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OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY i 
 
LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY of iLLlNOiS, 
 
GADSHILL EDITION. 
 
 The Works of Charles Dickens 
 
 In Thirty-four Volumes. 
 
 With Introductions, General Essay, and Notes 
 BY Andrew Lang. j./^' 
 
 VOL. XVL " 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 VOL. I 
 
Prmted from the Edition that was carefully corrected by the Author 
 in 1867 and 1868, 
 
BLEAK HOUSE 
 
 By CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
 
 BY 
 
 ANDREW LANG 
 
 In Two Vols.— Vol. I. 
 
 WITH THE ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, Ld. 
 NEW YORK : CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The internal history of Bleak House is not of unusual interest. 
 A year elapsed between the completion of Copperjield and 
 the beginning of the new novel, in Dickens's new abode in 
 Tavistock Square, which suggested that of Mr. Tulkinghorn. 
 November, 1851, saw the story commenced, and November 
 may have suggested the de^cripHgn of a " 
 in fogs. They have been a curse since the Restoration, at 
 least, and, whatever may be the case with Chancery, they 
 grow worse rather than better. But not even Dickens could 
 " write them down.'' Dickens wavered between many titles, 
 and " Tom- All- Alone's " seems originally to have been the 
 name of the house which got into Chancery. Dickens did 
 not find himself at home with his work. He desired to 
 wander, " to Paris, Rouen, Switzerland — somewhere." He 
 expressed dissatisfaction at not being able "to grind sparks 
 out of his dull blade," though^ he was often pleased with his 
 work when the sparks were much less frequent. He suspected 
 himself of hypochondria, and had a sense of overwork. This 
 may have been the result of the energy which he put into 
 editing Household Words, and the inevitable troubles with 
 contributors. He felt as if his mind had been " materialised, 
 and drawn ^long the to£s of all the spikes on the outside 
 
 80645 
 
vi 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of the Queen's Bench Prison;'' all this on account of some 
 "jolter-headed" article in his serial. He found rest at 
 Dover and Boulogne, and pleasure in the success of his 
 novel. " I like the conclusion very much, and think it very 
 pretty indeed. The story has taken extraordinarily, especially 
 during the last five or six months. ... It has retained its 
 immense circulation from the first, beating dear old Copper- 
 jield by a round ten thousand or more. I have never had so 
 many readers." Visiting London in September, 1853, Dickens 
 saw a solitary being in a trunk-shop, " absorbed in a book 
 which, on a close inspection, I found to be Bleak House.'''' 
 The last number appeared in September, 1853. 
 
 The purpose of Bleak House is, of course, didactic. The 
 reformation of Chancery, the duty of attending to the 
 neglected classes, rather than of sending moral pocket-hand- 
 kerchiefs to Borrioboola-Gha, — these are Dickens's points. 
 Criticism has ever been opposed to " novels with a purpose," 
 but the public has not shared the critical aversion. We 
 cannot say that the best novels, Tom Jones or Rob Roy^ have 
 been written with a definite moral or reforming aim. But 
 Fielding preaches nearly as much as Thackeray, and even 
 Scott avows a moral intention in his manner of concluding 
 Ivanlioe, Dickens, however, drove at definite abuses. The 
 objections to this course, in a work of art, are obvious. You 
 cannot be fair to your opponent's case if you write, under 
 the disguise of a novel, a tract on Biblical Criticism, the 
 Institution of Marriage, the Game Laws, or any such topic. 
 You put up feeble characters, with feeble arguments, for the 
 purpose of knocking them down and confuting them. It is 
 argued, on the other side, that the public will not read 
 arguments in any shape but that of romance. By dint 
 of a novel you can make a girl into a charming little 
 
