which I don't think 'I can better explain than by reverting for a moment to our loan to Mr. Skimpole. Mr, Jarndyce had ascertained the amount, either, from Mr. Skimpole himself or from Coavinses, and had placed the money in my hands with instructions to me to retain my own part of it and hand the rest to Eichard. The number of little acts of thoughtless expenditure which Eichard justified by the recovery of his ten pounds, and the nmnber of times he talked to me as if he had saved or realised that amount, woidd form a sum in simple addition. " My pi-udent Mother Hubbard, why not?" he said to me, when he wanted, without the least consideration, to bestow five pounds on the brickmaker. " 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 rid of, and never expected to see any more. You don't deny that?" " No," said I. " Very well ! Then I came into possession of ten pounds — " "The same ten pounds," I hinted. "•That has nothing to do with it!" returned Eichard. " 1 have got ten pounds more than I expected to have, and consequently I can afford to spend it without being particidar." In exactly the same Avay, when he was persuaded out of the sacrifice of these five pounds by being convinced that it woidd do no good, he carried that simi to his credit and drew upon it. "Let me see!" he would say. "I saved five pounds out of the brickmaker's aftair ; so, if I have a good rattle to London and back in a post-chaise, and put that down at four pounds, I shall have saved one. And it's a very good thing to save one, let me tell you : a penny saved, is a penny got ! " I believe Eichard's was as fraidc and generous a nature as there possibly can be. He was ardent and bra\'e, and, in the midst of all his BLEAK HOUSE. 81 wild restlessness, was so gentle, tliat I knew him like a brother in a few weeks. His gentleness was natural to him, and would have shown itself, abundantly, even without Ada's influenee ; but, with it, he became one of the most winning of companions, always so ready to be interested, and always so happy, sanguine, and light-hearted. I am sure that I, sitting with them, and walking with them, and talking with them, and noticing from day to day how they went on, falling deeper and deeper in love, and saying nothing about it, and each shyly thinking that this love was the greatest of secrets, perhaps not yet suspected even by the other — I am sure that I was scarcely less enchanted than they were, and scarcely less pleased with the pretty dream. We were going on in this 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 with evident pleasure, announcing to us, in a parenthesis, when he was about half-way through, that Boythorn was "coming down" on a visit. Now, who was Boythorn ? Ave all thought. And I dare say we all thought, too— I am sui-e I did, for one — would Boythorn at all interfere 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 than hve-and-forty years ago. He was then the most impetuous boy in the Avorld, and he is now the most impetuous man. He was then the loudest boy in the world, and he is now the loudest man. He Avas then the heartiest and stiu'diest boy in the Avorld, and he is noAV the heartiest and sturdiest man. He is a tremendous felloAV." " In stature, sir ? " asked Richard. " Pretty aa^cII, Eick, in that respect," said Mr. Jarndyce ; " being some ten years older than I, and a couple of inches taller, Avith his head thro^^ n back like an old soldier, his stabvart chest squared, his hands like a clean blacksmith's, and his lungs ! — there's no simile for liis lungs. Talking, laughing, or snoring, they make the beams of the house shake." As Mr. Jarndyce sat enjoying the image of his friend Boythorn, Ave observed the favorable omen that there Avas not the least indication of any change in the Avind. " But it's the inside of the man, the Avarm heart of the man, the passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man. Rick— and Ada, andbttle Cobweb too, for you are all interested in a visitor ! — that I speak of," he pur- sued. " His language is as sounding as his voice. He is alAA'ays in extremes ; pei-petually in the superlative degree. In his condemnation he is all ferocity. You might suppose him to be an Ogre, from what ho says ; and I believe he has the reputation of one Avith some people. There ! I tell you no more of him beforehand. You must not be sm*- prised to see him take me under his protection ; for he has never forgotten that I was a low boy at school, and that our friendship began in his knocking tAVo of my head tyrant's teeth out (he says six) before breakfast. Boythorn and his man," to me, " aa^IIL be here this afternoon, my dear." I took care that the necessaiy preparations were made for jMr. Boy- thorn's reception, and Ave looked forAvard to his arrival Avdth some curiosity. The afternoon Avore aAvay, however, and he did not appear. The dinner-hoiu- arrived, and still he did not appear. The dinner Avas G 8'^ BLEAK HOUSE. put back an hour, and we were sitting round the iire with no light hut the blaze, when the hall-door suddenly burst open, and the hall resounded with these words, uttered with the greatest vehemence and in a stentorian tone : " We have been misdirected, Jarndyce, by a most abandoned ruffian, who told us to take the turning to the right instead of to the left. He is the most intolerable scoundrel on the face of the earth. His father must have been a most consummate villain, ever to have had such a son. I would have that fellow shot without the least remorse ! " " Did he do it on purpose ? " Mr. Jarndyce enquired. " I have not the slightest doubt that the scoundrel has passed his whole existence in misdirecting travellers ! " returned the other. " By my sold, I thought him the worst-looking dog I had ever beheld, when he was telling me to take the turning to the right. And yet I stood before that fellow face to face, and didn't knock his brains out ! " " Teeth, you mean ? " said Mr. Jarndyce. " Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, really making the whole house vibrate. " What, you have not forgotten it yet ! Ha, ha, ha ! — And that was another most consummate vagabond ! By my soul, the countenance of that fellow, when he was a boy, was the blackest image of perfidy, cowardice, and cruelty ever set up as a scarecrow in a field of scoundrels. If I were to meet that most unparalleled despot in the streets to-morrow, I woidd fell him like a rotten tree ! " " I have no doubt of it," said Mr. Jarndyce. " Now, will you come up-stairs ? " " By my soul, Jarndyce," returned his guest, who seemed to refer to his watch, " if you had been married, I woidd have turned back at the garden gate, and gone away to the remotest summits of the Himalaya Moun- tains, sooner than I woidd have presented myself at this unseasonable hour." " Not quite so far, I hope ? " said Mr. Jarndyce. "By my life and honor, yes!" cried the visitor. "I wouldn't be guilty of the audacious insolence of keeping a lady of the house waiting- all this time, for any earthly consideration. I would infinitely rather destroy myself — infinitely rather ! " Talking thus, they went up-stairs ; and presently we heard him in his bedroom thundering " Ha, ha, ha ! " and again " Ha, ha, ha ! " until the flattest echo in the neighbourhood seemed to catch the contagion, and to laugh as enjoyingly as he did, or as we did when we heard him laugh. We all conceived a prepossession in his favor ; for there was a sterling- quality in this laugh, and in his vigorous healthy voice, and in the roundness and fulness with which he uttered every word he spoke, and in the very fury of his superlatives, which seemed to go off like blank cannons and hurt nothing. But we were hardly prepared to have it so confirmed by his appearance, when Mr, Jarndyce presented him. He was not only a very handsome old gentleman — upright and stalwart as he had been described to us — with a massive grey head, a fine composure of face when silent, a figure that might have become corpulent but for his being so continually in earnest that he gave it no rest, and a chin that might have subsided into a double chin but for the vehement emphasis in Avhich it was constantly required to assist ; but he was such a true gentleman in his manner, so chivalrously polite, his face was lighted by a smile of so much sweetness and tenderness, and it seemed so plain that he had nothing to hide, but BLEAK HOUSE. 83 showed. himself exactly as he was — incapable (as Eichard said) of anything on a limited scale, and firing -away with those blank gTcat guns, because he carried no small arms wliatever — that really I could not help looking at him with equal pleasiu*e 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 his head like a blood-hound, 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 the other. " He is the most wonderful creature ! I wouldn't take ten thousand guineas for that bird. I have left an annuity for his sole sup- port, in case he should outlive me. He is, in sense and attachment, a phenomenon. And his father before him was one of the most astonishing- birds that ever lived ! " The subject of this laudation was a very little canary, who was so tame that he was brought down by Mr. Boythorn's man, on his forefinger, and, after taking a gentle flight round the room, alighted on his master's head. To hear Mr. Boythorn presently expressing the most implacable and passionate sentiments, with this fragile mite of a creature qidetly perched on his forehead, was to have a good illustration of his character, I thought. " By my soul, Jarndyce," he said, very gently holding up a bit of bread to the canary to peck at, "if I were in your place, I would seize every Master in Chancery by the throat to-morrow morning, and shake him until his money rolled out of his pockets, and his bones rattled in his skin. I woijld have a settlement out of somebody, by fair means or by foul. If you would empower me to do it, I would do it for you with the gi'catest satisfaction ! " (All this time, the very small canary was eating out of his hand.) "I thank you, Lawrence, but the suit is hardly at such a point at present," retm'ned Mr. Jarndyce, laughing, " that it would be greatly advanced, even by the legal process of shaking the Bench and the wliole Bar." " There never was such an infernal cauldi'on as that Chancery, on the face of the earth ! " said IMr. Boythorn. " Nothing but a mine below it on a busy day in term time, "with all its records, rides, and precedents collected in it, and every functionary belonging to it also, high and low, upward and dov/nward, from its son the Accountant-General to its father the Devil, and the whole blown to atoms with ten thousand hundi'ed- weight of gunpowder, would reform it in the least ! " It was impossible not to laugh at the energetic gravity with which he recommended this strong measure of reform. When we laughed, he threw up his head and shook his broad chest, and again the whole country seemed to echo to his Ha, ha, ha ! It had not the least effect in disturbing the bird, whose sense of security was complete ; and who hopped about the table Avith its qidck head now on this side and now on that, turning its bright sudden eye on its master, as if he were no more than another bird. " But how do you and your neighbour get on about the disputed right of way ? " said Mr. Jarndyce. " You are not free fi-om the toils of the law yourself." " The fellow has brought actions against 7ne for trespass, and I have G 2 84 BLEAK HOUSE. brougM actions against Mm for trespass," j-^turned Mr. Boythorn. " By Heaven, he is the proudest fellow breathing-. It is morally impossible that his name can be Sir Leicester. It must be Sir Lucifer." " Complimentary to our distant relation ! " said my Guardian laughingly, to Ada and Richard. " I woidd beg Miss Clare's pardon and Mr. Carstone's pardon," resumed our visitor, " if I were not reassured by seeing in the fair face of the lady, and the smile of the gentleman, that it is quite unnecessary, and that they keep their distant relation at a comfortable distance." *' Or he keeps us," suggested Eichard. " By my soul ! " exclaimed Mr. Boythorn, suddenly firing another volley, " that feUow is, and his fatlier was, and his grandfather was, the most stiff-necked, arrogant, imbecile, pig-headed numskuU, ever, by some inexplicable mistake of Nature, born in any station of life but a walking- stick's ! The whole of that family are the most solemnly conceited and consummate blockheads ! — But it's no matter ; he should not shut up my path, if he were fifty baronets melted into one, and living in a hundred Chesney Wolds, one within another, like the ivory balls in a Chinese carving. The fellow, by his agent, or secretary, or somebody, writes to me, ' Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, presents his compliments to Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, and has to call his attention to the fact that the green pathway by the old parsonage-house, now the property of Mr. Lawi'ence Boythorn, is Sir Leicester's right of way, being in fact a portion of the park of Chesney Wold; and that Sir Leicester finds it convenient to close up the same.' I write to the fellow, ' Mr. Lawrence Boythorn presents his compliments to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and has to call his attention to the fact that he totally denies the whole of Sir Leicester Dedlock's positions on every possible subject, and has to add, in reference to closing up the pathway, that he will be glad to see the man who may undertake to do it.' The fellow sends a most abandoned villain with one eye, to construct a gateway. I play upon that execrable scoundrel with a fire-engine, until the breath is nearly driven out of his body. The fellow erects a gate in the night. I chop it down and burn it in the morning. He sends his myrmidons to come over the fence, and pass and repass. I catch them in humane man-traps, fire split peas at their legs, play upon them with the engine — resolve to free mankind from the insupportable burden of the existence of those lurking ruffians. He brings actions for trespass ; I bring actions for trespass. He brings actions for assaidt and battery ; I defend them, and continue to assaidt and batter. Ha, ha, ha ! " To hear him say all this with unimaginable energy, one might have thought him the angriest of mankind. To see him, at the very same time, looking at the bird now perched upon his thumb, and softly smoothing its feathers with his forefinger, one might have thought him the gentlest. To hear him laugh, and see the broad good-natm-e of his face then, one might have supposed that he had not a care in the world, or a dispute, or a dislike, but that his whole existence was 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, "that Lady Dedlock is the most accomplished lady in the world, to whom I would do any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet with a head BLEAK IIOTJSE. 85 seven liundred years thick, may. A man who joined his regiment at twenty, and, within a week, challenged the most imperious and pre- sumptuous coxcomb of a commanding officer that ever drew the breath of life through a tight Avaist — and got broke for it — is not the man to be walked over, by all the Sir Lucifers, dead or alive, locked or unlocked. Ha, ha ! ha," " Nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over, either? " said my Guardian. " Most assuredly not ! " said Mr. Boy thorn, clapping him on the shoulder with an aii- of protection, that had something serious in it, though he laughed. " He will stand by the low boy, always. Jamdyce, you may rely upon him ! But, speakmg of this trespass — with apologies to Miss Clare and Miss Summerson for the length at which I have pursued so dry a subject — is there nothing for me from your men, Kenge and Carboy?'' "I think not, Esther?" said Mr. Jamdyce. " Nothing, Guardian," " Much obliged ! " said Mr. Boythorn. " Had no need to ask, after even my slight experience of Miss Summerson's forethought for every one about her." (They all encouraged me ; they were determined to do it.) " I enquired because, coming from Lincolnshire, I of course have not yet been in town, and I thought some letters might have been sent down here. I dare say they Avill report progress to-morrow morning." I saw him so often, in the course of the evening, which passed very pleasantly, contemplate Eichard and Ada with an interest and a satis- faction that made his fine face remarkably agreeable as he sat at a little distance from the piano listening to the music — and he had small occasion to tell us that he was passionately fond of music, for his face showed it — that I asked my Guardian, as we sat at the backgammon board, whether Mr. Bovthorn had ever been married. "No," said he. "No." " But he meant to be ? " said I. " How did you find out that ? " he retiu'ned, with a smile. "A^Tiy, Guardian," I explained, not Avithout reddening a little at hazarding what was in my thoughts, " there is something so tender in liis manner, after all, and he is so very courtly and gentle to us, and — " Mr. Jarndyce directed his eyes to where he Avas sitting, as I have just described him. I said no more. " You are right, little Avoman," he ansAvered. " He Avas all but married, once. Long ago. And once." " Did the lady die ? " " No — ^but she died to him. That time has had its influence on all liis later life. Would you suppose him to have a head and a heart full of romance yet ? " " I think, Guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is easy to say that, when you have told me so." " He has never since been Avhat he might have been," said Mr. Jamdyce, " and noAV you see him in his age with no one near him but his serv^ant, and his little yelloAv friend. — It's your throw, my dear ! " I felt, from' my Guardian's manner, that beyond this point I could not 86 BLEAK HOUSE. pursue file subject without changing the wind. I therefore forbore to ask any further questions. I was interested, but not curious. I thought a little while about this old love story in the night, when I was awakened by Mr. Boythorn's lusty snoring ; and I tried to do that very difficult thing — imagine old people young again, and invested with the graces of youth. But I fell asleep before I had succeeded, and dreamed of the days when I lived in my godmother's house. I am not sufficiently acquainted with such subjects, to know whether it is at all remarkable that I almost always dreamed of that period of my life. With the morning, there came a letter from Messrs. Kenge and Carboy to Mr. Boythom, informing him that one of their clerks would wait upon him at noon. x\s it was the day of the week on which I paid the bills, and added up my books, and made all the household affairs as compact as possible, I remained at home while Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and Richard, took advantage of a veiy fine day to make a little excursion. Mr. Boy- thorn was to wait for Kenge and Carboy's clerk, and then was to go on foot to meet them on their return. WeU ! I was full of business, examining tradesmen's books, adding up columns, paying money, filing receipts, and I dare say making a great bustle about it, when Mr. Guppy was announced and shown in. I had had some idea that the clerk who was to be sent down, might be the young gentleman who had met me at the coach-office ; and I was glad to see him, because he was associated with my present happiness. I scarcely knew him again, he was so uncommonly smart. He had an entirely new suit of glossy clothes on, a shining hat, lilac-kid gloves, a neckerchief of a variety of colours, a large hot-house flower in his button-hole, and a thick gold ring on his little finger. Besides which, he quite scented the dining-room with bear's-grease, and other perfumery. He looked at me with an attention that quite confused me, when I begged him to take a seat until the servant shoulcl return ; and as he sat there, crossing and uncrossing his legs in a corner, and I asked him if he had had a pleasant ride, and hoped that Mr. Kenge was well, I never looked at him, but I found him looking at me, in the same scrutinizing and curious way. When the request was brought to him that he would go up-stairs to Mr. Boythorn's room, I mentioned that he would find lunch prepared for him when he came down, of which Mr. Jarndyce hoped he would partake. He said mth some embarrassment, holding the handle of the door, " Shall I have the honor of finding you here. Miss ? " I replied yes, I should be there ; and he went out with a bow and another look. I thought him only awkward and shy, for he was e\ddently much emban-assed ; and I fancied that the best thing I could do, would be to wait until I saAv that he had everything he wanted, and then to leave him to himself. The lunch was soon brought, but it remained for some time on the table. The interview with Mr. Boythorn was a long one — and a stormy one too, I should think; for, although his room was at some distance, I heard his loud voice rising every now and then like a high wind, and evidently blowing perfect broadsides of denunciation. At last Mr. Guppy came back, looking something the worse for the conference. " My eye, miss," he said in a low voice, " he's a Tartar ! " " Pray take some refreshment, sir," said I. Mr. Gruppy sat down at the table, and began nervously sharpening the BLEAK HOUSE. 87 carving-knife on the carving-fork ; still looking at me (as I felt quite sure T\atliout looking at him), in the same unusual manner. The sharpening lasted so long, that at last I felt a kind of obligation On me to raise my eyes, in order that I might break the spell under which he seemed to labour, of not being able to leave off. He immediately looked at the dish, and began to carve. " "\Yliat will you take yourself, miss ? You'll take a morsel of sometliing? " " No, thank you," said I. " Shan't I give you a piece of anything at all, miss ? " said Mr. Guppy, huniedly drinking off a glass of wine. "Nothing, thank you," said I. "I have only waited to see that you have everything you want. Is there anything I can order for you? " " No, I am much obliged to you, miss, I 'm sure. I 've every thing I can require to make me comfortable — at least I — not comfortable — I 'm never that : " he drank off two more glasses of wine, one after another. I thought I had better go. " I beg your pardon, miss ? " said ]\Ir. Guppy, rising, when he saw me rise. " But would you allow me the favor of a minute's private conversation ? " Not knowing what to say, I sat down again. " AMiat follows is without prejudice, miss ?" said ]Mr. Guppy, anxiously bringing 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 to my detriment, at Kenge and Carboy's, or elsewhere. If our conversation shouldn't lead to anything, I am to be as I was, and am not to be prejudiced in my situation or worldly prospects. In short, it's in total confidence." " I am at a loss, sir," said I, " to imagine what you can have to communicate in total confidence to me, whom you have never seen but once; but I shoidd be veiy sorry to do you any injury." " Thank you, miss. I'm sm"e of it — that's quite sufficient." AU this time Mr. Guppy w^as either planing his forehead with liis handkerchief, or tightly rubbing the palm of his left hand w4th the palm of his right. " If you woidd excuse my taking another glass of wine, miss, I think ,it might assist me in getting on, mthout a continual choke that cannot fail to be mutually unpleasant." He did so, and came back again. I took the opportunity of moving well behind my table. "You wouldn't allow me to offer you one, would you, miss ? " said Mr. Guppy, apparently refreshed. "Not any," said I.' " Not half a glass ? " said Mr. Guppy ; " quarter ? No ! Then, to proceed. ]\Iy present salary. Miss Summerson, at Kenge and Carboy's, is two pound a-week. When I first had the happiness of looking upon you, it was one-fifteen, and had stood at that figure for a lengthened period. A rise of five has since taken place, and a fmiher rise of five is guaranteed at the expiration of a term not exceeding twelve months from the present date. My mother has a little property, which takes the form •of a small life annuity ; upon which she li\'es in an independent though 88 BLEAK HOUSE. unassuming manner, in the Old 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 it when company was present ; at which time you may freely trust her with Avines, sj^irits, or malt liquors. My own al3ode is lodgings at Penton Place, Pentonville. It is lowly, but airy, open at the back, and considered one of the 'ealthiest outlets. Miss Summerson ! In the mildest language, I adore you. Would you be so kind as to allow me (as I may say) to file a declaration — to make an offer ! " Mr. Guppy went down on his knees. I was well behind my table, and not much frightened. I said, " Get up from that ridicidous position immediately, sir, or you will oblige me to break my implied promise and ring the beU ! " "Hear me out, miss ! " said Mr. Guppy, folding his hands. " I cannot consent to hear anotherword, sir," I returned, " unless you get up from the carpet directly, and go and sit down at the table, as you ought to do if you have any sense at all." lie looked piteously, but slowly rose and did so. " Yet what a mockery it is, miss," he said, with his hand upon his heart, and shaking his head at me in a melancholy manner over the tray, " to be stationed behind food at such a moment. The soul recoils from food at such a moment, miss," " I beg you to conclude," said I ; " you have asked me to hear you out, and I beg you to conclude." " I will, miss," said Mr. Guppy. " As I love and honor, so likewise I obey. Would that I coidd make Thee the subject of that vow, before the shrine ! " " That is quite impossible," said I, " and entirely out of the question." " I am aware," said Mr. Guppy, leaning forward over the tray, and regarding me, as I again strangely felt, though my eyes were not directed to him, with his late intent look, "I am aware that in a worldly point of view, according to all appearances, my offer is a poor one. But, Miss Summerson! Angel ! — No, don't ring! — I have been brought up in a sharp school, and am accustomed to a variety of general practice. Though a young man, I have feiTcted out evidence, got up cases, and seen lots of life. Blest with your hand, what means might I not find of advancing your interests, and pushing your fortunes ! What might I not get to know, nearly concerning you? I know nothing now, certainly; but what vi/(/ht I not, if I had your confidence, and you set me on ? " I told him that he addressed my interest, or what he siqoposed to be my interest, quite as unsuccessfully as he addressed my inclination ; and he would now understand that I requested him, if he pleased, to go away immediately. " Cruel Miss," said INIr. Guppy, " hear l)ut another word ! I think you must have seen that I was struck with those charms, on the day when I waited at the Whytorseller. I think you must have remarked that I could not forbear a tribute to those charms when I put up the steps of the 'ackney-coach. It was a feeble tribute to Thee, but it was weU meant. Thy image has ever since been fixed in my breast. I have walked up and down, of an evening, opposite Jellyby's house, only to look upon the bricks that once contained Thee. This out of to-day, quite an unne- (2^ c^ ^^A/iy . &^^^:az^ta^^^^ /^^.Tr^^.f.^d^y^. c/ //X BLEAK HOUSE. 