INTRODUCTION. vii 
 
 atheist, as Shelley said, a girl who would not look at a 
 serious treatise. This is rather an argument of despair, 
 for what are we to think of the world's wisdom if the 
 world can only be taught in a manner conspicuously unfair ? 
 The case of Uncle Tom's Cabin shows what a romance 
 can do, and an author may, and often does, exclaim, "I 
 am no mere amuser. I am, and insist on being, a teacher.'''* 
 The novel is becoming the club of a number of modern 
 representatives of Heracles. The romance usurps the place 
 of the pulpit, and the pubHc loves to have it so. The 
 advantage is on the side of the attack. Nobody writes 
 successful defensive novels : the Bible, the Altar, Property, 
 the Court of Chancery, are defended, if at all, non tall anxilio. 
 We may not regard this as a highly satisfactory posture of 
 affairs; it does rather seem to indicate excited frivolity. 
 However, we need not read novels with a purpose, if we do 
 not like them. Dickens'^s purpose, at least, was excellent, 
 and it may be argued that the artist has a perfect right to 
 select a group of human lives, all dominated and darkened 
 by the shadow of one huge mischievous survival of an institu- 
 tion. The real test is the interest of the result, and the 
 interest of Bleak Hottse is undeniable and permanent. We 
 may not care much about the Court of Chancery ; it might 
 become as obsolete as the Minotaur of Crete ; yet we must 
 continue to be concerned about its victims. This is vindica- 
 tion enough, even in the eyes of persons who disbelieve in 
 and dislike novels with a definite purpose. The faculty of 
 humour is, commonly, marked by entire absence in purposeful 
 novelists. This does not promise permanence for their 
 " deplorably tedious lamentations ; '*' but as soon as we meet 
 Mr. Guppy, victim of le coup de foudre^ and Mrs. Jellyby, 
 we recognise that Dickens is no ordinary reformer by means 
 I. ^ h 
 
viii 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of tracts. Mr. Guppy falls in love as suddenly as Dante. 
 The incident of the young Jellyby, who, being extricated 
 from a position full of peril, straightway " began to beat Mr. 
 Guppy with a hoopstick in quite a frantic manner,'*'' could 
 only have been invented or recorded by a minute observer 
 of infancy. In this young child's position, gored by a 
 broomstick, compressed by area railings, dragged, pushed, 
 and threatened by the black abyss of the area, which of 
 us would not have assaulted Mr. Guppy ? 
 
 We have all met Mrs. Jellyby, in whom Mr. Jellyby was 
 '^merged.*" Sometimes she is on the School Board. Her voice 
 resounds in the sacred causes of Temperance and Contagious 
 Disease. She proclaims our Anglo-Israelite descent. She 
 advocates Polygamy or Polyandry. She is a Poet, a Faith- 
 Healer, an Irish or other patriot. Armenia owes much to her 
 powerful advocacy, so does the White Rose League. Mr. 
 Jellyby either follows her like the Prophet''s Donkey or he 
 behaves like a brute : perhaps one prefers to see him behave 
 like a brute. The man has no choice between that course and 
 the bewildered acquiescence of Mrs. Jelly by "'s own husband. 
 " There was nothing in the grate but ashes, a bundle of wood, 
 and a poker.''^ Mrs. Jellyby, as a public character, is admirable. 
 Africa, we have since learned, really is well worth grabbing. Had 
 Mrs. Jellyby shunted Jo to Africa (which, after all, was part 
 of her programme), instead of being moved on, he might have 
 built a house in Park Lane and bought the Dedlock estate. 
 We ought to be grateful to Mrs. Jellyby and other ladies 
 who, as may be said, " run '*'' South Africa, raids and all ; but 
 for the Mr. Jellybys we must express the most sympathetic 
 commiseration and tolerance. Their occasional excesses we 
 would condone, for the curtains of Mrs. Jellyby were " fastened 
 up with a fork.*" " If there's any stuff in the world I detest, 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ix 
 