89 cessary out so far as the attendance, wliicli was its pretended object, went, was planned by me alone for Thee alone. If I speak of inte- rest, it is only to recommend myself and my respectful wretchedness. Love was before it, and is before it." "I shoidd be pained, Mr. Guppy," said I, rising and putting my hand upon the bell-rope, " to do you, or anyone who was sincere, the injustice of slighting any honest feeling, however disagreeably expressed. If you have really meant to give me a proof of your good opinion, though ill- timed and misplaced, I feel that I ought to thank you. I have very little reason to be proud, and I am not proud. I hope," I think I added, without very well knowing what I said, " that you will now go away as if you had never been so exceedingly foolish, and attend to Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's business." " Half a minute, miss ! " cried Mr. Guppy, checking me as I was about to ring. " This has been without prejudice ':' " " I win never mention it," said I, "unless you should give me futui-e occasion to do so." " A quarter of a minute, miss ! In case you should think better — at any time, however distant, t/iafs no consequence, for my ieelings can never alter — of anything I have said, particularly what might I not do — Mr. William Guppy, eighty-seven, Penton Place, or, if removed, or dead (of blighted hopes or anything of that sort), care of Mrs. Guppy, three hundred and two. Old Street Eoad, will be sufficient." I rang the bell, the servant came, and Mr. Guppy, laying his written card upon the table, and making a dejected bow, departed. Eaising my eyes as he went out, I once more saw him looking at me after he had passed the door. I sat there for another hour or more, finishing my books and payments, and getting through plenty of business. Then, I arranged my desk, and put everything away, and was so composed and cheerfid that I thought I had quite dismissed this unexpected incident. But, when I went up-stairs to my own room, I surprised myself by beginning to laugh about it, and then surprised myself stiR more by beginning to ciy about it. In short, I was in a flutter for a little while ; and felt as if an old chord had been more coarsely touched than it ever had been since the days of the dear old doll. Ions: Imried in the a-arden. CHAPTER X. THE LAW-WRITER. On the eastern borders of Chancery Lane, that is to say, more particularly, in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby, Law Stationer, pm'sues his lawful calling. In the shade of Cook's Court, at most times a shady place, Mr. Snngsby has dealt in all sorts of blank forms of legal process; in skins and rolls of parchment; in paper — foolscap, brief, draft, brown, white, whitey -brown, and blotting ; in stamps ; in office-quills, pens, ink. India-rubber, pomice, pins, pencils, sealing-wax, and wafers ; in red tajDC, and green ferret ; in pocket-books, almanacks, 90 BLEAK HOUSE. diaries, and law lists ; in string boxes, rulers, inkstands — glass and leaden, penknives, scissors, bodkins, and other small office-cutlery ; in short, in articles too numerous to mention ; ever since he was out of his time, and went into partnership with Peffer. On that occasion. Cook's Court was in a manner revolutionised by the new inscription in fresh paint, Peffee and Snagsby, displacing the time-honored and not easily to be deciphered legend, Peffer, only. Por smoke, which is the London ivy, had so wreathed itself round Pcffer's name, and clung to his dwelling- place, that the affectionate parasite qidte overpowered the parent tree. Peffer is never seen in Cook's Court now. He is not expected there, for he has been recumbent this quarter of a century in the churchyard of St. Andrew's, Holborn, with the wagons and hackney-coaches roaring past him, all the day and half the night, like one great dragon. If he ever steal forth when the dragon is at rest, to air himself again in Cook's Court, until admonished to return by the crowing of the sanguine cock in the cellar at the little dairy in Cursitor Street, whose ideas of daylight it woidd be curious to ascertain, since he knows from his personal observation next to nothing about it — if Peffer ever do revisit the pale glimpses of Cook's Court, which no law-stationer in the trade can positively deny, he comes invisibly, and no one is the worse or wiser. In his lifetime, and likewise in the period of Snagsby's " time" of seven long years, there dwelt with Peffer, in the same law-stationering premises, a niece — a short, shrewd niece, something too violently compressed about the waist, and with a sharp nose like a sharp autumn evening, inclining to be frosty towards the end. The Cook's-Courtiers had a rumour flying among them, that the mother of this niece did, in her daughter's childhood, moved by too jealous a solicitude that her figure should approach perfection, lace her up every morning with her maternal foot against the bed-post for a stronger hold and purchase ; and further, that she exhibited internally pints of vinegar and lemon-juice : which acids, they held, had mounted to the nose and temper of the patient. With whichsoever of the many tongues of Pumour this frothy report originated, it either never reached, or never influenced, the ears of young Snagsby ; who, having wooed and won its fair subject on his arrival at man's estate, entered into two partnerships at once. So now, in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby and the niece are one ; and the niece stiU cherishes her figm-e — 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, to the neighbours' thinking, one voice too. That voice, appearing to proceed from Mrs. Snagsby alone, is heard in Cook's Court very often. Mr. Snagsby, otherwise than as he finds expression through these didcet tones, is rarely heard. He is a mild, bald, timid man, with a shining head, and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the back. He tends to meekness and obesity. As he stands at his door in Cook's Coiu*t, in his grey shop-coat and black calico sleeves, looking up at the clouds ; or stands behind a desk in his dark shop, with a heavy flat ruler, snipping and slicing at sheepskin, in company with his two 'Prentices ; he is emphatically a retiring and unassuming man. Prom beneath his feet, at such times, as from a shrill ghost unquiet in its grave, there frequently arise complainings and lamentations in the voice already mentioned ; and, haply on some occasions, BLEAK HOUSE. 91 when these reacli a sharper pitch than usual, 'My. Snagsby mentions to the 'Prentices, " I think my little woman is a-giving it to Guster ! " This proper name, so used by Mr. Snagsby, has before now sharpened the wit of the Cook's-Courtiers to remark that it ought to be the name of Mrs. Snagsby ; seeing that she might with great force and expression be termed a Guster, in compliment to her stormy character. It is, however, the possession, and the only possession, except fifty shillings per annum and a very small box indiiierently filled with clothing, of a lean yomig woman from a workliouse (by some supposed to have been christened Augusta) ; who, although she was fanned or contracted for, diu'ing her gro^\"ing time, by an amiable benefactor of his species resident at Tooting, and cannot fail to have been developed under the most favorable circmnstances, " has fits" — which the parish can't account for. Guster, really aged three or four and twenty, but looking a round ten years older, goes cheap with this unaccountable drawback of fits ; and is so appre- hensive of being returned on the hands of her patron Saint, that except when she is found Avith her head in the pail, or the sink, or the copper, or the dinner, or anything else that happens to be near her at the time of her seizure, she is always at work. She is a satisfaction to the parents and guardians of the 'Prentices, who feel that there is little danger of her inspiring tender emotions in the breast of youth ; she is a satisfaction to Mrs. Snagsby, who can always find faidt A\dth her ; she is a satisfaction to Mr. Snagsby, who thinks it a charity to keep her. The Law-sta- tioner's estal^lishment is, in Guster's eyes, a Temple of plenty and splendor. She believes the little drawing-room up-stairs, always kept, as one may say, with its hair in papers and its pinafore on, to be the most elegant apartment in Christendom. The view it commands of Cook's Court at one end (not to mention a squint into Cursitor Street), and of Coavins's the sheriff's officer's backyard at the other, she regards as a prospect of unequalled beauty. The portraits it displays in oil — and plenty of it too — of Mr. Snagsby looking at Mrs. Snagsby, and of J\lrs. Snagsby looking at Mr. Snagsby, are in her eyes as achievements of Eaphael or Titian. Guster has some recompenses for her many privations. Mr. Snagsby refers everything not in the practical mysteries of the business, to Mrs. Snagsby. She manages the money, reproaches the Tax-gatherers, appoints the times and places of devotion on Sundays, licenses Mr. Snagsby's entertainments, and acknowledges no responsibility as to what she thinks fit to provide for dinner ; insomuch that she is the high standard of comparison among the neighbouring wives, a long way doAvn Chancer}^ Lane on both sides, and even out in Holborn, who, in any domestic passages of arms, habitually call 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. Eumour, always flying, bat-like, about Cook's Court, and skimming in and out at everybody's mndows, does say that IMrs. Snagsby is jealous and inquisitive ; and that Mr. Snagsby is sometimes worried out of house and home, and that if he had the spirit of a mouse he wouldn't stand it. It is even obsen^d, that the waves who quote him to their self-willed husbands as a shining example, in reality look down upon him ; and that nobody does so with greater superciliousness than one particular lady, whose lord is more than suspected of laying his mnbrella on her 92 BLEAK HOUSE. as an instmment of correction. But these vague whisperings may arise from Mr. Snagsby's being, in his way, rather a meditative and poetical man ; loving to walk in Staple Inn in the summer time, and to observe how countrified the sparrows and the leaves are ; also to lounge about the Rolls Yard of a Sunday afternoon, and to remark (if in good spirits) that there were old times once, and that you'd iind a stone coffin or two, now, under that chapel, he'll be bound, if you was to dig for it. He solaces his imagination, too, by thinking of the many Chancellors and Vices, and Masters of the Kolls, who are deceased ; and he gets such a flavor of the country out of teUing the tAvo 'Prentices how he has heard say that a brook " as clear as crystial " once ran right down the middle of Holborn, when Turnstile ready was a turnstile leading slap away into the meadows — gets such a flavor of the country out of this, that he never wants to go there. The day is closing in and the gas is lighted, but is not yet fuUy eft'ective, for it is not quite dark. Mr. Snagsby standing at his shop-door looking up at the clouds, sees a crow, who is out late, skim westward over the leaden slice of sky belonging to Cook's Court. The crow flies straight across Chancery Lane and Lincoln's Inn Garden, into Lincoln's Inn Fields. Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr. Tulkinghorn. It is let oft' in sets of chambers now ; and in those shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in nuts. But its roomy staii'cases, passages, and antechambers, still remain ; and even its painted ceilings, where Allegory, in Eoman helmet and celestial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars, flowers, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes the head ache — as would seem to be Allegory's object always, more or less. Here, among his many boxes labelled with transcendant names, lives Mr. Tulkinghorn, when not speechlessly at home in country-houses where the great ones of the earth are bored to death. Here he is to-day, quiet at his table. An Oyster of the old school, whom nobody can open. Like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk of the present afternoon. Eusty, out of date, withdrawing from attention, able to afford it. Heavy broad-backed oid-fashioned mahogany and horse- hair chairs, not easily lifted, obsolete tables with spindle-legs and dusty baize covers, presentation prints of the holders of great titles in the last generation, or the last but one, environ him. A thick and dingy Turkey- carpet muffles the floor where he sits, attended by two candles in old- fashioned silver candlesticks, that give a very insufficient light to his large room. The titles on the backs of his books have retired into the binding ; everything that can have a lock has got one ; no key is visible. Yery few loose papers are about. He has some manuscript near him, but is not referring to it. With the round top of an inkstand, and two broken bits of sealing-wax, he is silently and slowly working out what- ever train of indecision is in his mind. Now, the inkstand top is in the middle : now, the red bit of sealing-wax, now the black bit. That's not it. Mr. Tidkinghorn must gather them all iq^, and begin again. Here, beneath the painted ceiling, with foreshortened Allegory staring- down at his intnision as if it meant to swoop upon him, and he cutting it dead, Mr. Tulkinghorn has at once his house and office. He keeps no staff ; only one middle-aged man, usually a little out at elbows, who sits in a high Pew in the hall, and is rarely overburdened with business. BLEAK HOUSE. 93 Mr. Tiilkingliorn is not in a common way. He wants no clerks. He is a great reservoir of confidences, not to be so tapped. His clients want him; he is all in all. Drafts that he requires to be drawii, are drawn by special-pleaders in the Temple on mysterious instructions ; fair copies that he requires to be made, are made at the stationer's, expense being no consideration. The middle-aged man in the Pew, knows scarcely more of the aft'airs of the Peerage, than any crossing-sweeper in Holborn. The red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other inkstand top, the liW:le sand-box. So ! You to the middle, you to the right, you to the left. This train of indecision must surely be worked out now or never. — Now ! Mr. Tulkinghom gets up, adjusts his spectacles, puts on his hat, puts the manuscript in his pocket, goes out, tells the middle-aged man out at elbows, " I shall be back presently." Very rarely tells him any- thing more explicit. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes, as the crow came — not quite so straight, but nearly — to Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. To Snagsby's, Law Stationer's, Deeds engrossed and copied, Law- Writing executed in all its branches, &c., &c., kc. It is somewhere about five or six o'clock in the afternoon, and a balmy frafirrance of warm tea hovers in Cook's Court. It hovers about Sna^isbv's door. The hom'S are early there ; dinner at half-past one, and supper at half-past nine. Mr. Snagsby was about to descend into the subterranean regions to take tea, when he looked out of his door just now, and saw the crow who was out late. "Master at home?" Guster is minding the shop, for the 'Prentices take tea in the kitchen, with Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby ; consequently, the robe-maker's two daughters, combing their curls at the two glasses in the two second-floor windows of the o})posite house, are not driving the two 'Prentices to distraction, as they fondly suppose, but are merely awakening the unpro- fitable admiration of Guster, whose hair won't grow, and never woidd, and, it is confidently thought, never Avdll. " 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 dread and veneration, as a storehouse of awfid implements of the great torture of the laAv : a place not to be entered after the gas is turned oft". Ml', Snagsby appears : greasy, warm, herbaceous, and chewing. Bolts a bit of bread and butter. Says, " Bless my soul, sir ! Mr. Tul- kinghorn !" " I want half a word with you, Snagsby." " Certainly, sir ! Dear me, sir, why didn't you send your young man round for me ? Pray walk inio the back shop, sir." Snagsby has brightened in a moment. The confined room, strong of parchment-grease, is warehouse, counting- house, and copying-oftice. Mr. Tulkinghorn sits, facing round, on a stool at the desk. " Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby." " Yes, sii-." Mr. Snagsby tm*ns up the gas, and coughs behind his hand, modestly anticipating profit. Mr, Snagsby, as a timid man, is accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, and so to save words. 94 BLEAK HOUSE. " You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately." " Yes, sir, we did." " There was one of them," says Mi\ 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 looked in to ask you — but I haven't got it. No matter, any other time will do — Ah ! here it is ! — I looked in to ask you who copied this ?" " ^Yilo copied this, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby, taking it, laying it flat on the desk, and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl and a twist of the left liand peculiar to law-stationers. " We gave this out, sir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at that time. I can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, by referring to my Book." Mr. Snagsby takes his Book down from the safe, makes another bolt of the bit of bread and butter which seems to have stopped short, eyes the affidavit aside, and brings his right forefinger travelling down a page of the Book. " Jewby — Packer — Jarndyce." " Jarndyce ! Here we are, sir," says Mr. Snagsby. " To be sui'e ! I might have remembered it. This was given out, sir, to a Writer who lodges 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. " TF/mt do you call him? Nemo?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemo, sir. Here it is. Forty-two folio. Given out on the Wednesday night, at eight o'clock ; brought in on the Thursday morning, at half after nine." " Nemo ! " repeats Mr. Tulkinghorn. " Nemo is Latin for no one." " It must be English for some one, sir, I think," Mr. Snagsby submits, Avith his deferential cough. " It is a person's name. Here it is, you see, sir ! Forty-two folio. Given out, Wednesday night, eight o'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 by deserting his tea. Mr. Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough to Mrs. Snagsby, as who shoidd say, " My dear, a customer ! " " Half after nine, sir," repeats Mr. Snagsby. " Our law-wiiters, who live by job-work, are a queer lot ; and this may not be his name, but it's the name he goes by. I remember now, sii', that he gives it in a written advertisement he sticks up down at the Eule Office, and the King's Bench Office, and the Judges' Chambers, and so forth. You know the kind oi document, sir — wanting employ ? " Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back of Coavins's, the sheriff's officer's, where lights shine in Coavins's windows. Coavins's coftee-room is at the back, and the shadows of several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds. Mr. Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head, to glance over his shoulder at his little woman, and to make apologetic motions with his mouth to this eftect : " Tid-king-horn — rich — in-flu-en-tial ! " " Have you given this man work before ? " asks Mr. Tidkinghorn. " O dear, yes, sir ! Work of yours." . " Thinking of more important matters,! forget ,where you said he lived ! " BLEAX HOUSE. 95 " Across the lane, sir. In fact, lie lodges at a — " Mr. Snagsby makes another bolt, as if the bit of bread and butter were insm'mountable — " at a Kag 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 his black coat, takes his hat from its peg. " Oh ! here is my little woman ! " he says aloud. " My dear, will you be so kind as to tell one of the lads to look after the shop, while I step across the lane with Mr. Tulkinghorn ? Mrs. Snagsby, sir — I shan't be two minutes, my love ! " Mrs. Snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, peeps at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office, refers to the entries in the book stiR lying open. Is evidently cuiious. " You ^nR find that the place is rough, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, walking deferentially in the road, and leaving the narrow pavement to the lawyer ; " and the party is very rough. But they're a w\l(\. lot in general, sii-. The advantage of this particidar man is, that he never wants sleep. He'U go at it right on end, if you want him to, as long as ever you like." It is quite dark now, and the gas-lamps have acquired their fidl effect. Jostling against clerks going to post the day's letters, and against counsel and attomies going home to dinner, and against plaintiffs and defendants, and suitors of aU sorts, and against the general crowd, in whose way the forensic wisdom of ages has interposed a million of obstacles to the transaction of the commonest business of life — diving through law and equity, and through that kindred mystery, the street mud, which is made or nobody knows what, and collects about us nobody knows whence or how : we only knowing in general that when there is too much of it, we find it neces- sary to shovel it away — the lawyer and the law-stationer come to a Kag and Bottle shop, and general emporium of much disregarded merchandise, lying and being in the shadow of the wall of Lincohi's Imi, and kept, as is announced in paint, to all whom it may 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. Good evening. Thank you 1 " Mi*. Snagsby lifts his hat, and returns to his little woman and his tea. But, Mr. Tidkinghorn does not go on to the Fields at present. He goes a short way, tui-ns back, comes again to the shop of Mr. Krook, and enters it straight. It is dim enough, with a blot-headed candle or so in the windows, and an old man and a cat sitting in the back paii by a fire. The old ,man rises and comes forward, "with another blot-headed candle in his hand. " Pray, is your lodger within ? " " Male or female, sir ? " says Mr. Krook. " Male. The person who does copying." Mr. Ki'ook has eyed his man narrowly. Knows him by sight. Has an indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute. " Did you wish to see him, sir ? " " Yes.'' " It's what I seldom do myself," says Mr. Krook with a grin. " ShaU I caU him down ? But it's a weak chance if he'd come, sii' ! " 96 BLEAK HOUSE. " I'll go up to Mm, then," says Mr. Tulkingliorn. " Second floor, sir. Take the candle. Up there ! " Mr. Krook, with his cat beside him, stands at the bottom of the staircase, looking- after Mr. Tulkingliorn. "Hi — hi!" he says, when Mr. Tidkinghorn has nearly disappeared. The lawyer looks down over the hand-rail. The cat expands her wicked mouth, and snarls at him. " Order, Lady Jane ! Behave yom'self to visitors, my lady ! You know what 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 know better — he don't buy. I'll tell you what, though ; my lodger is so black- humoured and gloomy, that I believe he'd as soon make that bargain as any other. Don't put him out, sir. That's my advice ! " Mr. Tulkingliorn with a nod goes on his way. He comes to the dark door on the second Hoor. 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, if he had not. It is a smaU room, nearly black with soot, and grease, and dirt. In the rusty skeleton of a grate, pinched at the middle as if Poverty had gripped it, a red coke lire burns low. In the corner by the chimney, stand a deal table and a broken desk : a wilderness marked Anth a rain of ink. In another corner, a ragged old portmanteau on one of the two chairs, serves for cabinet or wardrobe ; no larger one is needed, for it collapses like the cheeks of a starved man. The floor is bare ; except that one old mat, trodden to shreds of rope-yarn, lies perish- ing upon the hearth. No curtain veils the darkness of the night, but the dis- colored shutters are drawn together; and through the two gaunt holes pierced in them, famine might be staring in — the Banshee of the man upon the bed. For, on a lovf bed opposite the fire, a confusion of dirty patchwork, lean-ribbed ticking, and coarse sacking, the lawyer, hesitating just within the doorway, sees a man. He lies there, dressed in shirt and trousers, with bare feet. He has a yeUoAV look, in the spectral darkness of a candle that has guttered down, until the whole length of its wick (still burning) has doubled over, and left a tower of winding-sheet above it. His hair is ragged, mingling with his whiskers and his beard — the latter, ragged too, and grown, like the scum and mist around him, in neglect. Foul and filthy as the room is, foul and filthy as the air, it is not easy to perceive what fumes those are which most oppress the senses in it ; but through the general sickliness and faintness, and the odor of stale tobacco, there comes into the lawyer's mouth the bitter, vapid taste of opium. " HaUo, my friend ! " he cries, and strikes his iron candlestick against the door. He thinks he has awakened his friend. He lies a little turned away, but his eyes are surely open. " HaUo, my friend ! " he cries again. " Hallo ! HaUo ! " As he rattles on the door, the candle which has drooped so long, goes out, and leaves him in the dark ; with the gaunt eyes in the shutters staring down upon the bed. BLEAK HOUSE. 97 CHAPTER XL OUR DEAE 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 liis ear. " 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, and tries to get a light. The dying ashes have no light to spare, and his endeavours are vain. Muttering, after an inefiectual call to his lodger, that he will go down stairs and bring a lighted candle from the shop, the old man departs. Mr. Tulkinghorn, for some new reason that he has, does not await his return in the room, but on the stairs outside. The welcome light soon shines upon the waU, as Krook comes slowly up, with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. " Does the man generally sleep like this ? " inquires the lawyer, in a low voice. " Hi ! I don't know," says Krook, shaking his head and lifting his eyebrows. " I know next to nothing of his habits, except that he keeps 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 so the eyes upon the bed. " God save us ! " exclaims Mr. Tulkinghorn. " He is dead !" Krook drops the heavy hand he has taken up, so suddenly that the arm swings over the bedside. They look at one another for a moment. " Send for some doctor ! CaU for Miss Elite up the stairs, sir. Here's poison by the bed ! Call out for Plite, will you?" says Krook, with his lean hands spread out above the body like a vampire's wings. Mr. Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing, and calls " Miss FHte ! Flite ! 3klake haste, here, whoever you are ! Plite ! " Krook follows him with his eyes, and, while he is calling, finds opportimity to steal to the old portmanteau, and steal back again. " Run, Elite, run ! The nearest doctor ! Run ! " So Mr. Krook addresses a crazy little woman, who is his female lodger : who appears and vanishes in a breath : who soon returns, accompanied by a testy medical man, brought from his dinner — -vvdth a broad snuffy upper lip, and a ])road Scotch tongue. " Ey ! Bless the hearts o' ye," says the medical man, looking up at them after a moment's examination. " He's just as dead as Phaiiy ! " Mr. Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if he lias been dead any time ? 