 ifs the stuff that he and ma talk,**' says Caddy Jellyby. 
 Now, the stuff talked by Mrs. Jellyby and Mr. Quale was " The 
 Brotherhood of Humanity.*'*' That Dickens should have 
 sympathised with Caddy proves him to have been no common 
 novelist with a purpose. That sort of author has no eye for 
 the moral beauties of Mr. Gusher and Mrs. Pardiggle. Of 
 all men, Dickens must have suffered from the assiduities of 
 the busybodies who never cease from getting up memorials 
 and testimonials. In modern life, the mere circumstance that 
 a literary man*'s name appears in newspapers attracts bores 
 as sugar attracts flies. These people know nothing and care 
 nothing for their victim*'s work. He is merely a target to be 
 fired at, a purse (lean enough, usually) to be dragged at, by the 
 Gushers, Quales, and Pardiggles. When we think that the 
 fathers and mothers of our daily modern bores were as active, 
 nearly fifty years ago, as their progeny to-day, we recognise 
 the inability of satire to abate a nuisance. Chancery may 
 get itself reformed, but the bore is unconverted by irony. 
 But the victims of the bore are consoled, in Bleak House^ 
 for their Pardiggles. To this end, Mr. Skimpole might say, 
 the Pardiggles were created, that, in reading Bleak House^ 
 there might be a smile on the lips of men. 
 
 Harold Skimpole is one of Dickens's many immortal 
 characters. He is, as usual, overdrawn, no doubt, for men in 
 real life are not incessantly betraying their essential charac- 
 teristics. Harold never speaks, hardly, without repeating 
 himself and his philosophy. Every one has heard that Dickens 
 borrowed the manner, but not the baseness of the character, 
 from his friend Leigh Hunt. It is true that Hunt rather 
 regarded it as a duty in mankind to support him. We know 
 how much he received from Shelley ; but it would be impossible 
 even for "Z,'' in the old Blaclzvood's Magazine of 1817-1825, 
 
X 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 to maintain that, to Shelley, Leigh Hunt was ungrateful. 
 Byron, on the other hand, was not " a cheerful giver and 
 Hunt's work on Byron is a thing best forgotten. Hunt was 
 always needing assistance, and being assisted, as by Dickens 
 himself. He confessed, in his autobiography, to a Skimpolean 
 incapacity for figures and business. He cherished a kind of 
 Socialism ; in the Aristotelian phrase, he held that " the goods 
 of friends are common,'' but then he had seldom any goods. 
 On the other hand, he was not a do-nothing, like Skimpole, 
 but a hard-working man of letters. Macaulay wrote as if 
 Hunt deserved the satire in Skimpole ; but this is a hard 
 judgment, and inconsistent with Hunt's affection for Shelley. 
 While Boythorn is meant as a study of Landor's manner, 
 Boythorn is intended for a sympathetic character. Skimpole 
 is persistently odious and mean, so that Leigh Hunt's friends 
 did well to be angry. Dickens said, with obvious truth, that 
 he never meant " the imaginary vices of the fictitious creature'** 
 to be charged against his old friend. But his old friend's old 
 enemies had made similar charges. Dickens had partly altered 
 Skimpole, after consultation with Procter and Forster, but too 
 much of the original remained. Mr. Ketton observes that 
 Wilkie Collins's copy of Forster's Life of Dickens contains a 
 manuscript note to the effect that Leigh Hunt himself remon- 
 strated with the novelist. The affair is to be regretted. A 
 man who is always writing, always studying character, always 
 accepting hints from real life, is apt to fall into these eiTors. 
 Dickens thought, no doubt, that Skimpole was not a recog- 
 nisable portrait; in Dickens, on the whole, they are very 
 rare. Except in Mr. Fang he never intentionally satirised 
 an individual. So much cannot be said for all novelists. 
 
 Bleak House^ with Great Expectations^ and perhaps A Tale 
 of Two Cities^ is probably Dickens's best-constructed stor3\ 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 xi 
 
 Construction was not his forte^ and the monthly mode of 
 publication is obviously hostile to this skill. "Nothing is 
 introduced at random, everything tends to the catastrophe, 
 the various lines of the plot converge and fit to its centre,**"* 
 says Mr. Forster. As in The Bride of Lammermoor ^ the 
 Odyssey^ and the NjaVs Saga^ we have omens pointing in 
 one way — the deepening sound of the tread in the Ghost's 
 Walk. Every incident concurs in the discovery of Lady 
 Dedlock's slip from virtue, and the chief objection seems to 
 be that that coincidence is overstrained. Things fit even 
 too well. 
 