98 BLEAK HOUSE. "Anytime, sir?" says tlie medical gentleman. " It's probable he wuU have been dead aboot three hours." *' About that time, I should say," observes a dark young man, on the other side of the bed. " Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir ? " inquires the first. The dark young man says yes. " Then I'll just tak' my depairture," replies the other ; " for I'm nae gude here ! " With which remark, he finishes his brief attendance, and returns to finish his dinner. The dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the face, and carefully examines the law-writer, who has established his pretensions to his name by becoming indeed No one. " I knew this person by sight, very well," says he. " He has purchased opium of me, for the last year and a half. Was anybody present related to him? " glancing round upon the three bystanders. " I was his landlord," grimly answers Krook, taking the candle fi*om the surgeon's outstretched hand, " He told me once, I was the nearest relation he had." " He has died," says the surgeon, " of an over-dose of opium, there is no doubt. The room is strongly flavored with it. There is enough here now," taking an old teapot from Mr. Krook, " to kill a dozen people." " Do you think he did it on purpose ? " asks Krook. " Took the over-dose?" " Yes ! " Krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horrible interest. " I can't say. I should think it unlikely, as he has been in the habit of taking so much. But nobody can teU. He was very poor, I suppose ? " " I suppose he was. His room — don't look rich," says Ki'ook ; who might have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glance around. " But I have never been in it since he had it, and he was too close to name his circumstarnces to me." " Did he owe you any rent?" " Six weeks." " He wiU never pay it ! " says the young man, resuming his exami- nation. " It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as Pharaoh ; and to judge from his appearance and condition, I should think it a happy release. Yet he must have been a good figure when a youth, and I dare say good-looking." He says this, not unfeelingly, while sitting on the bedstead's edge, with liis face towards that other face, and his hand upon the region of the heart. " I recollect once thinking there was something in his manner, uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall in life. Was that so ?" he continues, looking round. Krook replies, " You might as weU ask me to describe the ladies whose heads of hair I have got in sacks down stairs. Than that he was my lodger for a year and a half, and lived — or didn't live — by law-"\mting, I know no more of him." During this dialogue, Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old port- manteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to all appearance, from aU three kinds of interest exliibited near the bed — from the voung BLEAK HOUSE. 99 suro^eon's professional interest in death, noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as an individual ; from the old man's unction ; and the little crazy woman's awe. His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his rusty clothes. One coidd not even say he has been thinking all this while. He has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor attention nor abstraction. He has shown nothing but his shell. As easily might the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred from its case, as the tone of Mr. Tulkinghoni from his case. He now intei-poses ; addressing the young surgeon, in his unmoved, professional way. " I looked in here," he obseiwes, " just before you, with the intention of gi\'ing this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, some employment at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from my stationer — Snagsby of Cook's CoiQ-t. Since no one here knows anything about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby. Ah ! " to the little crazy woman, wlio has often seen him in Coiui, and whom he has often seen, and who pro- poses, in fi'ightened dumb-show, to go for the law stationer. " Suppose you do!" While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation, and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. Mr. Krook and he interchange a word or two. jNIr. Tidkinghom 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 this unfortunate creature, Snagsby ? " inquires Mr. Tulkinghorn. " He was in arrears with his rent, it seems. And he must be buried, you know." " Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behind liis hand; " I really don't know what advice I could offer, except sending for the beadle." " I don't speak of advice," retm-ns Mr. Tulkinghorn. " / could advise " ("No one better, sir, I am sm-e," says Mr. Snagsby, mtlihis deferential cough.) " I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where he came from, or to anything concerning him." " I assure you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, after prefacing his reply with his cough of general propitiation, " that I no more know where he came from, than 1 know " "Where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the surgeon, to help him out. A pause. Mr. Tidkinghom 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 to say to me, ' Snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready for you in the Bank of England, if you'll only name one of 'em, I coiddn't do it, sir ! About a year and a half ago — to the best of my belief at the time when he first came to lodge at the present Bag and Bottle Shop — " " That was the time ! " says Krook, with a nod. "About a year and a half ago," savs Mr. Snaasbv, strengthened, "he ^ ' h2 100 BLEAK HOUSE. came into our place one morning after breakfast, and, finding my little woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that appellation) in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting, and gave her to under- stand that he was in wants of copying work to do, and was — not to put too fine a point upon it — " a favorite apology for plain-speaking with Mr. Snagsby, which he always offers with a sort of argumentative frankness, " hard up ! My little woman is not in general partial to strangers, particular — not to put too fine a point upon it — when they want anything. But she was rather took by something about this person ; whether by his being unshaved, or by his hair being in want of attention, or by what other ladies' reasons, I leave you to judge ; and she accepted of the specimen, and likewise of the address. My little woman hasn't a good ear for names," proceeds Mr. Snagsby, after consulting his cough of consideration behind his hand, " and she considered Nemo equally the same as Nimrod. In consequence of which, she got into a habit of saying to me at meals, ' Mr. Snagsby, you haven't found Nimrod any work yet ! ' or ' Mr. Snagsby, why didn't you give that eight-and-thirty Chancery folio in Jarndyce, to Nimrod?' or such like. And that is tlie Avay he gradually fell into job-AVork at our place ; and that is the most I know of him, except that he was a quick hand, and a hand not sparing of night-work ; and that if you gave him out, say five-and-forty folio on the Wednesday night, you would have it brought in on the Thursday morning. All of which — " Mr. Snagsby concludes by politely motioning with his hat towards the bed, as much as to add, ' I have no doubt my honorable friend would confirm, if he were in a condition to do it.' "Hadn't you better see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn to Krook, "whether he had any papers that may enlighten you ? There will be an Inquest, and you will be asked the question. You can read? " " No, I can't," returns the old man, with a sudden grin. " Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, " look over the room for him. He will get into some trouble or difficulty, otherwise. Being here, I 'U wait, if you make haste ; and then I can testify on his behalf, if it should ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. If you will hold the candle for Mr. Snagsby, my friend, he'll soon see whether there is anything to help you." " In the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir," says Snagsby. All, to be sure, so there is ! Mr. Tulkinghorn does not appear to have seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, and though there is very little else. Heaven knows. The marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-stationer conducts the search. The suro^eon leans against a corner of the chimnev- piece ; Miss Elite peeps and trembles just within the door. The apt old scholar of the old scliool, with his dull black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees, his large ])lack waistcoat, his long-sleeved black coat, and his wisp of limp white neck -kerchief tied in the bow the Peerage knows so weU, stands in exactly the same place and attitude. There are some worthless articles of clothing in the old portmanteau ; there is a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicates, those turnpike tickets on the road of Poverty ; there is a cnimpled 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. BLEAK HOUSE. 101 as if witli the intention of being regularly continued, but soon left off. There are a few dirty scraps of newspapers, all referring to Coroners' Inquests ; there is nothing else. They search the cupboard, and the di'awer of the ink-splashed table. There is not a morsel of an old letter, or of any other writing, in either. The young surgeon examines the dress on the law-writer. A knife and some odd halfpence are all he tinds. Mr. Snagsby's suggestion is the practical suggestion after all, and the beadle must be called in. So the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest come out of the room. " Don't leave the cat there ! " says the surgeon : " that won't do ! " Mr. Ki'ook therefore drives her out before him ; and she goes furtively down stairs, winding her lithe tail and licking her lips. " Good night ! " savs ]\Ir. Tidkinghorn : and goes home to AllegoiT and meditation. By this time the news has got into the court. Groups of its inhabitants assemble to discuss the thing ; and the outposts of the army of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to Mr. Krook's window, which they closely invest. A policeman has already walked up to the room, and walked down again to the door, where he stands like a tower, only con- descending to see the boys at his base occasionally ; but whenever he does see them, they quail and fall back. Mrs. Perkins, who has not been for some weeks on speaking terms with Mrs. Piper, in consequence of an unplea- santness originating in young Perkins having "fetched'' young Piper " a crack," renews her friendly intercom*se on this auspicious occasion. The potboy at the corner, who is a privileged amateur, as possessing official know- ledge of life, and having to deal with drunken men occasionally, exchanges confidential communications with the policeman, and has the appearance of an impregnable youth, unassailable by truncheons and unconfinable in station-houses. People talk across the court out of window, and bare- headed scouts come huriying in from Chanceiy Lane to know what's the matter. The general feeling seems to be that it's a blessing Mr. Kj'ook warn't made away with first, mingled with a little natural disappointment that he was not. In the midst of this sensation, the beadle arrives. The beadle, though generally understood in the neighbourhood to be a ridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity for the moment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the body. The policeman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant of the barbarous watchmen- times ; but gives him admission, as something that must be borne with until Government shall abolish him. The sensation is heightened, as the tidings spread from mouth to mouth that the beadle is on the ground, and has gone in. By-and-by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying the sensation, w^hich has rather languished in the interval. He is understood to be in Avant of witnesses, for the Inquest to-morrow, who can tell the Coroner and Jury anything w^hatever respecting the deceased. Is immediately referred to innumerable people who can tell nothing whatever. Is made more imbecile by being constantly informed that Mrs. Green's son " was a law- writer his-self, and know^d him better than anybody" — w^hich son of Mrs. Green's appears, on inquiry, to be at the present time aboard a vessel bound for China, three months out, but considered accessible by telegraph, on application to the Lords of the Admiralty. Beadle goes 102 BLEAK HOUSE. into various shops and parlors, examining tlie inhabitants ; always shutting the door first, and by exclusion, delay, and general idiotcy, exasperating the public. Policeman seen to smile to potboy. Public loses interest, and undergoes reaction. Taunts the beadle, in shrill youthful voices, with having boiled a boy; choruses fragments of a popidar song to that effect, and importing that the boy was made into soup for the workhouse. Policeman at last finds it necessarj^ to support the law, and seize a vocalist ; who is released upon the flight of the rest, on condition of his getting out of this then, come ! and cutting it — a condition he immediately observes. So the sensation dies off for the time ; and the unmoved policeman (to whom a little opium, more or less, is nothing), with his shining hat, stiff stock, inflexible great-coat, stout belt and bracelet, and all things fitting, pursues his lounging way with a heavy tread : beating the palms of his white gloves one against the other, and stopping now and then, at a street-corner, to look casually about for anything between a lost child and a murder. Under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flitting about Chancery Lane with his summonses, in which every Juror's name is wrongly spelt, and nothing is rightly spelt but the beadle's own name, which nobody can read or wants to know. The summonses sei-ved, and his witnesses forewarned, the beadle goes to Mr. Krook's, to keep a small appointment he has made with certain paupers ; who, presently arriving, are conducted up-stairs ; where they leave the great eyes in the shutter something new to stare at, in that last shape which earthly lodgings take for No one — and for Every one. And, all that night, the coffin stands ready by the old portmanteau ; and the lonely figure on the bed, whose path in life has lain tlu'ough five- and-forty years, lies there, with no more track behind him, that any one can trace, than a deserted infant. Next day the court is all alive — is like a fair, as Mrs. Perkins, more than reconciled to Mrs. Piper, says, in amicable conversation with that excellent woman. The coroner is to sit in the first-floor room at the Sol's Arms, Avhere the Harmonic Meetings take place twice a-week, and where the chair is filled by a gentleman of professional celebrity, faced by little Swills, the comic vocalist, who hopes (according to the bill in the window) that his friends will rally round him and support first-rate talent. The Sol's Arms does a brisk stroke of business all the morning. Even children so require sustaining, under the general excitement, that a pieman, who has established himself for the occasion at the corner of the court, says his brandy-balls go off like smoke. What time the beadle, hovering between the door of Mr. Krook's establishment and the door of the Sol's Arms, shews the curiosity in his keeping to a few discreet spirits, and accepts the compliment of a glass of ale or so in return. At the appointed hour arrives the Coroner, for whom the Jurymen are waiting, and who is received with a salute of skittles from the good diy skittle-ground attaclied to the Sol's Arms. The Coroner frequents more public-houses than any man alive. The smell of sawdust, beer, tobacco- smoke, and spirits, is inseparable in his vocation from death in its most awful shapes. He is conducted by the beadle and the landlord to the Harmonic Meeting Eoom, where he puts his hat on the piano, and takes a Windsor-chair at the head of a long table, formed of several short tables BLEAK HOUSE. 103 put togetlier, and ornamented with glutinous rings in endless involutions, made by pots and glasses. As many of the Jury as can crowd together at the table sit there. The rest get among the spittoons and pipes, or lean against the piano. Over the Coroner's head is a small iron garland, the pendant handle of a bell, which rather gives the Majesty of the Court the appearance of going to be hanged presently. Call over and swear the Jury ! While the ceremony is in progi'ess, sensation is created by the entrance of a chubby little man in a large shirt-collar, with a moist eye, and an inflamed nose, who modestly takes a position near the door as one of the general public, but seems familiar wdth the room too. A wdiisper circidates that this is little Swills. It is considered not unlikely that he will get up an imitation of the Coroner, and make it the principal feature of the Harmonic Meeting in the evening. " 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, to inquire into the death of a certain man. Evidence will be given before you, as to the circumstances attending that death, and you will give your verdict according to the — skittles; they must be stopped, you know, beadle ! — evidence, and not according to anything else. The first thing to be done, is to view the body." " Make way there !" cries the beadle. So they go out in a loose procession, something after the manner of a straggling funeral, and make their inspection in Mr. Ki'ook's back second floor, from which a few of the Jiu'men retire pale and precipitately. The beadle is very carefid that two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs and buttons (for whose accommodation he has provided a special little table near the Coroner, in the Harmonic Meeting Room), shoidd see all that is to be seen. For they are the public chroniclers of such inquiries, by the line ; and he is not superior to the universal himian infirmity, but hopes to read in print what " Mooney, the active and intel- ligent beadle of the district," said and did ; and even aspires to see the name of Mooney as familiarly and patronisingiy mentioned as the name of the Hangman is, according to the latest examples. Little Swills is waiting for the Coroner and Jury on their return. ^Jh'. Tidkinghorn, also. Mr. Tidkinghorn is received with distinction, and seated near the Coroner; between that high judicial officer, a bagatelle board, and the coal-box. The inquiry proceeds. The Jury learn how the subject of their inquiry died, and learn no more about him. " A very eminent solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen," says the Coroner, " who, I am infomied, was accidentally present, when discovery of the death was made ; but he could only repeat the evidence you have ah-eady heard ft'om the surgeon,. the landlord, the lodger, and the law-stationer; and it is not necessary to trouble him. Is anybody in attendance who knows anything more P- Mrs. Piper pushed forward by Mrs. Perkins. Mrs. Piper sworn. Anastasia Piper, gentlemen. Married w^oman. Now, Mrs. Piper — what have you got to say about this ? Why, Mrs. Piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in parenthesis and without punctuation, but not much to tell. IS'hs. Piper lives in the 104* BLEAK HOUSE. court (which her husband is a cabinet-maker) and it has long been well beknown among the neighbours (counting from the day next but one before the half-baptising of Alexander James Piper aged eighteen months and four days old on accounts of not being expected to live such was the sufferings gentlemen of that child in his gums) as the Plaintive — so Mrs. Piper insists on calling the deceased — was reported to have sold himself. Thinks it was the Plaintive's air in which that report origi- natinin. See the Plaintive often, and considered as his air w^as feariocious, and not to be allowed to go about some children being timid (and if doubted hoping Mrs. Perkins may be brought forard for she is here and will do credit to her husband and herself and family). Has seen the Plaintive wexed and w^orrited by the children (for children they will ever be and you cannot expect them specially if of playful dispositions to be Methoozellers which you was not yourself). On accounts of this and his dark looks has often dreamed as she see him take a pickaxe from his pocket and split Johnny's head (wdiich the child knows not fear and has repeatually called after him close at his eels). Never however see the Plaintive take a pickaxe or any other w^epping far from it. Plas seen him hurry aw^ny when run and called after as if not partial to children and never see him speak to neither child nor grown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the crossing down the lane over the way round the corner whicli if he was here would tell you that he has been seen a speaking to him frequent). Says the Coroner, is that boy here ? Says the beadle, no, sir, lie is not here. Says the Coroner, go and fetch him then. In the absence of the active and intelligent, the Coroner converses Avith 'Mv. Tulkinghorn. O ! Here's the boy, gentlemen ! Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Isow, boy! — But stop a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through a fevr preliminary paces. Name, Jo. Nothing else that he knows on. Don't know that ever)^- body has two names. Never heerd of sich a think. Don't know that Jo is short for a longer name. Thinks it long enough for kim. He don't find no fault with it. Spell it ? No. He can't spell it. No fatlier, 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't recollect who told him about the broom, or about the lie, but knows both. Can't exactly say what'll be done to him arter he's dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen here, but believes it'll be something Avery bad to punish him, and serve him right — and so he'll tell the truth. " This Avon't do, gentlemen ! " says the Coroner, Avith a melancholy shake of the head. " Don't you think you can receive his evidence, sir?" asks an attentive Juryman. " Out of the question," says the Coroner. " You have heard the boy. ' Can't exactly say ' Avon't do, you knoAV. We can't take that, in a Court of Justice, gentlemen. It's terrible depravity. Put the boy aside." Boy put aside ; to the great edification of the audience ; — especially of Little SavUIs, the Comic Vocalist. Now. Is there any other Avitness ? No other witness. Very weU, gentlemen ! Here's a man unknoAvn, proved to have been in the habit of taking opium in large quantities for a year and a half, BLEAK HOUSE. 105 found dead of too mucli opium. If you think you have any evidence to lead you to the conclusion that he committed suicide, you will come to that conclusion. If you think it is a case of accidental death, you wiU hnd a Verdict accordinsrlv. Verdict accordinii'ly. Accidental death. Xo doubt. Gentlemen, you are discharged. Good afternoon. While the Coroner buttons his g:i'eat coat, Mr. Tulkinghorn and he give private audience to the rejected witness in a corner. That graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he re- cognised just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimes hooted and pursued about the streets. That one cold winter night, when he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, the man turned to look at him, and came back, and, having questioned him and found that he had not a friend in the world, said, "Neither have I. Not one ! " and gave him the price of a supper and a night's lodging. That the man had often spoken to him since ; and asked him whether he slept sound at 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 as poor as you to-day, Jo ; " but that when he had any, he had always (as the boy most heartily believes) been glad to give him some. " He was wery good to me," says the boy, wiping his eyes Avitli his wretched sleeve. " Wen I see him a lay in' so stritched out just now, I Avished he could have heerd me teU him so. He wos wery good to me, he wos ! " As he shuffles down stairs, Mr. Snagsby, lying in wait for him, puts a half-crown in his hand. " If ever you see me coming past your crossing with my little woman — I mean a lady — " says Mr. Snagsby, with his finger on his nose, " don't aUude to it !" For some little time the JuiTuien hang about the Sol's Arms colloquially. In the sequel, half-a-dozen are caught up in a cloud of pipe-smoke that pervades the parlor of the Sol's Arms ; two stroU to Hampstead ; and fom* engage to go half-price to the play at night, and top up with oysters. Little Swills is treated on several hands. Being asked what he thinks of the proceedings, characterises them (his strength lying in a slangular direction) as " a rummy start." The landlord of the Sol's Arms, finding Little Swills so popuhii-, commends him higldy to the Jurymen and public ; observing that, for a song in character, he don't know his equal, and that that man's character-wardrobe woidd fill a cart. Thus, graduaUy the Sol's Arms melts into the shadowy night, and then flares out of it strong in gas. The Harmonic Meeting hour an-iving, the gentleman of professional celebrity takes the chair ; is faced (red-faced) by Little Swills ; their friends raUy round them, and support first-rate talent. In the zenith of the evening. Little SwiUs says, Gentlemen, if you'U permit me, I'll attempt a short description of a scene of real life that came off here to-day. Is much applauded and encouraged ; goes out of the room as Swills ; comes in as the Coroner (not the least in the world like him) ; describes the Inquest, Avith recreative intervals of piano-forte accompaniment to the refrain — With his (the Coroner's) tippy tol Li doll, tippy tol lo doll, tippy tol li doll. Dee ! The jingling piano at last is silent, and the Harmonic friends raU}' 106 BLEAK HOUSE. round their pillows. Then there is rest around the lonely figure, now laid in its last earthly habitation ; and it is watched by the gaunt eyes in the shutters through some quiet hours of night. If this forlorn mail could have been prophetically seen lying here, by the mother at whose breast he nestled, a little child, with eyes upraised to her loving face, and soft hand scarcely knowing how to close upon the neck to which it crept, what an impossibility the vision would have seemed ! 0, if, in brighter days, the now-extinguished fire within him ever burned for one woman wlio held him in her heart, Avhere is she, while these ashes are above the ground ! It is anything but a night of rest at Mr. Snagsby's, in Cook's Couii; ; where Guster murders sleep, by going, as Mr. Snagsby himself allows — not to put too fine a point upon it — out of one fit into twenty. The occasion of this seizm'e is, that Guster has a tender heart, and a susceptible something that possibly might have been imagination, but for Tooting and her patron saint. Be it what it may, now, it was so direfully impressed at tea-time by Mr. Snagsby's account of the enquiry at which he had assisted, that at supper-time she projected herself into the kitchen, preceded by a flying Dutch-cheese, and fell into a fit of unusual duration : which she only came out of to go into another, and another, and so on through a chain of fits, with short intervals between, of which she has pathetically availed herself by consuming them in entreaties to Mrs. Snagsby not to give her warning " when she quite comes to ; " and also in appeals to the whole establishment to lay her down on the stones, and go to bed. Hence, Mr. Snagsby, at last hearing the cock at the little dairy in Cursitor Street go into that disinterested ecstasy of his on the subject of daylight, says, di'awing a long breath, though the most patient of men, " I thought you was dead, I am sure ! " What question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he settles when he strains himself to such an extent, or why he should thus crow (so men crow on various triumphant public occasions, however) about what cannot be of any nioment to him, is his affair. It is enough that daylight comes, morning comes, noon comes. Then the active and intelligent, who has got into the morning papers as such, comes with his pauper company to Mr. Krook's, and bears oft" the body of our dear brother here departed, to a hemmed-in churchyard, pestiferous and obscene, wlience malignant diseases are communicated to the bodies of our dear brothers and sisters who have not departed ; Avhile our dear brothers and sisters who hang about official backstairs — would to Heaven they had departed ! — are very complacent and agreeable. Into a beastly scrap of ground which a Turk woidd reject as a savage abomination, and a Calire would shudder at, they bring our dear brother here departed, to receive Christian burial. With houses looking on, on every side, save where a reeking little timnel of a court gives access to the iron gate — with every villainy of life in action close on death, and every poisonous element of death in action close on life — here, they lower our dear brother down a foot or two : here, sow him in corruption, to be raised in corruption : an avenging ghost at many a sick-bedside : a shameful testimony to future ages, how civilisation and barbarism walked this boastfid island together. Come night, come darkness, for you cannot come too soon, or stay too BLEAK HOUSE. 107 long, by siicli a place as this ! Come, straggling lights into the windows of the ugly houses ; and you who do iniquity therein, do it at least with this dread scene shut out ! Come, flame of gas, burning so sullenly above the iron gate, on which the poisoned air deposits its ^\dtch-ointment slimy to the touch ! It is AA'ell that vou should call to every passer-by, " Look here ! " With the night, comes a slouching figure through the tunnel- court, to the outside of the iron gate. It holds the gate mth its hands, and looks in between the bars ; stands looking in, for a little while. It then, Avith an old broom it carries, softly SAveeps the step, and makes the archway clean. It does so, very busily and trimly ; looks in again, a little while ; and so departs. Jo, is it thou ? Well, weU ! Though a rejected witness, who " can't exactly say " what will be done to him in greater hands than men's, thou art not quite in outer darkness. There is something like a distant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this : " He wos weiy good to me, he wos ! " CHAPTER XII. ON THE WATCH. It has left oft' raining doAvn in Lincolnshire, at last, and Chesney Wold has taken heart. Mrs. Rouncewell is full of hospitable cares, for Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming home from Paris. The fashion- able intelligence has found it out, and communicates the glad tidings to benighted England. It has also found out, that they will entertain a brilliant and distinguished circle of the elite of the heau monde (the fashion- able intelligence is weak in English, but a giant-refreshed in French), at the ancient and hospitable family seat in Lincolnshire. Por the greater honor of the brilliant and distinguished circle, and of Chesney Wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the bridge in the park is mended; and the water, now retired within its proper limits and again spanned gracefidly, makes a figure in the prospect from the house. The clear cold sunshine glances into the brittle woods, and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves and drying the moss. It glides over the park after the moving shadows of the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, all day. It looks in at the windoAvs, and touches the ancestral portraits Avith bars and patches of brightness, never con- templated by the painters. Athwart the picture of my Lady, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a broad bend-sinister of light that strikes doAAai crookedly into the hearth, and seems to rend it. Through the same cold sunshine, and the same sharp Avind, my Lady and Sir Leicester, in their travelling chariot, (my Lady's woman, and Sir Leicester's man affectionate in the rumble,) start for home. ^ ith a considerable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plunging demonstrations on the part of Iavo bare-backed horses, and tAvo Centam'S AAdth glazed hats, jack-boots, and floAA'ing manes and tails, they rattle out 108 BLEAK HOUSE. of tlie yard of the Hotel Bristol in the Place Vendome, and canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered colonnade of the Rue de Eivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of a headless king and queen, off by the Place of Concord, and the Elysian Fields, and the Gate of the Star, out of Paris. Sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast ; for, even here, my Lady Dedlock has been bored to death. Concert, assembly, opera, theatre, drive, nothing is new to my Lady, under the worn-out heavens. Only last Sunday, when poor wretches were gay — within the walls, playing Avitli children among the clipped trees and the statues in the Palace Garden ; walking, a score abreast, in the Elysian Fields, made more Elysian by per- forming dogs and wooden horses ; between whiles filtering (a few) through the gloomy Cathedral of Our Lady, to say a Avord or two at the base of a pillar, within flare of a rusty little gridiron-full of gusty little tapers — without the Avails, encompassing Paris 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 Giant Despair, almost hated her OAvn maid for being in spirits. She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness of soul lies before her, as it lies behind — her Ariel has put a girdle of it round the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped — but the imperfect remedy is always to fly, from the last place where it has been experienced. Fling Paris back into the distance, then, exchanging it for endless avenues and cross- avenues of wintry trees ! And, when next beheld, let it be some leagues away, with the Gate of the Star a white speck glittering in the sun, and the city a mere mound in a plain : two dark square towers rising out of it, and light and shadow descending 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 own greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man, to have so inex- haustible a subject. After reading his letters, he leans back in his corner of the carriage, and generally reviews his importance to society. " You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning? " says my Lady, after a long time. She is fatigued with reading. Has almost read a page* in twenty miles. " Nothing in it, though. Nothing Avhatever." " 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 ! " " Fie sends — I really beg your pardon — he sends," says Sir Leicester, selecting the letter, and unfolding it, " a message to you. Our stopping to change horses, as I came to his postscript, drove it out of my memory. I beg you'll excuse me. He says — " Sir Leicester is so long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it, that my Lady looks a little irritated. " Fle says ' In the matter of the right of way — ' I beg your pardon, that's not the place. He says — yes ! Here I have it ! He says, ' I beg my respectful compliments to my Lady, who, I hope, has benefited by the change. WiU you do me the favor to mention (as it may interest BLEAK HOUSE. 109 her), that I have something to tell her on her return, in reference to the person who copied the affidavit in the Chancery suit, which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. I have seen him.' " My Lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window. *' That's the message," observes Sir Leicester. " I shoidd like to w^alk a little," says my Lady, still looking out of her window. " Walk ? " repeats Sir Leicester, in a tone of suq^rise. " I shoidd like to walk a little," says my Lady, with unmistakeable distinctness. " Please to stop the carriage." The carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights from the rumble, opens the door, and lets down the steps, obedient to au impatient motion of my Lady's hand. My Lady alights so quickly, and Avalks away so quickly, that Sir Leicester, for all his scrupulous politeness, is unable to assist her, and is left behind. A space of a minute or two has elapsed before he comes up with her. She smiles, looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with him for a quarter of a mile, is veiy much bored, and resumes her seat in the carriage. The rattle and clatter continue through the greater part of three days, with more or less of bell-jingling and whip-cracking, and more or less plunging of Centaurs and bare-backed horses. Their courtly politeness to each other, at tlie Hotels where they tany, is the theme of general admiration. Though my Lord is a little aged for my Lady, says Madame, the hostess of the Golden Ape, and though he might be her amiable father, one can see at a glance that they love each other. One observes my Lord with his white hair, standing, hat in hand, to help my Lady to and from the carriage. One observes my Lady, how recognisant or my Lord's politeness, with an inclination of 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 like the small fry. It is habitually hard upon Sir Leicester, whose countenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage-cheese, and in Avhose aristocratic system it effects a dismal revolution. It is the Radical of Nature to him. Nevei-theless, his dignity gets over it, after stopping to refit ; and he goes on with my Lady for Chesney Wold, lying only one night in London on the way to Lincolnshire. Through the same cold sunlight — colder as the day declines, — and through the same sharp wind — sharper as the separate shadows of bare trees gloom together in the woods, and as the Ghost's Walk, touched at the western corner by a j:)ile of fire in the sky, resigns itself to coming night, — they drive into the park. The Rooks, swinging in their lofty houses in the ehn-tree avenue, seem to discuss the question of the occupancy of the carnage as it passes underneath ; some agreeing that Sir Leicester and my Lady are come down ; some arguing with malcontents who won't admit it ; now, all consenting to consider the question disposed of; now, all breaking out again in violent debate, incited by one obstinate and drowsy bird, who w^ill persist in putting in a last contradictoiy croak. Leaving them to saving and caw, the travelling chariot rolls on to the house ; where fires gleam warmly through some of the windows, though not through so many as to give an inhabited expression to the darkening mass of front. But the brilliant and distinguished circle will soon do that. 110 BLEAK HOUSE. Mrs. Eoiincewell is in attendance, and receives Sir Leicester's customary shake of the hand with a profound curtsey. " How do you do, Mrs. Eouncewell ? I am glad to see you." " I hope I have the honor of welcoming you in good health, Sir Leicester ? " " In excellent health, Mrs. Eouncewell." " My Lady is looking charmingly Avell," says ^Irs. Eouncewell, with another curtsey. My Lady signifies, without profuse expenditure of words, that she is as wearily well as she can hope to be. But Eosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper ; and my Lady, who has not subdued the quickness of her observation, whatever else she may have conquered, asks : ''Who is that girl?" " A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Eosa." " Come here, Eosa ! " Lady Dedlock beckons her, mth even an appear- ance of interest. " Why, do you know how pretty you are, child ? " she says, touching her shoidder with her two forefingers. Eosa, very much abashed, says " No, if you please, my Lady ! " and glances up, and glances down, and don't know where to look, but looks all the prettier. " How old are you ? " " Nineteen, my Lady." " Nineteen," repeats my Lady, thoughtfully. " Take care they don't spoil you by flattery." *' Yes, my Lady," My Lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved fingers, and goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where Sir Leicester pauses for her as her knightly escort. A staring old Dedlock in a panel, as large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn't know what to make of it — which was probably his general state of mind in the days of Queen EKzabeth. That evening, in the housekeeper's room, Eosa can do nothing but mui-mur Lady Dedlock's praises. She is so aflable, so graceful, so beautifid, so elegant ; has such a sweet voice, and such a thrilling touch, that Eosa can feel it yet ! Mrs. Eouncewell confirms all this,' not without personal pride, reserving only the one point of aft'ability. Mrs. Eomicc- weU is not quite sure as to that. Heaven forbid that she should say a syllable in dispraise of any member of that excellent family ; above aU, of my Lady, whom the whole world admires ; but if my Lady woidd only be "a 'little more free," not quite so cold and distant, Mrs. Eouncewell thinks she would be more aftable. " 'Tis almost a pity," Mrs. Eouncewell adds — only " almost," because it borders on impiety to suppose that anything could be better than it is, in such an express dispensation as the Dedlock aftairs ; " that my Lady has no family. If she had had a daughter now, a gro^^^ll young lady, to interest her, I think she would have had the only kind of excellence she wants." " Might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother ? " says Watt ; who has been home and come back again, he is such a good grandson. "More and most, my dear," retm-ns the housekeeper with dignity, BLEAK HOUSE. Ill " are words it's not my place to use — nor so much as to hear' — applied to any drawback on my Lady," " I beg yoiu' pardon, grandmother. But she /6' proud, is she not? " " If she is, she has reason to be. The Dedlock family have always reason to be." " Well ! " says AVatt, " it's to be hoped they line out of their Prayer- Books a certain passage for the common people about pride and vain- glory. Forgive me, grandmother ! Only a joke ! " " Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, my dear, are not fit subjects for joking." " Sir Leicester is no joke, by any means," says Watt ; " and I humbly ask his pardon. I suppose, grandmother, that, even with the family and their guests down here, there is no objection to my prolonging my stay at the Dedlock Arms for a day or two, as any other traveller might?" " Siu'ely, none in the world, child." " I am glad of that," says Watt, " because I — because I have an inexpressible desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neigh- bourhood." He happens to glance at Eosa, who looks down, and is very shy, indeed. But, according to the old superstition, it shoidd be Rosa's ears that burn, and not her fresh bright cheeks ; for my Lady's maid is holding forth about her at this moment, with surpassing energy. My Lady's maid is a Frenchwoman of two-and-thirty, from somewhere in the Southern country about Avignon and Marseilles — a large-eyed brown woman with black hair ; who woidd be handsome, Ijut for a certain feline mouth, and general uncomfortable tightness of face, rendering the jaws too eager, and the skuU too prominent. There is something indefinably keen and wan about her anatomy ; and she has a watchful way of looking out of the corners of her eyes without turning her head, which coidd be pleasantly dispensed Avith — especially when she is in an ill-humour and near knives. Through all the good taste of her dress and little adorn- ments, these objections so express themselves, that she seems to go about like a very neat She-Wolf imperfectly tamed. Besides being accomplished in all the knowledge appertaining to her post, she is ahnost an English- woman in her acquaintance with the language — consequently, she is in no want of words to shower upon Piosa for having attracted my Lady's attention; and she pours them out with such grim ridicide as she sits at dinner, that her companion, the aftectionate man, is rather relieved when she arrives at the spoon stage of that performance. Ha, ha, ha ! She, Hortense, been in my Lady's service since five years, and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet, caressed — absolutely caressed — by my Lady on the moment of her arriving at the house ! Ha, ha ! ha ! " And do you know how pretty you ai-e, child?" — "No, my Lady." — You are right there ! "And how old are you, child? And take care they do not spod you by flattery, child!'* O how di-oU ! It is the best thing altogether. In short, it is such an admirable thing, that INIademoiseUe Hortense can't forget it; but at meals for days afterwards, even among her countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop oi visitors, relapses into silent enjoyment of the joke — an enjoyment expressed, in her own convivial manner, by an additional tightness of 112 BLEAK HOUSE. face, thin elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise look : wliicli intense appreciation of humour is frequently reflected in my Lady's mirrors, when my Lady is not among them. All the mirrors in the house are brought into action now : many of them after a long blank. They reflect handsome faces, simpering faces, youthful faces, faces of threescore-and-ten that will not submit to be old ; the entire collection of faces that have come to pass a January week or two at Chesney Wold, and which the fashionable intelligence, a mighty hunter before the Lord, hunts with a keen scent, from their breaking cover at the Com*t of Saint James's to their being run down to Death. The place in Lincolnshire is all alive. By day, guns and voices are heard ringing in the woods, horsemen and carriages enliven the park- roads, servants and hangers-on pervade the Village and the Dedlock Arms. Seen by night, from distant openings in the trees, the row of windows in the long drawing-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, the chill little church is almost warmed by so much gallant company, and the general flavor of the Dedlock dust is quenched in delicate perfumes. The brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it, no con- tracted amount of education, sense, courage, honor, beauty, and virtue. Yet there is something a little wrong about it, in despite of its immense advantages. What can it be ? Dandyism ? There is no King George the Fourth now (more's the pity !) to set the dandy fashion ; there are no clear-starched jack-towel neckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves, no stays. There are no caricatures, noAv, of effeminate Exquisites so arrayed, swooning in opera boxes with excess of delight, and being revived by other dainty creatures, poking long-necked scent-bottles at their noses. There is no beau whom it takes four men at once to shake into his buckskins, or who goes to see all the Executions, or who is troubled with the self-reproach of having once consumed a pea. But is there Dandyism in the brilliant and distinn-uished circle notwithstandino; Dandvism of a more mischievous sort, that has got below the surface and is doing less harmless things than jack-towelling itself and stopping its own digestion, to which no rational person need particularly object ? Why, yes. It cannot be disguised. There are, at Chesney Wold this January week, some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashion, who have set up a Dandyism — in Eeligion, for instance. Who, in mere lacka- daisical want of an emotion, have agreed upon a little dandy talk about the Yulgar wanting faith in things in general ; meaning, in the things that have been tried and found wanting, as though a low fellow should unaccountably lose faith in a bad shilling, after flnding it out! Who would make the Vulgar very picturesque and faithful, by putting back the hands upon the Clock of Time, and cancelling a few hundred years of history. There are also ladies and srentlemen of another fashion, not so new, but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on the world, and to keep down all its realities. Eor whom everything must be languid and pretty. Who have found out the perpetual stoppage. Who are to rejoice at nothing, and be sorry for nothing. Who are not to be dis- turbed by ideas. On whom even the Fine Arts, attending in powder BLEAK HOUSE. 113 and walking backward like the Lord Chamberlain, must aiTay them- selves in the milliners' and tailors' patterns of past generations, and be particularly careM not to be in earnest, or to receive any impress from the moving age. Then there is my Lord Boodle, of considerable reputation with his party, who has known what office is, and who tells Sir Leicester Dedlock with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not see to what the present age is tending. A debate is not what a debate used to be ; the House is not what the House used to be ; even a Cabinet is not what it fonnerly was. He perceives with astonishment, that supposing the present Government to be overthrown, the limited choice of the Crown, in the formation of a new Ministry, woidd lie between Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle — supposing it to be impossible for the Duke of Poodle to act with Goodie, which may be assumed to be the case in consequence of the breach arising out of that affair ^vith Hoodie. Then, giving the Home Department and the Leadership of the House of Commons to Joodle, the Exchequer to Koodle, the Colonies to Loodle, and the Foreign Office to Moodle, what are you to do with Noodle ? You can't offer him the Presidency of the Council ; that is reserved for Poodle. You can't put him in the Woods and Forests ; that is hardly good enough for Quoodle. What follows? That the countiy 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 Eight Honorable William Buffy, M.P., contends across the table with some one else, that the shipwreck of the countiy — about which there is no doubt ; it is only the manner of it that is in question — is attributable to Cuffy. If you had done with Cuffy what you ought to have done when he first came into Parliament, and had prevented him from going over to Duffy, you would have got him into alliance with Puffy, you would have had with you the weight attaching as a smart debater to Guffy, you would have brought to bear upon the elections the Avealth of Huffy, you would have got in for three counties Jutfy, Kuffy, and liuffy ; and you would have strengthened your administration by the official knowledge and the business habits of Muffy. All this, instead of being, as you now are, dependent on the mere caprice of Puffy ! As to this point, and as to some minor topics, there are differences of opinion ; but it is perfectly clear to the brilliant and distinguished circle, all round, that nobody is in question but Boodle and his retinue, and Buffy and his retinue. These are the gi-eat actors for whom the stage is reserved. A People there are, no doubt — a certain large number of supernumeraries, who are to be occasionally addressed, and relied upon for shouts and choruses, as on the theatrical stage; but Boodle and Buffy, their followers and families, their heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, are the bom first-actors, managers, and leaders, and no others can appear upon the scene for ever and ever. In this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at Chesney Wold than the brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself in the long nm. For it is, even with the stillest and politest circles, as ^vith the circle the necromancer draws around him — very strange appearances may be seen in active motion outside. With this difference ; that, being realities and not phantoms, there is the greater danger of their breaking in. 114 BLEAK HOUSE. Chesney Wold is quite full, anyliow ; so full, that a burning sense of injury arises in the breasts of iU-lodged ladies' maids, and is not to be extinguished. Only one room is empty. It is a tun-et chamber of the third order of merit, plainly but comfortably furnished, and having an old-fashioned business air. It is Mr. Tidkinghorn'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 park from the village, in line weather ; to drop into this room, as if he had never been out of it since he was last seen there ; to request a servant to inform Su* Leicester that he is arrived, in case he should be wanted ; and to appear ten minutes before dinner, in the shadow of the library door. He sleeps in his turret, with a complaining flag-staff over his head; and has some leads outside, on which, any fme morning when he is down here, his black figure may be seen walking before breakfast like a larger species of rook. Every day before dinner, my Lady looks for him in the dusk of the library, but he is not there. Every day at dinner, my Lady glances down the table for the vacant place, that woidd be waiting to receive him if he had just arrived ; but there is no vacant place. Every night, my Lady casually asks her maid : "Is Mr Tidkinghorn come ? " Every night the answer is, "No, my Lady, not yet." One night, while having her hair undressed, my Lady loses herself in deep thought after this reply, until she sees her own brooding face in the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously observing her. " Be so good as to attend," says my Lady then, addressing tlie reflection of Hortense, "to your business. You can contemplate your beauty at another time." " Pardon ! It was your Ladyship's beauty." " That," says my Lady, "you needn't contemplate at aU." At length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the bright groups of figin-es, which have for the last hour or two enlivened the Ghost's Walk, are aU dispersed, and only Sir Leicester and my Lady remain upon the terrace, Mr. Tulkinghorn appears. He comes towards them at his usual methodical pace, which is never quickened, never slackened. He wears his usual expressionless mask — if it be a mask — and carries family secrets in every limb of his body, and every crease of his dress. Whether his whole soul is devoted to the great, or whether he yields them nothing beyond the services he sells, is his personal secret. He keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of his clients ; he is liis own client in that matter, and will never betray himself. " How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn? " says Sir Leicester, giving liim his hand. Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. Sir Leicester is quite well. My Lady is quite well. All highly satisfactory. The lawyer, with his hands 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 gracious observation. As much as to say, " Mr. Tidkinghorn, we remember your existence when you are not here to remind us of it by your presence. We bestow a fragment of our minds upon you, sii', you see ! " BLEAK HOUSE. 115 Mr. Tulkingliorn, comprehending it, incKnes liis head, and says he is much obliged. " I should have come down sooner," he explains, " but that I have been much engaged with those matters in the several suits between yoiu'- self and Boythorn." " A man of a very ill-regulated mind," obseiTcs Sir Leicester, with severity. " An extremely dangerous person in any community. A man of a very low character of mind." " He is obstinate," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. " It is natural to such a man to be so," says Sir Leicester, looking most profoundly obstinate himself. " I am not at all surprised to hear it." " The only question is," piu'sues the lawyer, " whether you will give up anything." " No, sir," replies Sir Leicester. " Nothing. I give up ? " " I don't mean any tiling of importance. That, of course, I know you would not abandon. I mean any minor point." " Mr. Tulkinghorn," retui'ns Sir Ijeicester, " there can be no minor point between myself and Mr. Boythorn. If I go farther, and observe that I cannot readily conceive how any right of mine can ])e a minor point, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an indi\ddual, as in reference to the family position I have it in charge to maintain." Mr. Tidkinghorn inclines his head again. " I have now my instmc- tions," he says. " Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal of trouble — " " It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn," Sir Leicester inteniipts him, "'to give trouble. An exceedingly ill-conditioned, levelling person.