 The very marked resemblance between Lady Dedlock and 
 Esther is hardly consistent with the accounts of Esther's own 
 appearance. Lady Dedlock is scarcely the woman to take 
 the nocturnal prowl with Jo. Mr. Tulkinghorn is the last 
 man to ferret out a secret on which nothing hangs but a 
 ladj^_ character. To be sure, his nature includes a love 
 of getting hold of secrets for their own sake. But it also 
 includes respect for family honour, and in real life Mr. 
 Tulkinghorn would have asked no questions, which are always 
 awkward things. The best way of keeping a secret is not to 
 know it, and Mr. Tulkinghorn was the very man to under- 
 stand this. Yet he takes every kind of step which is likely 
 to make Lady Dedlock's secret public property. If he 
 abstained there would be no story, but his conduct must not 
 shake human confidence in family solicitors. They are too 
 sagacious to imitate Mr. Tulkinghorn. 
 
 Bleak House is full of characters; perhaps no work of 
 Dickens's is so crowded. Mr. Guppy is probably the most 
 popular ; the Smallweeds are like a family of human ravens, a 
 collection of Grips. The pathos of Charley and the little 
 children dependent on her is devoid of the ^emphasis which 
 
xii 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 may be detected in Jo — Jo for whom so many tears have 
 been shed by readers, and spectators in the theatre. Mr. 
 Snagsby's "putting a point on it^' has won its way into 
 popular proverb-lore. The " artless unconsciousness ""^ of 
 Esther has been censured, perhaps not unduly, by Mr. 
 Forster. Much has been written on the possibility of Mr. 
 Krook'*s spontaneous combustion. The incident was meant 
 as a parable of the fate of Chancery, and had already been 
 introduced to fiction by Captain Marryat. The real question 
 is, not whether spontaneous combustion is possible, but 
 whether it is fit for introduction in a work of art. Mr. 
 Bucket is probably one of the first in a long sequence of 
 detective heroes; only persons familiar with detectives can 
 say whether he represents them faithfully. The story is so 
 complex, that certain groups, as of the Bagnets, do not hold 
 the scattered and fatigued attention. This is a consequence 
 of the length of the tale ; there cannot but be longueurs in 
 a novel so long as The Newcomes or Bleak House. The 
 Dedlocks have been censured. They are drawn with hardness, 
 and are caricatured, w^hile caricature is wasted on other than 
 low comedy. The element of truth, however, is sufficiently 
 conspicuous, as in the similar group in Dornbey. 
 
 On the whole, to have combined such wealth of pbaracter, 
 so many elements of tragedy, with a plot which stimulates a 
 sustained curiosity, was an immense feat, and a novelty in the 
 work of Dickens. We feel the sense of elaboration ; we know 
 that the work has been hard and severely conscientious. 
 The charm of Copperjield is absent, the high spirits of i 
 Pickwick can no longer be looked for ; but the book, if not so 
 popular as these, is a masterpiece in Dickens''s middle manner. I 
 
 ANDREW LANG. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 A Chancery Judge once had the kindness to inform me, as 
 one of a company of some hundred and fifty men and women 
 not labouring under any suspicions of lunacy, that the Court 
 of Chancery, though the shining subject of much popular 
 prejudice (at which point I thought the Judge's eye had a 
 cast in my direction), was almost immaculate. There had 
 been, he admitted, a trivial blemish or so in its rate of pro- 
 gress, but this was exaggerated, and had been entirely owing 
 to the " parsimony of the public ; which guilty public, it 
 appeared, had been until lately bent in the most determined 
 manner on by no means enlarging the number of Chancery 
 Judges appointed — I believe by Richard the Second, but any 
 other King will do as well. 
 