- A person who, fifty years ago, would probably have been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding, and severely punished — if not," adds Sir Leicester, after a moment's pause, " if not hanged, drawn, and quartered." Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a biu'den, in passing this capital sentence ; as if it were the next satisfactoiy thing to having the sentence executed. " But night is coming on," says he, " and my Lady ^dll take cold. My dear, let us go in." As they turn towards the hall-door. Lady Dedlock addresses Mi*. Tulkinghorn for the first time. "You sent me a message respecting the person whose wiiting I happened to inquire about. It was like you to remember the circum- stance ; I had quite forgotten it. Youi' message reminded me of it again. I can't imagine what association I had, with a hand like that; but I surely had some." " You had some ? " ]VIi'. Tulkinghorn repeats. *' O yes ! " returns my Lady, carelessly. " I think I must have had some. And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that actual thing — what is it !— Affidavit ? " "Yes." " How very odd ! " They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground-floor, lighted in the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. The fire glows brightly on the panelled wall, and palely on the window-glass, where, 116 BLEAK HOUSE. througli the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscape shudders in the wind, and a grey mist creeps along : the only traveller besides the waste of clouds. My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-comer, and Sir Leicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands before 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, what is very strange, I found him — " *' Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid ! " Lady Dedlock languidly anticipates. " 1 found him dead." *' O dear me ! " remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked by the fact, as by the fact of the fact being mentioned. " I was directed to his lodging — a miserable, poverty-stricken place — and I found him dead." "You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn," observes Sir Leicester. " I think the less said—" " Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story out ; " (it is my Lady speaking). "It is quite a story for twilight. How very shocking I Dead ? " Mr. Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head. " Whether by his own hand — " " Upon my honor ! " cries Sir Leicester. " Eeally ! " - " Do let me hear the stoiy ! " 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 feels that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is really — really — " I was about to say," resumes the lawyer, mth undisturbed calmness, " that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my power to tell you. I should amend that phrase, however, by saying that he had unquestionably died of his own act; though whether by his o^vn deliberate intention, or by mischance, can never certainly be known. The coroner's jury found that he took the poison accidentally." " And what kind , of man," my Lady asks, " was this deplorable creature ? " " Veiy difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his head. " He had lived so wretchedly, and was so neglected, with his gipsy color, and his wild black hair 'and beard, that I should have considered him the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he had once 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 his name." " Not even any one who had attended on him ? " " No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, I found him." " Without any clue' to anything more ? " "Without any; there was," says the lawyer, meditatively, "an old portmanteau ; but — No, there were no papers." BLEAK HOUSE. 117 During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, Lady Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, ^vithout any other alteration in their customary deportment, have looked veiy steadily at one another — as was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. Sir Leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of the Dedlock on the staircase. The story being told, he renews his stately protest, saying, that as it is quite clear that no association in my Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch (unless he was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no more about a subject so far removed from my Lady's station. *' Certainly, a collection of horrors," says my Lady, gathering up her mantles and furs ; " but they interest one for the moment ! Have the kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me." Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference, and holds it open while she passes out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner, and insolent grace. They meet again at dinner — again, next day — again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine. Mr. Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repositoiy of noble confidences : so oddly out of place, and yet so perfectly at home. They appear to take as little note of one another, as any two people, enclosed within the same walls, could. But, whether each evermore watches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some great reserv^ation ; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the other, and never to be taken unawares ; what each would give to know how much the other knows — all this is hidden, for the time, in their own hearts. CHAPTER XIII. Esther's naerative. AVe held many consultations about what Eichard was to be ; first, without Mr. Jarndyce, as he had requested, and afterwards with him ; but it was a long time before we seemed to make progress. Eichard said he was ready for anything. When Mr. Jarndyce doubted whether he might not ah'eady be too old to enter the Na\y, Eichard said he had thought of that, and perhaps he was. When ^Ir. Jarndyce asked him what he thought of the Army, Eichard said he had thought of that, too, and it wasn't a bad idea. Wlien Mr. Jarndyce advised him to try and decide within himself, whether his old preference for the sea was an ordinaiy boyish inclination, or a strong impidse, Eichard answered, AA ell, he really liad tried very often, and he couldn't make out. " How much of this indecision of character," !Mr. Jarndyce said to me, " is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of imcertainty and procras- tination on which he has been thrown from his birth, I don't pretend to say ; but that Chancery, among its other sins, is responsible for some of 118 :bleak house. it, I can plainly see. It has engendered or confiiTned in him a liabit of putting off — and trusting to this, that, and the other chance, without knowing what chance — and dismissing everything as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. The character of much older and steadier people may be even changed by the circumstances suiTounding them. It woidd be too much to expect that a boy's, in its formation, should be the subject of such influences, and escape them." I felt this to be true ; though, if I may ventui'e to mention what I thought besides, I thought it much to be regretted that Richard's education had not counteracted those influences, or directed his character. He had been eight years at a public school, and had leanit, I understood, to make Latin Verses of several sorts, in the most admirable manner. But I never heard that it had been anybody's business to find out what his natural bent Avas, or where his failings lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to him. He had been adapted to the Verses, and had learnt the art of making them to such perfection, that if he had remained at school until he was of age, I suppose he could only have gone on making them over and over again, unless he had enlarged his education by for- getting how to do it. Still, although I had no doubt that they were very beautifid, and very improving, and very sufficient for a great many purposes of life, and always remembered all through life, I did doubt whether Eichard 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 know whether the young gentlemen of classic Eome or Greece made verses to the same extent — or whether the young gentlemen of any country ever did. " I haven't the least idea," said Eichard, musing, "what I had better be. Except that I am quite sure I don't want to go into the Church, it's a toss-up." "You have no inclination in Mr. Kenge's way?" suggested Mr. Jarndyce. " I don't know that, sir ! " replied Eichard. " I am fond of boating. Articled clerks go a good deal on the water. It's a capital pro- fession ! " " Surgeon — " suggested Mr. Jamdyce. " That's the thing, sir ! " cried Eichard. I doubt if he had ever once thought of it before. "That's the thing, sir!" repeated Eichard, Avith the greatest en- thusiasm. " We have got it at last. M.E.C.S. ! " He was not to be laughed out of it, though he laughed at it heartily. He said he had chosen his profession, and the more he thought of it, the more he felt that his destiny was clear ; the art of healing was the art of all others for him. Mistrusting that he only came to this conclusion, because, having never had much chance of finding out for himself what he was fitted for, and having never been guided to the discover}'^, he was taken by the newest idea, and was glad to get rid of the trouble of consideration, I wondered whether the Latin A^erses often ended in this, or whether Eichard's was a solitary case. Mr. Jamdyce took great pains to talk Avith him, seriously, and to put BLEAK HOUSE. 119 it to his good sense not to deceive himself in so important a matter. Eichard was a little grave after these interviews ; but invariably told Ada and me " that it was all right," and then began to talk about something else. " By Heaven ! " cried Mr. Boy thorn, who interested himself strongly in the subject — though I need not say that, for he coidd do nothing weakly; "I rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit and gallantry'' devoting himself to that noble profession ! The more spirit there is in it, the better for mankind, and the worse for those mercenary taskmasters and low tricksters who delight in putting that illustrious art at a disadvantage in the world. By all that is base and despicable," cried IVIr. Boythorn, " the treatment of Surgeons aboard ship is such, that I would submit the leers — both le^'s — of every member of the Admiralty Board to a compound fracture, and render it a transportable offence in any qualified practitioner to set them, if the system were not wholly changed in eight-and-forty hours !" " Wouldn't you give them a week? " asked Mr. Janidyce. " No!" cried ]\Ir. Boythorn, firmly. "Not on any consideration! Eight- and-forty hours ! As to Corporations, Parishes, Yestry-Boards, and similar gatherings of jolter-headed clods, who assemble to exchange such speeches that, by Heaven ! they ought to be Avorked in quicksilver mines for tiie short i-emainder of their miserable existence, if it were oidy to prevent their destestable English from contaminating a language spoken in the presence of the Sun — as to those fellows, who meanly take advantage of the ardor of gentlemen in the pursuit of knowledge, to recompense the inestimable services of the best years of their lives, their long study, and their expensive education, with pittances too small for the acceptance of clerks, I would have the necks of every one of them wrung, and their skulls arranged in Surgeons' Hall for the contem- plation of the whole profession — in order that its younger members might understand from actual measurement, in early life, lioic thick skulls may become ! " He wound up this vehement declaration by looking round upon us Avith a most agreeable smile, and suddenly thundering, Ha, ha, ha ! over and over again, until anybody else might have been expected to be quite subdued by the exertion. As Eichard still continued to say that he was fixed in his choice, after repeated periods for consideration had been reconnnended by Mr. Janidyce, and had expired ; and as he stiU continued to assure Ada and me, in the same final manner, that it was " all right ; " it became advisable to take Mr. Kenge into council. j\Ir. Kenge, therefore, came doAvn to dinner one day, and leaned back in his chair, and turned liis eye-glasses over and over, and spoke in a sonorous voice, and did exactly what I remembered to have seen him do when I was a little girl. " Ah ! " said Mr. Kenge. " Yes. Well ! A very good profession, Mr. Jarndyce ; a very good profession." " The course of study and preparation requires to be diligently pur- sued," observed my Guardian, with a glance at Eichard. " 0, no doubt," said Mr. Kenge. " Diligently." " But that being the case, more or less, witli all pursuits that are 120 BLEAK HOUSE. worth much," said Mr. Jarndyce," it is not a special consideration which another choice would be Kkely to escape." *' Truly," said Mr. Kenge. " And Mr. Eichard Carstone, who has so meritoriously acquitted himself in the — shall I say the classic shades ? — in which his youth had been passed, will, no doubt, apply the habits, if not the principles and practice, of versification in that tongue in which a poet was said (unless I mistake) to be born, not made, to the more eminently practical field of action on which he enters." " You may rely upon it," said Eichard, in his off-hand manner, " that I shall go at it, and do my best." " Veiy well, Mr. Jamdyce ! " said Mr. Kenge, gently nodding his head. *' Eeally, when we are assured by Mr. Eichard that he means to go at it, and to do his best," nodding feelingly and smoothly over those expres- sions ; "I would submit to you, that we have only to inquire into the best mode of carrying out the object of his ambition. Now, with reference to placing Mr. Eichard with some sufficiently eminent practitioner. Is there any one in view at present ? " " No one, Eick, I think?" said my Guardian. " No one, sir," said Eichard, " Quite so ! " observed Mr. Kenge. "As to situation, now. Is there any particular feeling on that head ? " " N — no," said Eichard. " Quite so ! " observed INIr. Kenge again. " I should like a little variety," said Eichard ; " — I mean a good range of experience." " Very requisite, no doubt," returned Mr. Kenge. " I think this may be easily arranged, Mr. Jarndyce ? We have only, in the first place, to discover a sufficiently eligible practitioner ; and, as soon as we make our want — and, shall I add, our ability to pay a premium ? — known, our only difficulty wiU be in the selection of one from a large number. We have only, in the second place, to obseiTe those little formalities which are rendered necessary by our time of life, and our being under the guardian- ship of the Court. We shall soon be — shall I say, in Mr. Eichard's own light-hearted manner, ' going at it ' — to our heart's content. It is a coinci- dence," said Mr. Kenge, with a tinge of melancholy in his smile, " one of those coincidences which may or may not require an explanation beyond our present limited faculties, that I have a cousin in the medical pro- fession. He might be deemed eligible by you, and might be disposed to respond to this proposal. I can answer for him as little as for you ; but he might ! " As this was an opening in the prospect, it was aiTanged that Mr. Kenge should see his cousin. And as Mr. Jarndyce had before pro- posed to take us to London for a few weeks, it was settled next day that we should make our visit at once, and combine Eichard's business with it. Mr. Boythorn leaving us within a week, we took up our abode at a cheerful lodging near Oxford Street, over an upholsterer's shop. London was a great wonder to us, and we were out for hours and hours at a time, seeing the sights ; which appeared to be less capable of exhaustion than we were. We made the round of the principal theatres, too, with great I f-l\''- ~^ ling to the best models. Nor is the examination unlike many such model displays, both in respect of its eliciting nothing, and of its being lengthy ; for, Mr. Guppy is sensible of his talent, and Mrs. Snagsby feels, not only that it gratifies her inquisitive disposition, but that it lifts her husband's establishment higher up in the law. During the progress of this keen encounter, the vessel Chadband, l^eing merely engaged in the oil trade, gets aground, and waits to be floated off, " WeU ! " says Mr. Guppy, " either this boy sticks to it like cobbler's wax, or there is something out of the common here that beats anything that ever came into my way at Kenge and Carboy's." Mrs. Chadband whispers Mrs. Snagsby, who exclaims, " You don't say so ! " Por years ! " replies Mrs. Chadband. " Has known Kenge and Carboy's ofiice for years," Mrs. Snagsby triumphantly explains to Mr. Guppy. " Mrs. Chadband — this gentleman's wife — Pteverend 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, trans- ferring his cross-examination. "No." " Not a party in anything, ma'am?" says Mr. Guppy. Mrs. Chadband shakes her head. " Perhaps you were acquainted with somebody who was a party in something, ma'am?" says Mr. Guppy, who likes nothing better than to model his conversation on forensic principles. BLEAK HOUSE. 191 " Not exactly that, either," replies Mrs. Chadband, humouring the joke with a hard-favored smile. " Not exactly that, either !" repeats Mr. Guppy. " Yer}^ 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 and Carboy's office, or was it a gentleman of your acquaintance ? Take time, 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 throTSTi on British jui-j^men. " Now, ma'am, perhaps you'll have the kindness to tell us what child." " You have got at it at last, sir," says Mrs. Chadband, \di\\ another hard-favored smile. " A\ell, sir, it was before your time, most likely, judging from your appearance. I was left in charge of a child named Esther Summerson, who was put out in life by Messrs. Kenge and Carboy." " Miss Summerson, ma'am !" cries ]\Ir. Guppy, excited. " / call her Esther Summerson," says Mrs. Chadband, with austerity. " There was no ^liss-ing of the gi'i 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 small apartment, " the humble individual who now addresses you received that young lady in London, wlien she first came here from the establish- ment to which you have alluded. Allow me to have the pleasure of taking you by the hand." J\Ir. Chadband, at last seeing his opportunity, makes his accustomed signal, and rises ■«'ith a smoking head, which he dabs with his pocket- 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), " of the comforts which have been provided for us. May this house live upon the fatness of the land ; may corn and wine be plentiful therein ; may it grow, may it thrive, may it prosper, may it advance, may it proceed, may it press forw^ai'd ! But, my friends, have we partaken of anj-thing else ? "We have. My friends, of what else have we partaken? Of spiiitual profit? Yes. Erom whence have we derived that spiritual profit? My young friend, stand forth !" Jo, thus apostrophised, gives a slouch backward, and another slouch forward, and another slouch to each side, and confronts the eloquent Chadband, with evident doubts of his intentions. " My young friend," says Chadband, " you are to us a pearl, you are to us a diamond, you are to us a gem, you are to us a jewel. And why, my young friend ? " " / don't know," replies Jo. " I don't know nothink." " My young friend," says Cliadband, " it is because you know nothing that vou are to us a gem and jewel. Eor what are you, my young friend ? Are you a beast of the field ? No. A bird of the air ? No. A fi^h of the sea or river ? No. You are a human boy, my young friend. A human boy. glorious to be a human boy ! And why glorious, my young friend ? Because you are capable of receiving the lessons of wisdom, because you are capable of profiting by this discourse which I now 192 BLEAK HOUSE. deliver for your good, because you are not a stick, or a staff, or a stock, or a stone, or a post, or a pillar. O runniijg stream of sparkling joy To be a soaring human boy ! And do you cool yourself in tliat stream now, my young friend ? No. Why do you not cool yourself in that stream now ? Because you are in a state of darkness, because you are in a state of obscurity, because you are in a state of sinfulness, because you are in a state of bondage. My young friend, what is bondage ? Let us, in a spirit of love, inquire." At this threatening stage of the discourse, Jo, who seems to have been gradually going out of his mind, smears his right arm over his face, and gives a terrible yawn. Mrs. Snagsby indignantly expresses her belief that he is a limb of the arch-fiend. " My friends," says Mr. Chadband, with his persecuted chin folding itself into its fat smile again as he looks round, "it is right that I should be humbled, it is right that I should be tried, it is right that I should be mortified, it is right that I should be corrected. I stumbled, on Sabbath last, when I thought with pride of my three hours' improving. The account is now favorably balanced ; my creditor has accepted a composition. O let us be joyful, joyful ! O let us be joyful ! " Great sensation on the part of Mrs. Snagsby. " My friends," says Chadband, looking round him, in conclusion, " I will not proceed with my young friend noAv. Will you come to-morrow, my young friend, and enquire of this good lady where I am to be found to deliver a discourse untoe you, and will you come like the thirsty swallow upon the next day, and upon the day after that, and upon the day after that, and upon many pleasant days, to hear discourses ? " (This, with a cow-like lightness.) 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. But, before he goes down stairs, Mr. Snagsby loads him with some broken meats from the table, which he carries away, hugging in his arms. So, Mr. Chadband — of whom the persecutors say that it is no wonder he should go on for any length of time uttering such abominable nonsense, but that the wonder rather is that he should ever leave ofl^, having once the audacity to begin — retires into private life until he invests a little capital of supper in the oil-trade. Jo moves on, through the long vacation, down to Blackfriars Bridge, where he finds a baking stony comer, wherein to settle to his repast. Aiid there he sits, munching and gnawing, and looking up at the great Cross on the summit of St. Paul's Cathedral, glittering above a red and violet-tinted cloud of smoke. From the boy's face one might suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his eyes, the crowning confusion of the great, confused city ; so golden, so high up, so far out of his reach. There he sits, the sun going down, the river running fast, the crowd flowing by him in two streams — everything moving on to some purpose and to one end — until he is stirred up, and told to " move on " too. BLEAK HOUSE. 193 CHAPTEE XX. A NEW LODGER. The long vacation saunters on towards term-time, like an idle river very leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. Mr. Guppy saunters along with it congenially. He has blunted the blade of his penknife, and broken the point off, by sticking that instrument into his desk in every direction. Not that he bears the desk any iU will, but he must do something, and it must be something of an unexciting nature, Avhich will lay neither his physical nor his intellectual energies under too heavy con- tribution. He finds that nothing agrees with him so well, as to make little gyrations on one leg of his stool, and stab his desk, and gape. Kenge and Carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk has taken out a shooting license and gone down to his father's, and Mr. Guppy's two fellow stipendiaries are away on leave. Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Kichard Carstone, divide the dignity of the office. But Mr. Carstone is for the time being established in Kenge's room, Avhereat Mr. Guppy chafes. So exceedingly, that he Avith biting sarcasm informs his mother, in the con- fidential moments when he sups with her off a lobster and lettuce, in the Old Street Road, that he is afraid the office is hardly good enough for swells, and that if he had known there was a swell coming, he would have got it painted. Mr. Guppy suspects everybody who enters on the occupation of a stool in Kenge and Carboy's office, of entertaining, as a matter of coiu'se, sinister designs upon him. He is clear that every such person wants to depose him. If he be ever asked how, why, when, or wherefore, he shuts up one eye and shakes his head. On the strength of these profound views, he in the most ingenious manner takes infinite pains to countei'plot, when there is no plot ; and plays the deepest games of chess without any adversary. It is a source of much gratification to Mr. Guppy, therefore, to find the new comer constantly poring over the papers in Jarndyce and Jarndyce ; for he well knows that nothing but confusion and faihu'e can come of that. His satisfaction communicates itself to a third saimterer through the long vacation in Kenge and Carboy's office ; to wit, Young Smallweed. Whether Young Smallweed (metaphorically called Small and eke Chick Weed, as it w^re jocularly to express a fiedgling,) was ever a boy, is much doubted in Lincoln's Inn. He is now something under fifteen, and an old limb of the law. He is facetiously understood to entertain a passion for a lady at a cigar shop, in the neighbourhood of Chancery Lane, and for her sake to have broken oft" a contract with another lady, to Avhom he had been engaged some years. He is a town-made article, of small stature and "weazen features ; but may be perceived from a considerable distance by means of his very tall hat. To become a Guppy is the object of his ambition. He dresses at that gentleman (by whom he is patronized), talks at him, walks at him, founds himself entirely on him. He is honored with Mr. Guppy's particular confidence, and occasionally advises him, from the deep wells of his experience, on difficult points in private life. 194 BLEAK HOUSE. Mr. Guppy lias been lolling out of window all tlie morning, after trying all the stools in succession and finding none of them easy, and after several times putting his head into the iron safe with a notion of cooling it. Mr. Smallweed has been twice dispatched for effervescent drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two official tumblers and stirred them up with the ruler. Mr. Grupp}'' propounds, for Mr. Smallvv^eed's consideration, the paradox that the more you drink the thirstier you are ; and reclines his head upon the window-sill in a state of hopeless languor. Wliile thus looking out into the shade of Old Scjuare, Lincoln's Inn, surveying the intoleraljle bricks and mortar, Mr. Guppy becomes con- scious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walk below, and turning itself up in the direction of his face. At the same time, a low whistle is wafted through the Inn, and a suppressed voice cries, *'Hip! Gup-py!" " Why, you don't mean it ? " says Mr. Guppy, aroused. " Small ! Here's Jobling ! " Small's head looks out of window too, and nods to Jobling. " Where have you sprung up from ? " enquires Mr. Guppy. " From the market-gardens down by Deptford. I can't stand it any longer. I must enlist. I say ! I wish you'd lend me half-a-croT\Ti. Upon my soul I'm hungry." Jobling looks hungry, and also has the appearance of having run to seed in the market -gardens down by Deptford. " I say ! Just throw out half-a- crown, if you have got one to spare. I want to get some dinner." " Will you come and dine with me ? " says Mr. Guppy, throwing out the coin, v»^hich ]\Ir. Jobling catches neatly. " How long should I have to hold out ? " says Jobling. " Not half an hour. I am only waiting here, tiU the enemy goes," returns Mr. Guppy, butting inward with his head. " Wliat enemy ? " " A new one. Going to be articled. Will you wait ? '* *' Can you give a fellow anything to read in the meantime ? " says Mr. Jobling. Small weed suggests the Law List. But Mr. Jobling declares, with much earnestness, that he " can't stand it." " You shall have the paper," says Mr. Guppy. " He shall bring it do^\^l. But you had better not be seen about here. Sit on oui* staircase and read. It's a Cj[uiet place." Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. The sagacious Smallweed supplies him Avith the newspaper, and occasionally drops his eye upon him from the landing as a precaution against his becoming disgusted Avith waiting, and making an untimely departure. At last the enemy retreats, and tlien Smallweed fetches Mr. Jobling up. " WeU, and liow are you? " says Mr. Guppy, shaking hands with him. " So, so. liow are you? " Mr. Guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, Mr. Jobling ventures on the cpiestion, "How is sJieV This Mr. Guppy resents as a liberty; retorting, " Jobling, there are chords in the human mind — " Jobling begs pardon. Jl BLEAK HOUSE. 195 " Any subject but that ! " says Mr. Guppy, with a gloomy enjo^meut of his injury. " For there are chords, Jobling — " Mr. Jobling begs pardon again. During this short colloquy, the active Smallweed, who is of the dinner party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper, " Eetmii imme- diately." This notification to all whom it may concern, he inserts in the letter-box ; and then putting on the taU hat, at the angle of incKnation 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, is supposed to have made some impression on the susceptible Smallweed*; of whom it may be remarked that he is a weii'd changeling, to whom years are nothing. He stands precociously possessed of centuries of owlish wisdom. If he ever la}'^ in a cradle, it seems as if he must have lain there in a tail-coat. He has an old, old eye, has Smallweed ; and he drinks, and smokes, in a monkeyish way ; and his neck is stiff in his collar ; and he is never to be taken in; and he knows all about it, whatever it is. In short, in his bringing up, he has been so nursed by Law and Equity that he has become a kind of fossil Imp, to account for whose terrestrial existence it is reported at the public offices that his father was John Doe, and his mother the only female member of the Koe family ; also that his first long-clothes were made from a blue bag. Into the Dining House, unafl^ected by the seductive show in tlie mndow, of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poidtry, verdant baskets of peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready for the spit, Mr. Smallweed leads the way. They know him there, and defer to him. He has his favorite box, he bespeaks aU the papers, he is down upon bald patriarchs, who keep them more than ten minutes afterwards. It is of no use trying him with anything less than a full-sized " bread," or proposing to him any joint in cut, unless it is in the very best cut. In the matter of gTavy he is adamant. Conscious of his elfin power, and submitting to his di*ead experience, Mr. Guppy consults liim in the choice of that day's banquet ; turning an appealing look toward him as the waitress repeats the catalogue of viands, and saying " What do you take, Cliick ? " Chick, out of the profmidity of his artfulness, preferring '•' veal and ham and French beans — And don't you forget the stuffing, Polly," (mth an unearthly cock of his venerable eye) ; Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling give the like order. Three pint pots of half-and-half are superadded. Quickly the waitress returns, bearing what is apparently a model of the tower of Babel, but what is reaUy a pile of plates and flat tin dish-covers. Mr. Smallweed, approving of what is set before him, conveys intelligent benignity into his ancient eye, and winks upon her. Then, amid a constant coming in, and going out, and running about, and a clatter of crockery, and a rumbling up and doA^^i of the machine which brings the nice cuts from the kitchen, and a shi'ill crying for more nice cuts down the speaking-pipe, and a shriU reckoning of the cost of nice cuts that have been disposed of, and a general flush and steam of hot joints, cut and uncut, and a considerably heated atmo- sphere in which the soiled knives and table-cloths seem to break out o 2 196 BLEAK HOUSE. spoilt aneoiisl}^ into eruptions of grease and blotches of beer, the lega triumvirate appease their appetites. Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adoniment might require. His hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of a glistening nature, as if it had been a favorite snail-promenade. The same phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat, and particularly at the seams. He has the faded appearance of a gentleman in embarrassed circumstances ; even his light whiskers droop with something of a shabby air. His appetite is so vigorous, that it suggests spare li^nng for some little time back. He makes such a speedy end of his plate of veal and ham, bringing it to a close while his companions are yet midway in theirs, that Mr. Guppy proposes another. *' Thank you, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, " I really don't know but what I will take another." Another being brought, he falls to with great good will. ]\£r. Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals, until he is half way through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying jHdl at his pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed), and stretches out his legs and rubs his hands. Beholding him in which glow of contentment, 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 ? Summer cabbage ? " " Thank you, Guppy," says !Mr. Jobling. " I really don't know but what I will take summer cabbage." Order given ; w4tli the sarcastic addition (from ^Ir. Smallweed) ot " Without slugs, Polly ! " And cabbage produced. " I am growing up, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, plying his knife and fork with a relishing steadiness. " Glad to hear it." " In fact, I have just turned into my teens," says Mr. Jobling. He says no more until he has performed his task, which he achieves as ]\Iessrs. Guppy and Smallweed finish theirs ; thus getting over the ground ill excellent stvle, and beatino; those two gentlemen easilv bv a veal and ham and a cabbage. " Now, Small," says Mr, Guppy, " what woidd you recommend about pastrv'?" " Marrow puddings," says ]\Ir. Smallweed instantly. " xVye, aye ! " cries Mr. Jobling, with an arch look. " You're there, are you ? Thank you, Guppy, I don't know but what I mil take a maiTow pudding." Three marrow puddings being produced, Mr. Jobling adds, in a pleasant liumour, that he is coming of age fast. To these succeed, by command of Mr. Smallweed, "three Cheshires ;" and to those, " three small rums." This apex of the entertainment happily reached, ^Ir. Jobling puts up his legs on the cai-peted seat (haNTing his own side of the box to himself), leans against the wall, and says, "I am gTo\\-n up, now, Guppy. I have amved at matiu'ity." "What do you think, now," says Mr. Guppy, "about — you don't mind Smallweed ? " " Not the least in the world. I have the pleasure of diinking his good health." BLEAK HOUSE. 197 " Sir, to you ! " says Mr. Small weed. " I was saying, what do you think 7W2C,'' pursues Mr, Guppy, " of ■eidisting ? "Why, what I may think after dinner," returns Mr. Jobling, "is one thing, my dear Guppy, and what I may think before dinner is another thing. Still, even after dinner, I ask myself the question, What am I to do ? How am I to live ? Ill fo manger, you know," says Mr. Jobling, pronouncing that word as if he meant a necessaiy fixture in an English stable, " lU fo manger. That's the French saying, and maugering is as necessary to me as it is to a Frenchman, Or more so." Mr. S wall weed is decidedly of opinion " much more so." " If any man had told me," pursues Jobling, " even, so lately as when, you and I had the frisk down in Lincolnshire, Guppy, and drove over to see that house at Castle Wold " Mr. Smallweed corrects him — Chesney Wold. ■ " Chesney Wold. (I thank my honorable friend for that cheer.) If any man had told me, then, that I should be as hard up at the present time as I literally find myself, I should have — well, I should have pitched into him," says Mr. Jobling, taking a little rum-and-water with an air of desperate resignation ; "I shoidd have let fly at his head." " StiU, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then," remonstrates Mr. Guppy. " You were talking about nothing else in the gig." " Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, " I will not deny it, I was on the wTong side of the post. But I trusted to things coming round." That very popular trust in flat things coming round ! Not in their being beaten round, or worked round, but in their "coming" round! As though a lunatic should tmst in the world's "coming" triangular ! " I had confident expectations that things would come round and be all square," says Mr. Jobling, with some vagueness of expression, and perhaps of meaning, too. "' But I was disappointed. They never did. And when it came to creditors making rows at the office, and to people that the office dealt with making complaints about dirty trifles of borrowed money, why there was an end of that connexion. And of any new professional connexion, too ; for if I was to give a reference to-moiTow, it would be mentioned, and would sew me up. Then, what's a fellow to do ? I have been keeping out of the way, and living cheap, down about the market -gardens ; but what's the use of living cheap when you have got no money ? You might as well live dear." "' Better," Mr. Swallweed thinks. " Certainly. It's the fashionable way ; and fashion and whiskers have been my weaknesses, and I don't care who knows it," says Mr. Jobling. '' They are great Aveaknesses — 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, bid enlist ? " ^Ir. Guppy comes more fully into the conversation, to state what, in his opinion, a fellow can do. His manner is the gravely impressive manner of a man who has not committed himself in life, other\nse thau as he has become the victim of a tender soitow of the heart. " Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, " myself and our mutual friend Small- w^eed " 198 BLEAK HOUSE. (Mr. Smallweed modestly observes " Gentlemen both ! " and drinks.) " Have had a little conversation on this matter more than once, since you " " Say, got the sack ! " cries Mr. Jobling, bitterly. " Say it, Guppy. You mean it." " N-o-o ! Left the Inn," Mr. Smallweed delicately suggests. "Since you left the Inn, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy; " and I have mentioned, to our mutual friend Smallweed, a plan I have lately thought of proposing. You know Snagsby the stationer?" " I know there is such a stationer," returns Mr. Jobling. " He was not oiu's, and I am not acquainted with him." " He is ours, Jobling, and I a7?i acquainted with him," Mr. Guppy retorts. " Well, sir ! I have lately become better acquainted with him, through some accidental circumstances that have made me a visitor of his in private life. Those circumstances it is not necessary to offer in argument. They may — or they may not — have some reference to a subject, which may — or may not — have cast its shadow on my existence." As it is Mr. Guppy's perplexing way, with boastful miseiy to tempt his particular friends into this subject, and the moment they touch it, to turn on them ^^dth that trenchant severity about the chords in the human mind ; both My. Jobling and Mr. Smallweed decline the pitfall, by remaining silent. " Such things may be," repeats Mr. Guppy, " or they may not be. They are no part of the case. It is enough to mention, that both Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are very willing to oblige me ; and that Snagsby has, in busy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. He has all Tulkinghorn's, and an excellent business besides. I believe, if our mutual friend Smallweed were put into the box, he could prove this ? " Mr. Smallweed nods, and appears greedy to be sworn. " Now, gentlemen of the jury," says Mr. Guppy, " — I mean, now Jobling — you may say this is a poor prospect of a living. Granted. But it's better than notliing, and better than enlistment. You want time. There must be time for these late affairs to blow over. You mis-ht live through it on much worse terms than by writing for Snagsby." Mr. Jobling is about to internipt, when the sagacious Smallweed checks 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, the Chancellor, across the lane. Come, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, in his encouraging cross-examination-tone, "I think you know Krook, the Chancellor, across the lane ? " " I know him by sight," says Mr. Jobling. " You knoAv him by sight. Very Avell. And you know little Flite ? " ' *' Everybody knows her," says Mr. Jobling. " Everybody knows her. J^er^ well. Now it has been one of my duties of late, to pay Elite a certain weekly allowance, deducting from it the amount of her weekly rent : which I have paid (in consequence of instructions I have received) to Krook himself, regularly, in lier presence. This has brought me into communication with Krook, and into a know- ledge of his house and his habits. I know he has a room to let. You may live there, at a very low charge, under any name you like ; as quietly BLEAK HOUSE. 199 as if j'^oii were a liimdred miles off. He'll ask no questions ; and would accept you as a tenant, at a word from me — before the clock strikes, if you. chose. And I'll tell you another thing, Jobling," says ]\Ir. Guppy, who has suddenly lowered his voice, and become familiar again, " he's an extraorclinary old chap — always rummaging among a litter of papers, and gi'ubbing away at teaching himself to read and write ; without getting on a bit, as it seems to me. He is a most extra ordinaiy old chap, sir. I don't know but what it might be worth a fellow's while to look him up a bit." " You don't mean~ ? " Mr. Jobling begins. " I mean," returns Mr. Guppy, shrugging his shoulders witli becoming modesty, " that / can't make him out. I appeal to our mutual friend Smallweed, whether he has or has not heard me remark, that I can't make him out." Mr. Smallweed bears the concise 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 sucli an old card as this ; so deep, so sly, and secret (though I don't believe he is ever sober) ; I never came across. Now, he must be precious old, you know, and he has not a soid. about him, and he is reported to be immensely rich; and whether he is a smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensed pawnbroker, or a money-lender — all of which I have thought likely at difterent times — it might pay you to knock up a sort of knowledge of him. I don't see why you shouldn't go in for it, Avhen everything else siuts." Mr. Jobling, ]Mr. Guppy, and IMr. Smallweed, all lean their elbows on the table, and their chins upon their hands, and look at the ceiling. After a time, they all diink, slowly lean back, put their hands in their pockets, and look at one another. " If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony ! " says ]\Ir. Guppy, with a sio-h. "But there are chords in the human mind " ... Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentunent m rum and water, Ml*. Guppy concludes by resigning the adventure to Tony Jobling, and informing him that, during the vacation and while things are slack, his purse, " as far as three or four or even five pound goes," "wiU be at his disposal. " For never shall it be said," Mr. Guppy adds ^^dth emphasis, "that WiUiam Guppy turned his back upon his friend ! " The latter part of the proposal is so directly to the piu-pose, that Mr. Jobling says with emotion, " Guppy, my trump, yoiu' fist ! " ]Mr. Guppy presents it, saying, " Jobling, my boy, there it is ! " 'My. Jobling returns. " Guppy, we have been pals now for some years ! " ]\Ir. Guppy replies, " Jobling, we have." They then shake hands, and ]\Ir. Jobling adds in a feeling manner, " Thank you, Guppy, I don't know but Avhat I will take another glass, for old acquaintance sake." " Kj'ook's last lodger died there," observes Mr. Guppy, in an incidental way. " Did he though ! " says ]\Ir. Jobling. " There was a verdict. Accidental death. Ton don't mind that ? " " No," says Mr. Jobling, " I don't mind it ; but he might as well have died somewhere else. It's devilish odd that he need go and die at 7/11/ place ! " ;Mi'. Jobling quite resents this liberty ; several times retm-ning 200 BLEAK HOUSE. to it witli sucli remarks as, " There are places enough to die in, I shoukl think ! " or, " lie wouldn't have liked my dying at his place, I dare say ! " However, the compact being virtually made, !Mr. Gruppy proposes to dispatch the trusty Smallweed to ascertain if Mr. Krook is at home, as in that case they may complete the negotiation without delay. Mr. Jobling approving, Smallweed puts himself under the tall hat and conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the Cluppy manner. He soon returns Avith the intelligence that Mr. Krook is at home, and that he has seen him through the shop-door, sitting in his back premises, sleeping, " like one o'clock." " Then I'll pay," says Mr. Guppv, " and we'll go and see him. SmaU, what will it be ? "' Mr. Smallweed, compelling the attendance of the waitress with one hitch of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows : " Pour veals and hams is three, and four potatoes is three and four, and one summer cabbage is three and six, and three marrows is four and six, and six breads is live, and three Cheshires is five and three, and four pints of half-and-half is six and three, and four small rums is eight and three, and three Pollys is eight and six. Eight and six in half a sovereign, Polly, and eighteen- pence out 1 " Not at all excited by these stupendous calculations, Smallweed dismisses his friends with a cool nod, and remains behind to take a little admiring- notice of Polly, as opportunity may serve, and to read the daily papers : which are so very large in proportion to himself, shorn of his hat, that when he holds up The Times to run his eye over the columns, he seems to have retired for the night, and to have disappeared under the bedclothes. Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling repair to the rag and bottle shop, where they find Krook still sleeping like one o'clock ; that is to say, breathing stertorously with his chin upon his breast, and quite insensible to any external sounds, or even to gentle shaking. On the table beside him, among the usual lumber, stand an empty gin bottle and a glass. The unwholesome air is so stained with this liquor, that even the green eyes of the cat upon her shelf, as they open and shut and glimmer on the visitors, look drunk. " Hold up here ! " says Mr. Guppy, giving the relaxed figure of the old man another shake. '']\Ir. Krook ! Halloa, sir ! " But it would seem as easy to wake a bundle of old clothes, with a spirituous heat smouldering in it. " Did you ever see such a stupor as he falls 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, shaking him again. " Halloa, your lordship ! Why he might be robbed, fifty times over ! Open your eyes ! " After much ado, he opens them, but without appearing to see his visitors, or any other objects. Though he crosses one leg on another, and folds his hands, and several times closes and opens his parched lips, he seems to all intents and pm'poses as insensible as before. " He is alive, at any rate," says Mr. Guppy. " How are you, my Lord Chancellor. I have brought a friend of mine, sir, on a little matter of business." BLEAK HOUSE. 201 The old man still sits, often smacl(ing his dry lips, without the least con- sciousness. After some minutes, he makes an attempt to rise. They help him up, and he staggers against the wall, and stares at them. " How do you do, Mr. Krook ? " says Mr. Guppy, in some discom- titure. " How do you do, sir ? You are looking charming, Mr. Krook. I hope you are pretty AveU ? " The old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at INIr. Guppy, or at nothing, feebly swings himself roimd, and comes with his face against the waU. So he remains for a minute or two, heaped up against it ; and then staggers do\vn the shop to the front door. The air, the movement in the court, the lapse of time, or the combination of these things, recovers him. He comes back pretty steadily, adjusting his fur-cap on his head, and looking keenly at them. " Your servant, gentlemen ; I've been dozing. Hi ! 1 am hard to wake, odd times." " Eather so, indeed, sir," responds Mr. Guppy. " What ? You've been a-trying to do it, have you ? " says the suspicious Krook. " Only a little," Mr. Guppy explains. The old man's eye resting on the empty bottle, he takes it up, examines it, and slowly tilts it upside down. " I say ! " he cries, like the Holjgoblin in tlie story. " Somebody \s been making free here ! " " I assure you we found it so," says Mr. Guppy. " Would you aUow me to get it tilled for you ? " " Yes, certainly I would!" cries Krook, in high glee. "Certainly I would ! Don't mention it ! Get it tilled next door — Sol's Arms — the Lord 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 and hurries in again with the bottle hUed. The old man receives it in his arms like a beloved grandchild, and pats it tenderly. " But, I say ! " he whispers, with his eyes screwed up, after tasting it, *' this ain't the Lord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. This is eighteenpenny ! " " I thought you might like that better," says Mr. Guppy. "You're a nobleman, sir," returns Krook, with another taste — and his hot breath seems to come towards them like a flame. " You're a baron of the land." Taking advantage of this auspicious moment, Mr. Guppy presents his friend under the impromptu name of Mr. W^eevle, and states the object of their visit. Ki'ook, with his bottle under his arm (he never gets beyond a certain point of either drunkenness or sobriety), takes time to survey his proposed lodger, and seems to approve of him. " You'd like to see the room, young man ? " he says. " Ah ! It's a good room ! Been whitewaslied. Been cleaned down A\dth soft soap and soda. Hi ! It's worth twice the rent ; letting alone my company when you want it, and such a cat to keep the mice away," Commending the room after this manner, the old man takes them up- stairs, where indeed they do find it cleaner than it used to be, and also containing some old articles of furniture which he has dug up from his inexhaustible stores. The terms are easily concluded — for the Lord 202 BLEAK HOUSE. Cliancellor cannot he hard on Mr. Guppy, associated as he is with Kenge and Carboy, Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and other famous claims on his pro- fessional consideration — and it is agreed that Mr. Weevle shall take possession on the morrow. Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy then repair to Cook's Coui't, Cursitor Street, where the personal introduction of the former to Mr. Snagsby is effected, and (more important) the vote and interest of Mrs. Snagsby are secured. They then report progress to the eminent Smallweed, waiting at the office in his tall hat for that purpose, and separate; Mr. Guppy explaining that he would terminate his little entertainment by standing treat at the play, but that there are chords in the human mind which would render it a hollow mockery. On the morrow, in the dusk of evening, Mr. Weevle modestly appears at Krook's, by no means incommoded with luggage, and establishes himself in his new lodging ; Avhere the two eyes in the shutters stare at him in his sleep, as if they were fidl of wonder. On the following day Mr. Weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing kind of young fellow, borrows a needle and thread of Miss Elite, and a hammer of his landlord, and goes to work devising apologies for window-curtains, and knocking up apologies for shelves, and hanging up his two teacups, milkpot, and crockery sundries on a pennyworth of little hooks, like a shipwrecked sailor making the best of it. But what Mr. Weevle prizes most, of all his few possessions (next after his light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that only whiskers can awaken in the breast of man), is a choice collection of copper-plate im- pressions from that truly national work. The Divinities of Albion, or Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, representing ladies of title and fashion in every variety of smirk that art, combined with capital, is capable of producing. With these magnificent portraits, unworthily con- fined in a band-box during his seclusion among the market-gardens, he decorates his apartment ; and as the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty wears every variety of fancy-dress, plays every variety of musical instrument, fondles every variety of dog, ogles every variety of prospect, and is backed up by every variety of flower-pot and l)alustrade, the result is very imposing. But, fashion is Mr. Weevle's, as it was Tony Jobling's weakness. To boiTow yesterday's paper from the Sol's Arms of an evening, and read about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that are shooting across the fashionable sky in every direction, is unspeakable consolation to him. To know what member of what brilliant and distinguished circle accomplished the brilliant and distinguished feat of joining it yesterday, or contemplates the no less brilliant and distinguished feat of leaving it to-morrow, gives him a thrill of joy. To be informed what the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty is about, and means to be about, and what Galaxy marriages are on the tapis, and what Galaxy rumours are in circulation, is to become acquainted with the most glorious destinies of mankind. Mr. Weevle reverts from this intelligence, to the 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 devices as before mentioned, able to cook and clean for himself as well as to car- penter, and developing social inclinations after the shades of evening have fallen on the court. At those times, when he is not visited by Mr. Guppy, or by a small light in his likeness quenched in a dark hat. BLEAK HOUSE. 