 This seemed to me too profound a joke to be inserted in 
 the body of this book, or I should have restored it to Con- 
 versation Kenge or to Mr. Vholes, with one or other of whom 
 I think it must have originated. In such mouths I might 
 have coupled it with an apt quotation from one of Shakspeare's 
 Sonnets : 
 
 My nature is subdued 
 To what it works in, like the dyer's hand : 
 Pity me then, and wish I were renewed ! 
 
xiv 
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 But as it is wholesome that the parsimonious pubhc should 
 know what has been doing, and still is doing, in this con- 
 nexion, I mention here that everything set forth in these 
 pages concerning the Court of Chancery is substantially true, 
 and within the truth. The case of Gridley is in no essential 
 altered from one of actual occurrence, made public by a dis- 
 interested person 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 century, and in which more than double the amount of 
 seventy thousand pounds has been swallowed up in costs. If 
 I wanted other authorities for Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I 
 could rain them on these pages, to the shame of — a parsi- 
 monious public. 
 
 There is only one other point on which I offer a word of 
 remark. The possibility of what is called Spontaneous Com- 
 bustion has been denied since the death of Mr. Krook ; and 
 my good friend Mr. Lewes (quite mistaken, as he soon 
 found, in supposing the 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 
 * In August, 1853. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XV 
 
 the subject. There are about thirty cases on record, of 
 which the most famous, that of the Countess Cornelia de Bandi 
 Cesenate, was minutely investigated and described by Giuseppe 
 Bianchini, a prebendary of Verona, otherwise distinguished in 
 letters, who published an account of it at Verona, in 1731, 
 which he afterwards republished at Rome, The appearances 
 beyond all rational doubt observed in that case, are the ap- 
 pearances observed in Mr. Krook's case. The next most famous 
 instance happened at Rheims, six years earlier; and the his- 
 torian in that case is Le Cat, one of the most renowned sur- 
 geons 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 31, vol. ii.,* 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 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. 
 
 ♦ Another case, very clearly described by a dentist, occurred at the town of 
 Columbus, in the United States of America, quite recently. The subject was 
 a German, who kept a liquor-shop, and was an inveterate drunkard. 
 
CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In Chancery . . . . . 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In Fashion 9 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A Progress 18 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Telescopic Philanthropy 41 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A Morning Adventure 56 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Quite at Home 73 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Ghost's Walk 99 
 
xviii CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Covering a Multitude of Sins 112 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Signs and Tokens 136 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The Law-writer 154 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Our Dear Brother 167 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 On the Watch 185 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 Esther's Narrative . . . . . . . . .202 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Deportment . . ' 220 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Bell Yard . 245 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 Tom-all-Alone's 264 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 Esther's Narrative 275 
 
CONTENTS. XIX 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lady Dedlock . . .292 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 Moving on 313 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A New Lodger 330 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 The Smallweed Family . . . . . . . . .348 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 Mr. Bucket 370 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 Esther's Narrative 386 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 An Appeal Case .... * 408 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 Mrs. Snagsby sees it all *. , 430 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 Sharpshooters . * 441 
 
 CHAPTER XXVtt 
 More Old Soldierjs than One ........ 457 
 
XX CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 PAGR 
 
 The Ironmaster 473 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 The Young Man 487 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 Esther's Narrative 499 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 Nurse and Patient 618 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 PIGE 
 
 Bleak House . , . . . . . Frontispiece 
 
 The Little Old Lady . . 40 
 
 Miss Jellyby . . 52 
 
 The Lord Chancellor copies from Memory . . . .70 
 
 coavinses , . 92 
 
 The Yisit to the Brickmaker's 130 
 
 In Re Guppy. Extraordinary Proceedings .... 150 
 
 Mr. Guppy 's Desolation 208 
 
 The Family Portraits at Mr. Bayham Badger's . , . 212 
 
 The Dancing School 230 
 
 Consecrated Ground . . 272 
 
 Caddy's Flowers . - 290 
 
 The Little Church in the Park 302 
 
 Mr. Guppy's Entertainment 334 
 
 The Small weed Family 350 
 
 A Model of Parental Deportment . . . . . . 398 
 
 Mr. Chadband ^* improving" a Tough Subject . . . 434 
 
 Visitors to the Shooting Gallery 448 
 
 The Young Man op the Name of Guppy 490 
 
 Nurse and Patient 532 
 
BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN CHANCERY. 
 
 LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chan- 
 cellor sitting in Lincoln'^s Inn Hall. Implacable November 
 weather. As much mud in the streets, as if the waters had 
 but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would 
 not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or 
 so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. 
 Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft 
 black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown 
 snow-flakes — gone into mourning, one might imagine, for 
 the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. 
 Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. 
 Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas, in a 
 general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold 
 at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot 
 passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day 
 broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the 
 crust upon crust of 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 rolls 
 defiled among the tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollu- 
 tions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essf^i; marshes, 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses 
 of collier-brigs ; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in 
 the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales 
 of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of 
 ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of 
 their wards ; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe 
 of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin ; fog cruelly 
 pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ''prentice 
 boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the 
 parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as 
 if they 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 spongy fields, be seen to 
 loom by husbandman 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 raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, 
 and the muddy streets are muddiest, near that leaden-headed 
 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 
 
THE HIGH COURT OF CHANCERY. 3 
 
 to be — as here they are — mistily engaged in one of the ten 
 thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one another up 
 on shppery 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, who 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, moun- 
 tains of costly nonsense, piled before them. Well may the 
 court be dim, with wasting candle s here and there; well may 
 the fog hang heavy in it as if it would never get out ; well 
 
 I may the stained glass windows lose their colour, and admit no 
 light of day into the place; well may the uninitiated from 
 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 from the padded dais 
 where the Lord High Chancellor looks into the lantern that 
 has no light in it, and where the attendant wigs are all 
 stuck in a fog-bank ! This is the Court of 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 has its ruined suitor, with 
 his slipshod heels and threadbare dress, borrov/ing and 
 begging through the round of every man's acquaintance; 
 which gives to monied might the means abundantly of 
 wearying out the right; which so exhausts finances, patience, 
 courage, hope ; so overthrows the brain and breaks the heart ; 
 that there is not an honourable man among its practitioners 
 who would not give — who does not often give — the warning, 
 "Suffer any wrong that can be done you rather than come 
 here!'' 
 
4 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE, 
 
 Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor'^s court this 
 murky afternoon besides the Lord Chancellor, the counsel in 
 the cause, two 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 gown; and there are 
 two or three maces, or petty-bags, or privy purses, or Avhat- 
 ever they may be, in legal court suits. These are all 
 yawning; for no crumb of amusement ever falls from 
 Jaiindyce and Jaundyce (the cause in hand), which was 
 squeezed dry years upon years ago. The short-hand writers, 
 the reporters of the court, and the reporters of the news- 
 papers, invariably decamp with the rest of the regulars when 
 Jarndyce and Jarndyce comes on. Their places are a blank. 
 Standing on a seat at the side of the 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 favour. 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 
 reticule 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 purge himself of his contempt ;'' 
 which, being a solitary surviving executor who has fallen 
 into a state of conglomeration about accounts of which it is 
 not pretended that he had ever any knowledge, he is not at 
 all likely ever to do. In the meantime his prospects in life 
 are ended. Another ruined suitor, who periodically appears 
 from Shropshire, and breaks out into efforts to address the 
 Chancellor at the close of the day'^s business, and who can 
 by no means be made to understand that the Chancellor is 
 legally ignorant of his existence after making it desolate for 
 a quarter of a century, plants himself in a good place and 
 keeps an eye on the Judge, ready to call out " My Lord ! 
 in a voice of sonorous complaint, on the instant of his rising. 
 
JARNDYCE AND JARNDYCE. 
 
 5 
 
 A few lawyers'" clerks and others who know this suitor by 
 sight, linger, on the chance of his furnishing some fun, and 
 enlivening the dismal weather a little. 
 
 Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scarecrow of a 
 suit has, in course of time, become so complicated, that no 
 man alive knows 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 disagreement as to all the premises. Innumerable 
 children have been born into the cause ; innumerable young 
 people have married into it ; innumerable old people have 
 died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found 
 themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, without 
 knowing how or why ; whole families have inherited legendary 
 hatreds with the suit. The little plaintiff or defendant, who 
 was promised a new rocking-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce 
 should be settled, has grown up, possessed himself of a real 
 horse, and trotted away into the other w^orld. Fair wards 
 of court have faded into mothers and grandmothers ; a long 
 procession of Chancellors has come in and gone out; the 
 legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere 
 bills of mortality ; there are not three Jarndyces left upon 
 the earth perhaps, since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew 
 his brains out at a coffee-house in Chancery Lane ; but 
 Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its dreary length before 
 the Court, perennially hopeless. 
 