203 he comes out of liis dull room — where he has inherited the deal wilderness of desk bespattered with a rain of ink — and talks to Krook, or is " very- free, " as they call it in the court, coram endingly, with any one disposed for conversation. Wherefore, Mrs. Piper, who leads the court, is impelled to offer two remarks to Mrs. Perkins : Firstly, that if her Johnny was to have whiskers, she could wish 'em to be identically like that young man's ; and secondly, INIark my words, jMrs. Perkins, ma'am, and don't you be sui'prised Lord bless you, if that young man comes in at last for old Ki'ook's money ! CHAPTER XXI. THE SMALLWEED EAMILY. In a rather iU-favored and iU-savored neighbourhood, though one of its rising grounds bears the name of Mount Pleasant, the Elfin Smallweed, christened Bartholomew, and known on the domestic hearth as Bart, passes that limited portion of his time on which the office and its con- tingencies have no claim. He dwells in a little naiTow street, always sobtary, shady, and sad, closely bricked in on all sides like a tomb, but where there yet lingers the stump of an old forest tree, whose flavor is about as fresh and natural as the Smallweed smack of youth. There has been only one child in the Smallweed family for several generations. Little old men and women tliere have been, but no child, until Mr. Smallweed's grandmother, now living, became weak in her intellect, and fell (for the first time) into a childish state. With such infantine graces as a total want of obseiwation, memory, understanding and interest, and an eternal disposition to fall asleep over the fire and into it, Mr. Smallweed's grandmother has undoubtedly brightened the family. Mr. Smallweed's grandfather is Likewise of the party. He is in a helpless condition as to his lower, and nearly so as to his upper, limbs ; but his mind is unimpaired. It holds, as well as it ever held, the first foiu- ndes of arithmetic, and a certain small collection of the hardest facts. In respect of ideality, reverence, wonder, and other such phrenological attributes, it is no worse off than it used to be. EveiTthing that Mr. Smallweed's grandfather ever put away in his mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. In all his life he has never bred a single butterfly. The father of this pleasant grandfather, of the neighbourhood of Mount Pleasant, was a horny-skinned, two-legged, money-getting species of spider, who spun webs to catch unwaiy flies, and retired into holes until they were entrapped. The name of this old pagan's God was Compound Interest. He lived for it, married it, died of it. Meeting with a heavj loss in an honest little enterprise in which all the loss was intended to have been on the other side, he broke something — something necessaiy to his existence ; therefore it coiddn't have been his heart — and made an end of his career. As his character was not good, and he had been bred at a Charity School, in a complete course, according to question and answer, of those ancient people the Amorites and Hittites, he was frequently quoted as an example of the failure of education. 204 BLEAK HOUSE. His spirit slione through his son, to whom he had always preached ot " going out " early in life, and whom he made a clerk in a sharp scrivener's office at twelve years old. There, the young gentleman improved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious character ; and, developing the family gifts, gradually elevated himself into the discounting 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 marrying late, became the father of Bartholomew and Judith Smallweed, twins. During the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this family tree, the house of Smallweed, always early to go out and late to marry, has strengthened itself in its practical character, has discarded all amusements, discountenanced all story-books, faiiy^ tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities whatsoever. Hence the gratifying fact, that it has had no child born to it, and that the complete little men and women whom it has produced, have been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something depressing on their minds. At the present time, in the dark little parlor certain feet below the level of the street — a grim, hard, uncouth parlor, only ornamented with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and the hardest of sheet-iron tea-trays, and offering in its decorative character no bad allegorical representation of Grandfather Smallweed's mind — seated in two black horsehair porter's chairs, one on each side of the fire-place, the superannuated Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed wile away the rosy hom*s. On the stove are a couple of trivets for the pots and kettles which it is Grandfather Smallweed's usual occupation to watch, and projecting from the chimney-piece between them is a sort of brass gallows for roasting, which he also superintends when it is in action. Under the venerable Mr. Smallweed's seat, and guarded by his spindle legs, is a drawer in his chair, reported to contain property to a fabulous amount. Beside him is a spare cushion, with which he is always provided, in order that he may have something to throw at the venerable partner of his respected age whenever she makes an allusion to money — a subject on which he is particularly sensitive, *' And where's Bart ? " Grandfather Smallweed enquires of Judy, Bart's twin-sister. " He an't come in yet," says Judy. " It's his tea time, isn't it ? " . *'No." " How much do you mean to say it wants then? " '. " Ten minutes." " Hey ? " , " Ten minutes." — (Loud on the part of Judy.) *' Ho ! " says Grandfather Smallweed. " Ten minutes." Grandmother Smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking her head at the trivets, hearing figures mentioned, connects them with money, and screeches, like a horrible old parrot without any plumage, " Ten ten- pound notes ! " Grandfather Smallweed immediately throws the cushion at her. " Drat you, be quiet ! " says the good old man. The effect of this act of jaculation is twofold. It not only doubles up Mrs. Smallweed's head against the side of her porter's chair, and causes her to present, when extricated by her grand-daughter, a highly unbe- BLEAK HOUSE. 205 coming; state of cap, but the necessary exertion recoils on ^Ir. Smallweed nimself, whom it throws back into his porter's chair, like a broken puppet. The excellent old gentleman being, at these times, a mere clothes-bag with a black skull-cap on the top of it, does not present a very animated appearance until he has undergone the two operations at the hands of his grand- daughter, of being shaken up like a great bottle, and poked and punched like a great bolster. Some indication of a neck being developed in him by these means, he and the sharer of his life's evening again sit fronting one another in their two porter's chairs, like a couple of sentinels long forgotten on their post by the Black Serjeant, Death. Judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. She is so indubitably sister to INIr. Smallweed the younger, that the two kneaded into one would hardly make a young person of average proportions ; while she so happily exemplifies the before-mentioned family likeness to the monkey tribe, that, attired in a spangled robe and cap, she might walk about the table-land on the top of a barrel-organ without exciting much remark as an unusual specimen. Under existing circumstances^ however, she is dressed in a plain, spare gown of brown stuff. Judy never owned a doll, never heard of Cinderella, never played at any game. She once or twice fell into children's company when she was about ten years old, but the children couldn't get on with Judy, and Judy couldn't get on with them. She seemed like an animal of another species, and there was instinctive repugnance on both sides. It is very doubtful whether Judy knows how to laugh. She has so rarely seen the thing done, that the probabilities are strong the other way. Of anything like a youthful laugh, she certainly can have no conception. If she were to try one, she woidd find her teeth in her way ; modelling that action of her face, as she has unconsciously modelled all its other expressions, on her pattern of sordid age. Such is Judy. And her twin Ijrother couldn't wind up a top for his life. He knows no more of Jack the Giant Killer, or of Sinbad the Sailor, than he knows of the people in the stars. He coidd as soon play at leap-frog, or at cricket, as change into a cricket or a frog himself. But, he is so much the better ott' than his sister, that on his narrow world of fact an opening- has dawned, into such broader regions as lie within the ken of ]\Ir. Guppy. Hence, his admiration and his emulation of that shining enchanter. Judy, with a gong-like clash and clatter, sets one of the sheet-iron tea- trays on the table, and aiTanges cups and saucers. The bread she puts on in an iron basket ; and the butter (and not much of it) in a small pewter plate. Grandfather Smallweed looks hard after the tea as it is served out, and asks Judy where the girl is ? " Charley, do you mean ? " says Judy. "Hey? " from Grandfather Smallweed. " Charley, do you mean ? " This touches a spring in Grandmother Smallweed who, chuckling, as usual, at the trivets, cries — " Over the water ! Charley over the water, Charley over the w^ater, over the water to Charley, Charley over the water, over the water to Charley ! " and becomes quite energetic about it. Grandfather looks at the cushion, but has not sufficiently recovered his late exertion. " Ha ! " he says, when there is silence — " if that's her name. She eats a deal. It woidd be better to allow her for her keep." 206 BLEAK HOUSE. Judy, with lier brother's wink, shakes her head, and purses up her mouth into No, without saying it. " No ? " returns the old man. " Why not ? " " She'd want sixpence a-day, and we can do it for less," says Judy. " Sm-e ? " Judy answers with a nod of deepest meaning, and calls, as she scrapes the butter on the loaf with every precaution against waste, and cuts it nto slices, " You Charley, where are you ? " Timidly obedient to the summons, a little girl in a rough apron and a large bonnet, with her hands covered with soap and water, and a scrubbing brush in one of them, appears, and curtseys. *' What work are you about now ? " says Judy, making an ancient snap at her, like a very sharp old beldame. " I'm a cleaning the upstairs back room, miss," replies Charley. " Mind you do it thoroughly, and don't loiter. Shirking won't do for me. Make haste ! Go along ! " cries Judy, with a stamp upon the ground. " You girls are more trouble than you're worth, by half." On this severe matron, as she returns to her task of scraping the butter and cutting the bread, falls the shadow of her brother, looking in at the window. Por whom, knife and loaf in hand, she opens the street door. " Ay, ay, 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 take warning by his foolish example. That's the use of such a friend. The only use you can put him to," says the venerable sage. His grandson, without receiving this good counsel as dutifully as he might, honors it with all such acceptance as may lie in a slight wink and a nod, and takes a chair at the tea-table. The four* old faces then hover over tea-cups, like a company of ghastly cherubim ; Mrs. Small- weed perpetually tmtching her head and chattering at the trivets, and Mr. Smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up like a large black draught. " Yes, yes," says the good old gentleman, reverting to his lesson of wisdom. " That's such advice as your father would have given you, Bart. You never saw your father. More's the pity. He was my ti-ue son." Whether it is intended to be conveyed that he was particularly pleasant to look at, on that account, does not appear. " He was my true son," repeats the old gentleman, folding his bread and butter on his knee ; " a good accountant, and died fifteen years ago." 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 and hid ! " Her worthy husband, setting aside his bread and butter, immediately discharges the cushion at her, crushes her against the side of her chair, and falls back in his own, overpowered. His appearance, after ^dsiting Mrs. Smallweed with one of these admonitions, is particularly impressive and not wholly prepossessing : firstly, because the exertion generally twists his black skull-cap over one eye and gives him an air of goblin rakishness -, secondly, BLEAK HOUSE. 207 because lie mutters violent imprecations against JNIi's. Smallweed; and thii'dly, because the contrast between those powerful expressions and his powerless figure is suggestive of a baleful old malignant, who would be ver}"^ wicked if he could. All this, however, is so common in tlie Small- weed family cii-cle, that it produces no impression. The old gentleman is merely shaken, and has his internal feathers beaten up ; the cushion is restored to its usual place beside him ; and the old lady, perhaps with her cap adjusted, and perhaps not, is planted in her chair again, ready to be bowled down like a ninepin. Some time elapses, in the present instance, before the old gentleman is sufficiently cool to resume his discom'se ; and even then he mixes it up with several edifying expletives addressed to the unconscious partner oi his bosom, who holds communication with nothing on earth but the trivets. As thus : " If youi* father, Bart, had lived longer, he might have been wortn a deal of money — you brimstone chatterer ! — but just as he was beginning to build up the house that he had been making the foundations for, tlirough many a year — you jade of a mag-pie, jackdaw, and poll-paiTot, what do you mean ! — he took ill and died of a low fever, always being a sparing and a spare man, full of business care — I slioidd like to throw a cat at you instead of a cushion, and I will too if you make such a con- founded fool of yourself ! — and your mother, who was a prudent woman as dry as a chip, just dwindled away like touchwood after you and Judy were born. — You are an old pig. You are a brimstone pig. You're a head of swine ! " Judy, not interested in what she has often heard, begins to coUect in a basin various tributary streams of tea, from the bottoms of cups and saucers and from the bottom of the teapot, for the little charwoman's evening meal. In Kke manner she gets together, in the iron bread-basket, as many outside fi*agments and worn- down heels of loaves as the rigid economy of the house has left in existence. " But, your father and me were partners, Bart," says the old gentleman ; " and when I am gone, you and Judy will have aU there is. It's rare for you both, that you went out early in life — Judy to the flower business, and you to the law. You won't want to spend it. You'R get your living without it, and put more to it. When I am gone, Judy wiU go back to the flower business, and you'U still stick to the law." One might infer, from Judy's appearance, that her business rather lay with the thorns than the flowers ; but, she has, in her time, been apprenticed to the art and mystery of artificial flower-making. A close observer might per- haps detect both in her eye and her brother's, when their venerable grand- sire anticipates his being gone, some little impatience to know when he may be going, and some resentful opmion that it is time he went. " Now, if everybody has done," says Judy, completing her preparations, " I'll have that girl in to her tea. She would never leave off, if she took it by herself in the kitchen." Charley is accordingly introduced, and, under a heavy fire of eyes, sits down to her basin and a Druidical niin of bread and butter. In the active superintendence of this yomig person, Judy Smallweed appears to attain a perfectly geological age, and to date from the remotest periods. Her systematic manner of flying at her and pouncing on her, with or 208 BLEAK HOUSE. without pretence, wlietlier or no, is wonderful ; evincing an accomplish- ment in the art of girl-driving, seldom reached by the oldest practitioners. " Now, don't stare about you all the afternoon," cries Judy, shaking her head and stamping her foot as she happens to catch the glance which has been previously sounding the basin of tea, " but take your victuals and get back to your work." " Yes, miss," says Charley. " Don't say yes," returns Miss Smallweed, " for I know what you girls are. Do it without saying it, and then I may begin to believe you." Charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission, and so disperses the Dniidical ruins that Miss Smallweed charges her not to gormandize, which " in you girls," she observes, is disgusting. Charley might find some more difficulty in meeting her views on the general subject of girls, but for a knock at the door. " See who it is, and don't chcAv when you open it ! " cries Judy. The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose. Miss Small- weed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of the bread and butter together, and launching two or three dirty tea-cups into the ebb- tide of the basin of tea ; as a hint that she considers the eating and drinking terminated. "Now ! Who is it, and what's wanted ? " says the snappish Judy. It is one " Mr. George," it appears. Without other announcement or ceremony, Mr. George walks in. " Whew ! " says Mr. George. *' You are hot here. Always a firc^ fh? Well! Perhaps you do right to get used to one." Mr. George makes the latter remark to himself, as he nods to Grandfather Smallweed. " Ho ! It's vou ! " cries the old gentleman. " How de do ? How de do ? " " Middling," replies"^ Mr. George, taking a chair. " Your gTand- daughter I have had the honor of seeing before ; my service to you, miss." " This is my grandson," says Grandfather Smallweed. " You ha'n't seen him before. He is in the law, and not much at home." " My service to him, too ! He is like his sister. He is veiy like liis sister. He is devilish like his sister," says Mr. George, laying a great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last adjective. " And how does the world use you, Mr. George ? " Grandfather Smallweed enquires, slowly rubbing his legs. " Pretty much as usual. Like a football." He is a swarthy browned man of fifty; well made, and good- looking ; with crisp dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest. His sinewy and powerful hands, as sunburnt as his face, have evidently been used to a pretty rough life. What is curious about him is, that he sits forward on his chair as if he were, from long habit, alloAving space for some dress or accoutrements that he has altogether laid aside. His step too is measured and heavy, and would go well with a Aveighty clash and jingle of spurs. He is close-shaved now, but his mouth is set as if his upper lip had been for years familiar with a great moustache ; and his manner of occasionally laying the open palm of his broad brown hand upon it, is to the same eliect. Altogether, one might guess Mr. George to have been a trooper once upon a time. A special contrast Mr. George makes to the Smallweed family. 1 BLEAK HOUSE. 209 Trooper was never yet billeted upon a hoiiseliold more unlike him. It is a broadsword to an oyster-knife. His developed figure, and their stunted forms ; his large manner, filling any amount of room ; and their little narrow pinched ways ; his sounding voice, and their sharp spare tones ; are in the strongest and the strangest opposition. As he sits in the middle of the grim parlor, leaning a little forward, with his hands upon his thighs and his elbows squared, he looks as though, if he remained there long, he would absorb into himself the whole family and the whole four-roomed house, extra little back-kitchen and all. " Do you rub your legs to rub life into 'em ? " he asks of Grandfather Smallweed, after looking round the room. " Why, it's partly a habit, Mr. George, and — yes — it partly helps the circulation," he replies. "The cir-cu-la-tion 1 " repeats Mr. George, folding his arms upon his chest, and seeming to become two sizes larger. " Not much of that, I should think." "Truly, I'm old, Mr. George," says Grandfather SmaUweed. " But I can carry my years. I'm older than //«?;*," nodding at his wife, " and see what she is ! — You're a brimstone chatterer ! " with a sudden revival of his late hostility. *' Unlucky old soul ! " says Mr. George, turning his head in that direction. " Don't scold the old lady. Look at her here, with her poor cap half off her head, and her poor chair all in a muddle. Hold up, ma'am. That's better. There we are ! Think of your mother, Mr, SmaUweed," says Mr. George, coming back to his seat from assisting her, " if your wife an't enough." " I suppose you were an excellent son, ^Ir. George," the old man hints, with a leer. The color of Mr. George's face rather deepens, as he replies : " VThy no. wasn t. " I am astonished at it." " So am I. I ought to have been a good son, and I think I meant to liave been one. But I wasn't. I was a thundering bad son, that's the 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 better now. Come ! You know the agreement. Always a pipe out of the two months' interest ! (Bosh ! It's all correct. You needn't be afraid to order the pipe. Here's the new bill, and here's the two months' interest-money, and a devil-and-all of a scrape it is to get it together in my business)." Mr. George sits, with his arms folded, consuming the family and the parlor, while Grandfather Smallweed is assisted by Judy to two black leathern cases out of a locked bureau ; in one of which he secures the document he has just received, and from the other takes another similar document which he hands to Mr. George, who twists it up for a pipe- light. As the old man inspects, through his glasses, every up-stroke and down-stroke of both documents, before he releases them from their leathern prison ; and as he counts the money three times over, and requires Judy to say every word she utters at least twice, and is as tremulously slow of speech and action as it is possible to be ; this 210 -BLEAK HOUSE. business is a long time in progress. When it is quite concluded, and not before, he disengages his ravenous eyes and fingers from it, and answers Mr. George's last remark by saying, " Afraid to order the pipe ? We are not so mercenary as that, sir. Judy, see directly to the pipe and the glass of cold brandy and water for Mr. George." The sportive twins, who have been looking straight before them all this time, except when they have been engrossed by the black leathern cases, retire together, generally disdainful of the visitor, but leaving him to the old man, as two young cubs might leave a traveller to the parental bear. " And there you sit, I suppose, all the day long, eh ? " says Mr. George, with folded arms. " Just so, just so," the old man nods. " And don't you occupy yourself at all ? " " I watch the fire — and the boiling and the roasting — " " When there is any," says Mr. George, with great expression. " Just so. When there is any." " Don't you read, or get read to ? " The old man shakes his head with sharp sly triumph. " No, no. We have 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 the visitor, in a key too low for the old man's dull hearing, as he looks from him to the old woman and back again. " I say !" in a louder voice. " I hear you." " You'U sell me up at last I suppose, when I am a day in arrear." " My dear friend ! " cries Grandfather Smallweed, stretching out both hands to embrace him. "Never! Never, my dear friend ! But my friend in the city that I got to lend you the money — lie might ! " " O ! you can't answer for him ? " says Mr. George ; finishing the enquiry, in his lower key, with the words "you lying old rascal ! " " My dear friend, he is not to be depended on. I woiddn't trust him. He will have his bond, my dear friend." " Devil doubt him," says Mr. George. Charley appearing with a tray, on which are the pipe, a smaU paper of tobacco, and the brandy and water, he asks her, " How do you come here ! you haven't got the family face." " I goes out to work, sir," returns Charley. The trooper (if trooper he be or have been) takes her bonnet ofi", 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 of youth as much as it wants fresh air." Then he dismisses her, lights his pipe, and diinks to Mr. Smallweed's friend in the city — the one solitary flight of that esteemed old gentleman's imagination. " So you think he might be hard upon me, eh ? " " I think he might — I am afraid he would. I have known him do it," says Grandfather Smallweed, incautiously, " twenty times." Incautiously, because his stricken better-half, who has been dozing over 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 is then cut short by the flying cushion, which the visitor, to whom this singular experiment appears BLEAK HOUSE. 211 to be a novelty, snatches from her face as it crushes her in the usual manner. " You're a brimstone idiot. You're a scorpion — a brimstone scorpion ! You're a sweltering toad. You're a chattering clattering broomstick witch, that ought to be burnt ! " gasps the old man, prostrate in his chair. " My dear friend, will you shake me up a little ? " Mr. George, who has been looking first at one of them and then at the other, as if he were demented, takes his venerable acquaintance by the throat on receiving this request, and dragging him upright in his chair as easily as if he were a doll, appears in two minds whether or no to shake all future power of cushioning out of him, and shake him into his gi-ave. Eesisting the temptation, but agitating him violently enough to make Ids head roll like a harlequin's, he puts him smartly do^vn in his chair again, and adjusts his skull cap with such a rub, that the old man wdnks with both eyes for a minute afterwards. " O Lord ! " gasps Mr. Smallweed. " That'll do. Thank you, my dear friend, that'll do. dear me, I'm out of breath. O Lord ! " And Mr. Smallweed says it, not without evident apprehensions of his dear friend, who still stands over him looming larger than ever. The alarming presence, however, gradually subsides into its chair, and falls to smoking in long puffs ; consoling itself with the philosophical reflection, " The name of your friend in the city begins with a J), comrade, and you're about right respecting the bond." "Did you speak, Mr. George? " enquires the old man. The trooper shakes his head ; and leaning forward with his right elbow on his right knee and his pipe supported in that hand, while his other hand, resting on his left leg, squares his left elbow in a martial manner, continues to smoke. Meanwhile he looks at Mr. Smallweed a\ ith grave attention, and now and then fans the cloud of smoke away, in order that he may see him the more clearly. " 1 take it," he says, making just as much and as little change in his position as will enable him to reach the glass to his lips, mth a round, fidl action, " that I am the only man alive (or dead either), that gets the value of a pipe out oi 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 as you, in your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition " " Why, it's not for the value of it ; that's no gi-eat thing. It was a fancy to get it out of you. To have something in for my money." " Ha ! You're prudent, prudent, sir ! " cries Grandfather Smallweed, rubbing his legs. " Veiy. I always was." Puff. " It's a sure sign of my prudence, that I ever found the way here." Puff. "Also, that I am what I am." Puff". " I am well known to be pnident," says ]Mr. George, composedly smoking. " I rose in Ufe, that way." " Don't be down-hearted, sir. You may rise yet.'