 Jarndyce and Jarndyce has passed into a joke. That is 
 the only good that has ever come of it. It has been death 
 to 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 com- 
 mittee after dinner in hall. Articled clerks have been in 
 the habit of fleshing their legal wit upon it. The last Lord 
 Chancellor handled it neatly, when, correcting I\Ir. Blowers 
 
6 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 the eminent silk gown who said that such a thing might 
 happen when the sky rained potatoes, he observed, "or Avhen 
 we get through Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mr. Blowers ; — a 
 pleasantry that particularly 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 v/hose 
 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 und«i' that 
 eternal heading; no man's nature has been made better by 
 it. In trickery, evasion, procrastination, spoliation, bothera- 
 tion, under false pretences of all sorts, there are influences 
 that can never come to good. The very solicitors'* boys who 
 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 otherwise, have lapsed into 
 a habit of vaguely promising themselves that they will look 
 into that outstanding little matter, and see what can be 
 done for Drizzle — who was not well used — when Jarndyce 
 and Jarndyce shall be got out of the office. Shirking and 
 sharking, in all their many varieties, have been sown broad- 
 cast by the ill-fated cause; and even those who have con- 
 templated its history from the outermost circle of such evil, 
 have been insensibly tempted into a loose way of letting bad 
 things alone to take their own bad course, and a loose belief 
 that if the world go wrong, it was, in some ofF-hand manner, 
 never meant to go right. 
 
 Thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the 
 
THE LORD CHANCELLOR AND MR. TANGLE. 7 
 
 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 H 
 
 ^'Mlud, no — variety of points— feel it my duty tsubmit 
 — ludship,'^ is the reply that sli^e^ out of Mr. Tangle. 
 
 "Several members of the bar are still to be heard, I 
 believe?'''' says the Chancellor, with a slight smile. 
 
 Eighteen of Mr. Tangle's learned friends, each armed with 
 a little summary of eighteen hundred sheets, bob up like 
 eighteen hammers in a pianoforte, make eighteen bov/s, and 
 drop into their eighteen places of obscurity. 
 
 "We wall proceed With the hearing on Wednesday fort- 
 night,''' 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 settlement one 
 of these days. 
 
 The Chancellor rises ; the bar rises ; the prisoner is brought 
 for\yard in a hurry ; the man from Shropshire cries, " My 
 lord ! Maces, bags, and purses, indignantly proclaim silence, 
 and frown at the man from Shropshire. 
 
 "In reference,"*' proceeds the Chancellor, still on Jarndyce 
 and Jarndyce, "to the young girl 
 
 " Begludship's pardon — boy,"' says Mr. Tangle, prematurely. 
 
 "In reference," proceeds the Chancellor, with extra dis- 
 tinctness, " 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 nov/ in my private room, I will see them and satisfy 
 myself as to the expediency of making the order for their 
 residing wdth their uncle." 
 
8 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Mr. Tangle on his legs again. 
 " Begludship'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 — brains." 
 
 Suddenly a very little counsel, with a terrific bass voice, 
 arises, fully inflated, in the back settlements of the fog, and 
 says, "Will your lordship allow me? I appear for him. 
 He is a cousin, several times removed. I am not at the 
 moment prepared to inform the Court in what exact remove 
 he is a cousin ; but he is a cousin." 
 
 Leaving this address (delivered like a sepulchral message) 
 ringing in the rafters of the roof, the very little counsel 
 drops, and the fog knows him no more. Everybody looks 
 for him. Nobody can see him. 
 
 "I will speak with both the young people," says the 
 Chancellor anew, "and satisfy myself on the subject of their 
 residing with their cousin. I will mention the matter to- 
 morrow morning when I take my seat." 
 