* Mr. George laughs and drinks. " Ha'n't you no relations now," asks Grandfather Smallweed, with a twinkle in his eyes, " who would pay oft" this little principal, or who would lend you a good name or two that I could persuade my friend in th€ city to make you a fm'ther advance upon ? Two good names would p 2 :ll'Z BLEAK HOUSE. be sufficient for my friend in the city. Ha'n't you no such relations, Mr. George ? " Mr. George, still composedly smoking, replies, " If I had, I shouldn't trouble them. I have been trouble enough to my belongings in my day. It ma// be a very good sort of penitence in a vagabond, who has wasted the best time of his life, to go back then to decent people that he never was a credit to, and live upon them ; but it's not my sort. The best kind of amends then, for havnig gone away, is to keep away, in my opinion." ".But, natural alfection, Mr. George," hints Grandfather Smallweed. "Tor two good names, hey? " says Mr. George, shaking his head, and still composedly smoking. " No. That's not my sort, either." Grandfather Smallweed has been gradually sliding down in his chair since his last adjustment, and is now a bundle of clothes, with a voice in it calling for Judy. That Houri appearing, shakes him up in the usual manner, and is charged by the old gentleman to remain near him. For he seems chary of putting his visitor to the trouble of repeating his late attentions. " Ha ! " he observes, when he is in trim again. " If you could have traced out the Captain, Mr. George, it would have been the making of you. If, when you hrst came here, in consequence of our advertisements in the newspapers — when I say ' our,' I'm alluding to the advertisements of my friend in the city, and one or two others who embark their capital in the same way, and are so friendly towards me as sometimes to give me a lift with my little pittance — if, at that time, you could have helped us, Mr. George, it w^ould have been 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 the entrance of Judy he lias been in some measure disturbed by a fascination, not of the admiring kind, which obliges him to look at her as she stands by her grandfather's chair ; " but, on the whole, I am glad I wasn't now." " Why, Mr. George ? In the name of — of Brimstone, wdiy ? " says Grandfather Smallweed, wdth 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 tlie city ? " suggests Mr. George, composedly drinking. *' Ay, if you like. What two reasons ? " " In the'iirst place," returns Mr. George ; but still looking at Judy, as if, she being so old and so like her grandfather, it is indifferent which of the two he addresses ; " you gentlemen took me in. You advertised that Mr. Hawdon (Captain Hawdon, if you hold to the saying, Once a captain always a captain) was to hear of something to his advantage." " Well? " returns the old man, shrilly and sharply. •' Well ! " says Mr. George, smoking on. " It wouldn't have been much to his advantage to have been clapped into prison by the whole bill and judgment trade of London." " How do you know that ? Some of his rich relations might have paid his debts, or compounded for 'em. Besides, he had taken its in. He owed us immense sums, all round. I woidd sooner have strangled him BLEAK HOUSE. 2]'] than had no return. Ii I sit here thinking of him," snarls the old man, holding up his impotent ten fingers, " 1 want to strangle him now." And in a sudden access of fury, he throws the cusldoii at the unofi'ending Mrs. Smallweed, but it passes harmlessly on one side of her chair. " I don't need to be tokl," returns the trooper, taking his pipe from his lips for a moment, and carrying his eyes back from following the progress of the cushion, to the pipe-bowl which is burning low, " that he carried on heavily and went to ruin. I have been at his right hand many a day, when he w\is charging upon ruin full-gallop. I was with him, Avhen he was sick and well, rich and poor. I laid this hand upon him, after he liad run through everything and broken down everything beneath him — wlien he held a pistol to his head." " I wish he had let it off ! " says the benevolent old man, " and blown his head into as many pieces as he owed pounds ! " "That would have been a smash indeed," returns the trooper coolly; •' any way, he had been young, hopeful, and handsome in the days gone by ; and I am glad I never found him, when he was neither, to lead to a result so much to his advantage. That's reason number one." " I hope number two's as good? " snarls the old man. " Why, no. It's more of a selfish reason. If I had found him, I must have gone to the other world to look, lie was there. " How do you know he w^as there?" • , " He wasn't here." " How do you know he wasn't here ? " " Don't lose your temper as well as your money," says ]\Ir. George, calmly knocking the ashes out of his pipe. " He was drowned long before. I am convinced of it. He went over a ship's side. Whether intentionally or accidentally, I don't know. Perhaps your fnend in the city does. — Do you know what that tune is, Mr. Smallweed ? " he adds, after breaking off to whistle one, accompanied on the table with the empty pipe. "Tune!" replies the old man. "Xo. We never have tunes here." " That's the Dead March in Saul. They bury soldiers to it ; so it's the natural end of the subject. Now, if your pretty grand-daughter — excuse me, miss — will condescend to take care of this pipe for two months, we shall save the cost of one, next time. Good evening, Mr. Smallweed ! " " My dear friend ! " The old man gives him both his hands. " So you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me, if I fail in a payment ? " says the trooper, looking down upon him like a giant. " My dear friend, I am afraid he will," returns the old man looking up at him like a pigmy. Mr. George laughs ; and with a glance at Mr. Smallweed, and a parting salutation to the scornful Judy, strides out of the parlor, clashing imaginary sabres and other metallic appurtenances as he goes. " You're a damned rogue," says the old gentleman, making a hideous grimace at the door as he shuts it. " But I'll lime you, you dog, I'U lime you ! " After this amiable remark, his spirit soars into those enchanting regions of reflection which its education and pursuits have opened to it ; and again he and Mrs. Smallweed wile away the rosy hours, two um'eheved sentinels forgotten as aforesaid by the Black Seijeant. 214^ BLEAK HOUSE. While the twain are faithful to their post, Mr. George strides through the streets with a massive kind of swagger and a grave-enough face. It is eight o'clock now, and the day is fast drawing in. He stops hard b}'^ Waterloo Bridge, and reads a playbill ; decides to go to Astley's Theatre. Being there, is much delighted with the horses and the feats of strength ; looks at the weapons with a critical eye ; disapproves of the combats, as giving evidences of unskilful swordsmanship ; but is touched home by the sentiments. In the last scene, when the Emperor of Tartary gets up into a cart and condescends to bless the united lovers, by hovering over them with the Union-Jack, liis eye-lashes are moistened with emotion. The tlieatre over, Mr. George comes across the water again, and makes his way to that curious region lying about the Haymarket and Leicester Square, which is a centre of attraction to indifferent foreign hotels and indifferent 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 and a long whitewashed passage, at a great brick building, composed of bare walls, floor, roof-rafters, and skylights ; on the front of which, if it can be said to have any front, is painted George's Shooting Gallery, &c. Into George's Shooting Gallery, &c., he goes ; and in it there are gaslights (partly turned off now), and two whitened targets for rifle- shooting, and archery accommodation, and fencing appliances, and all necessaries for the British art of boxing. None of these sports or exercises are being pursued in George's Shooting Gallery to-night ; which is so devoid of company, that a little grotesque man, with a large head, has it all to himself, and lies asleep upon the floor. The little man is dressed something like a gunsmith, in a green baize apron and cap ; and his face and hands are dirty with gunpowder, and begrimed with the loading of guns. As he lies in the light, before a glaring white target, the black upon hirh shines again. Not far off, is the strong, rough, primitive table, with a vice upon it, at which he has been working. He is a little man with a face aU crushed together, who appears, from a certain blue and speckled appearance that one of his cheeks presents, to have been blown 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. " Pive dozen rifle and a dozen pistol. As to aim ! " Phil gives a howl at the recollection. " Shut up shop, Phil ! " As Phil moves about to execute this order, it appears that he is lame, though able to move very quickly. On the speckled side of his face he has no eyebrow, and on the other side he has a bushy black one, which want of uniformity gives him a very singular and rather sinister appearance. Everything seems to have happened to his hands that could possibly take place, consistently with the retention of all the fingers ; for they are notched, and seamed, and crumpled all over. He appears to be very strong, and lifts heavy benches about as if he had no idea what weight BLEAK HOUSE. 215 was. He has a curious way of limping round the gallery with his shoulder against the wall, and tacking off at objects he wants to lay hold of, instead of going straight to them, which has left a smear all round the four walls, conventionally called " Phil's mark." This custodian of George's Gallery in George's absence concludes his proceedings, when he has locked the great doors, and tui'ned out all the lights but one, which he leaves to glimmer, by dragging out from a wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses and bedding. These being drawn to opposite ends of the gallery, the trooper makes his own bed, and Phil makes his. " Phil ! " says the master, walking towards him without his coat and waistcoat, 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 to shoulder round two sides of the gallery, and then tack off at his mattress. The trooper, after taking a turn or two in the rifle-distance, and looking up at the moon now shining through the skylights, strides to his own mattress by a shorter route, and goes to bed too. CHAPTER XXII. ME. BUCKET. Allegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln's Inn Fields, though the evening is hot ; for, both Mr. Tidkinghorn's windows are wide open, and the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. These may not be desirable characteristics when November comes with fog and sleet, or January with ice and snow ; but they have their merits in the sultry long vacation weather. They enable Allegory, though it has cheeks like peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosy swellings for calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, to look tolerably cool to-night. Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows, and plenty more has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thick every- where. When a breeze from the country that has lost its way, takes fright, and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flings as much dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law — or ]\Ir. Tidkinghorn, one of its trustiest representatives — ^may scatter, on occasion, in the eyes of the laity. In his lowering magazine of dust, the imiversal article into which his papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things of earth, animate and inanimate, are resolving, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits at one of the open windows, enjoying a bottle of old port. Though a hard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the best. He has a priceless binn of port in some artful cellar under the Fields, which is 216 BLEAK HOUSE. one of his many secrets. When he dines alone in chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit of fish and his steak or chicken brought in from the coftee-honse, he descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and, heralded by a remote reverberation of thundering doors, comes gravely back, encircled by an earthy atmosphere, and carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, two score and ten years old, that blushes in the glass to find itself so famous, and fills the whole room with the fragrance of southern grapes. Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoys his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years' of silence and seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable than ever, he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it w^ere in secresy ; pondering, at that twilight hour, on all the mysteries he knows, associated with darkening woods in the countiy, and vast blank shut-up houses in town ; and perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his family history, and his money, and his will — all a mystery to everyone — and that one bachelor friend of his, a man of the same moidd and a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of life until he was seventy-five years old, and then, suddenly conceiving (as it is supposed) an impres- sion that it was too monotonous, gave his gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening, and walked leisurely home to the Temple, and hanged himself. But, Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night, to ponder at his usual length. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and uncomfortably drawn a little away from it, sits a bald, mild, shining man, who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him fill his glass. " Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd story again." " If you please, sir." " You told me when you were so good as to step round here, last night " "For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but I remembered that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person, and I thought it possible that you might — ^just — wish — to " Mr. Tidkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion, or to admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr. Snagsby trails ofi:' into saying, with an awkward cough, "I must ask you to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure." "Not at all," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "You told me, Snagsby, that you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to your wife. That was prudent I think, because it's not a matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned." "Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see my little woman is — not to put too fine a point upon it — inquisitive. She's inquisitive. Poor little thing, she's liable to spasms, and it's good for her to have her mind employed. In consequence of which, she employs it — I should say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether it concerns her or not — especially not. My little Avoman has a very active mind, sir." Mr. Snagsby drinks, and murmurs with an admiring cough behind his hand. " Dear me, very fine wine indeed ! " BLEAK HOUSE. 217 " Therefore you kept your visit to yourself, last night ? '* says ^h. Tidkinghorn. " And to-night, too ? " " Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in — not to put too fine a point upon it — in a pious state, or in wliat she considers such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is the name they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. He has a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I am not qidte favourable to his style myself. That's neither here nor there. IMy little woman being engaged in that way, made it easier for me to step round in a quiet manner." Mr. Tidkinghom assents. " Fill your glass, Snagsby." " Thank you, sir, I am sure," returns the stationer, with his cough of deference. " This is wonderfully fine wine, sir !" " It is a rare wine now," savs Mr. Tulkinghora. " It is fifty years old." "Is it indeed, sir ? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure. It might be — any age almost." After rendering this general tribute to the port, Mr. Snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behind his hand for thinking anything so precious. " Will you run over, once again, what the boy said ? " asks ]Mr. Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty smallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair. " With pleasure, sir." Then, witli fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationer repeats Joe's statement made to the assembled guests at his house. On coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start, and breaks off with — " Dear me, sir, I wasn't aware there was any other gentleman present ! " Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive face between himself and the lawyer, at a little distance from the table, a person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when he himself came in, and has not since entered by the door or by either of the windows. There is a press in the room, but its hinges have not creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet this third person stands there, with his attentive face, and his hat and stick in his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quiet listener. He is a stoutly-built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed man in black, of about the middle age. Except that he looks at Mr. Snagsby as if he were going to take his portrait, there is nothing remarkable about him at first sight but liis ghostly manner of appearing. " Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, in his qiuet way. " This is only Mr. Bucket." " O indeed, sir ? " returns tlie stationer, expressing by a cough that he is quite in the dark as to who Mr, Bucket may be. " I wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, " because I have half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very intelligent in such tlungs. What do you say to this, Bucket ? " " It's very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on, and he's not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don't object to go down with me to Tom-all- Alone' s and point him out, we can have him here in less than a couple of hours' time. I can do it without Mr. Snagsby, of com'se ; but this is the shortest way. 218 BLEAK HOUSE. "Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby," says tlie lawyer in explanation. " Is lie indeed, sir ? " says Mr. Snagsby, with a strong tendency in liis clump of hair to stand on end. "And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the place in question," pursues the lawyer, " I shall feel obliged to you if you Avill do so." In a moment's hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket dips down to the bottom of his mind. " Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says. " You won't do that. It's all right as far as the boy's concerned. We shall only bring him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him, and he'U be paid for his trouble, and sent away again. It'U be a good job for him.. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent away all right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him ; you an't going to do that." " Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn ! " cries Mr. Snagsby cheerfully, and re-assured, " since that's the case ." " Yes ! and lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking him aside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a confidential tone. " You're a man of the world, you know, and a man of business, and a man of sense. That*s what you are." " I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion," retunis the stationer, Avitli his cough of modesty, " but " " That's what you are, you know," says Bucket. " Now, it an't necessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and have his senses about him, and his head screwed on tight (I had an uncle in youi* business once) — it an't necessary to say to a man like you, that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matters Hke this quiet. Don't you see ? Qiuet 1 " " Certainly, certainly," returns the stationer. " I don't mind teUing yow," says Bucket, with an engaging appearance of frankness, " that, as far as I can understand it, there seems to be a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some games respecting that property, don't you see ! " " O !" says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly. " Now, what you want," pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby on the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, " is, that every person should have their rights according to justice. That's what you want." . " To be sure," returns Mr. Snagsby with a nod. " On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a — do you call it, in your business, customer or client ? I forget how my micle used to caU It." " Why, I generally say customer myself," replies Mr. Snagsby. " You're right ! " returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him qidte affectionately, — " on account of which, and at the same time to oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in confidence, to Tom-all-Alone's, and to keep the whole thing quiet ever afterwards and never mention it to any one. That's about your intentions, if I understand you ? " " You are right, sir. You are right," says Mr. Snagsby. BLEAK HOUSE. 219 "Then here's your hat," returns his new friend, quite as intimate with 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 liis imfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go down into the streets. " Ton don't happen to know a very good sort of person of the name of Gridley, do you ? " says Bucket, in friendly converse as they descend the stairs. " No," says IMi-. Snagsby, considering, " I don't know anybody ot that name. Why ? " "Nothing particular," says Bucket ; " only, having allowed his temper to get a little the better of him, and having been threatening some respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant I have got against him — Avhich it's a pity that a man of sense should do." As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes, as a novelty, that, however Gj[uick their pace may be, his companion still seems in some undefinable manner to lurk and lounge ; also, that Avhenever he is going to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixed purpose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off, sharply, at the very last moment. Now and then, when they pass a police constable on his beat, Mr. Snagsby notices that both the constable and his guide fall into a deej) abstraction as they come towards each other, and appear entirely to overlook each other, and to gaze into space. In a few instances, Mr, Bucket, coming behind some under-sized young man with a shining hat on, and his sleek hair twisted into one flat cm'l on each side of his head, almost without glancing at him touches hiiu with his stick ; upon which the young man, looking round, instantly evaporates. I'or the most part Mr. Bucket notices things in general, with a face as unchanging as the great mourning ring on his little finger, or the brooch, composed of not much diamond and a good deal of setting, which he wears in his shirt. When they come at last to Tom-all- Alone 's, Mr. Bucket stops for a moment at the corner, and takes a lighted bull's-eye from the constable on duty there, who then accompanies him with his own particular bidl's- eye at his waist. Between his two conductors, Mr. Snagsby passes along the middle of a villanous street, undi-ained, unventilated, deep in black mud and corrupt water — though the roads are dry elsewhere — and reeking with such smells and sights that he, who has lived in London all his life, can scarce believe his senses. Branching from this street and its heaps of ruins, are other streets and courts so infamous that Mr. Snagsby sickens in body and mind, and feels as if he Avere going, every moment deeper down, into the infernal gulf. " Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby," says Bucket, as a kind of shabby palanquin is borne towards them, suiTOimded by a noisy crowd. " Here's the fever coming up the street ! " As the unseen w^retch goes by, "the crowd, leaving that object of attraction, hovers round the three visitors, like a dream of hon'ible faces, and fades away up alleys and into ruins, and behind walls ; 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 he tm'ns his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins. Darby replies that " all them are," and further that in all, for months 220 BLEAK HOUSE. . and months, the people "have been clown by dozens," and have been carried ont, dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." Bucket observing to Mr. Snagsby as they go on again, that he looks a little poorly, Mr. Snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn't breathe the dreadful air. There is inquiry made, at various houses, for a boy named Jo. As few people are known in Tom-all-Alone's by any Christian sign, there is- much reference to Mr. Snagsby whether he means Carrots, or the Colonel, or Gallows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, or the Brick. Mr. Snagsby describes over and over again. There are conflicting opinions respecting the original of his picture. Some think it must be Carrots ; some say the Brick. The Colonel is produced, but is not at all near the thing. Whenever Mr. Snagsby and his conductors are stationary, the crowd flows round, and from its squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to Mr. Bucket. Whenever they move, and the angry bidl's- eyes glare, it fades away, and flits about them up the alleys, and in the- ruins, and behind the walls, as before. At last there is a lair found out where Toughy, or the Tough Subject, lays him down at night ; and it is thought that the Tough Subject may be Jo. Comparison of notes between Mr. Snagsby and tlie proprietress of the house — a drunken face tied up in a black bundle, and flaring out of a heap of rags on the floor of a dog-hutch which is her private apart- ment — leads to the establishment of this conclusion. Toughy has gone to the Doctor's to get a bottle of stuft' for a sick woman, but will be here anon. " And who have we got here to-night ? " says Mr. Bucket, opening another door and glaring in with his bull's-eye. " Two drunken men, eh ? And two women? The men are sound enough," turning back each sleeper's arm from his face to look at him. " Are these your good men, 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 doAvn with us at present, but we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none I expect." " That's not the way to do much good," says Mr. Bucket, turning his head in the direction of the unconscious fio-ures on the OTOund. " It an't, indeed," replies the woman vdiii a sigh. " Jenny and me knows it full well." The room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so low that the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch the blackened ceiling if he stood upright. It is ofl'ensive to every sense ; even the gross candle- burns pale and sickly in the polluted air. There are a couple of benches, and a higher bench by way of table. The men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the women sit by the candle. Lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken, is a very young child. " Why, what age do you call that little creature ? " says Bucket. " It looks as if it was bora yesterday." He is not at all rough about it ; and BLEAK HOUSE. 2^1 as lie turas liis light gently on the infant, Mr. Snagsby is strangely re- minded of another infant, encircled with light, that he ha? seen in pictures. " He is not three weeks old yet, sir," says the woman. " Is he vonr child? " "^liue." The other woman, who was bending over it when they came in, stoops