 The Chancellor is about to bow to the bar, when the 
 prisoner is presented. Nothing can possibly come of the 
 prisoner's conglomeration, but his being sent back to prison; 
 which is soon done. The man from Shropshire ventures 
 another demonstrative " 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 off with her documents ; the empty 
 court is locked up. If all the injustice it has committed, 
 and all the misery it has caused, could only be locked up 
 with it, and the whole burnt away in a great funeral pyre, — 
 why so nmch the better for other parties than the parties in 
 Jarndyce and Jarndyce ! 
 
CHAPTER 11. 
 
 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 Van Winkles, who have played at strange games 
 through a deal of thundery weather ; sleeping beauties, whom 
 the Knight will wake one day, when all the stopped spits in 
 the kitchen shall begin to turn prodigiously ! 
 
 It is not a large world. Relatively even to this world of 
 ours, which has its limits too (as your Highness shall find 
 when you have made the tour of it, and are come to the 
 brink of the void beyond), it is a very little speck. There 
 is much good in it; there are many good and true people in 
 it ; it has its appointed place. But the evil of it is, that it 
 is a world wrapped up in too much jeweller's cotton and fine 
 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 returned 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 move- 
 ments are uncertain. The fashionable intelligence says so, 
 for the comfort of the Parisians, and it knows all fashionable 
 
10 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 things. To know things otherwise, were to be unfashionable. 
 My Lady Dedlock has been down at what she calls, in 
 familiar conversation, her " place in Lincolnshire. The 
 waters are out in Lincolnshire. An arch of the bridge in 
 the park has been sapped and sopped away. The adjacent 
 low-lying ground, for half a mile in breadth, is a stagnant 
 river, with melancholy trees for islands in it, and a surface 
 punctured all over, all day long, with falling rain. My Lady 
 Dedlock's "place'*'' has been extremely dreary. The weather, 
 for many a day and night, has been so wet that the trees 
 seem wet through, and the soft loppings and prunings of the 
 w^oodman'^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 sharpness in the moist air, and 
 its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud towards the green 
 rise, coppice-topped, that makes a background for the falling 
 rain. The view from my Lady Dedlock'^s own windows is 
 alternately a lead-coloured view, and a view in Indian ink. 
 The vases on the stone terrace in the foreground catch the 
 rain all day; and the heavy drops fall, drip, drip, drip, 
 upon the broad flagged pavement, called, from old time, the 
 Ghosfs Walk, all night. On Sundays, the little church in 
 the park is mouldy ; the oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold 
 sweat; and there is a general smell and taste as of the 
 ancient Dedlocks in their graves. My Lady Dedlock (vv^ho is 
 childless), looking out in the early twilight from her boudoir 
 at a keeper\s lodge, and seeing the light of a fire upon the 
 latticed panes, and smoke rising from the chimney, and a 
 child, chased by a woman, running out into the rain to meet 
 the shining figure of a wrapped-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 away from the place 
 in Lincolnshire, and has left it to the rain, and the crows, 
 and the rabbits, and the deer, and the partridges and 
 pheasants. The pictures of the Dedlocks past and gone have 
 
SIR LEICESTER DEBLOCK. 
 
 11 
 
 seemed to vanish into the damp walls in mere lowness of 
 spirits, as the housekeeper has passed along the old rooms, 
 shutting up the shutters. And when they will next come 
 forth again, the fashionable intelligence — which, 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 hills, 
 and infinitely more respectable. He has a general opinion 
 that the world might get on without hills, but would be 
 done up without Dedlocks, He would on the whole admit 
 Nature to be a good idea (a little low, 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 mean- 
 ness, 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 honour- 
 able, obstinate, truthful, high-spirited, intensely prejudiced, 
 perfectly unreasonable man. 
 
 Sir Leicester is twenty years, full measure, older than my ^.-^ 
 Lady. He will 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 grey hair and whiskers, his fine shirt- 
 frill, his pure white waistcoat, and his blue coat with bright 
 buttons always buttoned. He is ceremonious, stately, most 
 polite on every occasion to my Lady, and holds her personal 
 attractions in the highest estimation. His gallantry 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 I'esolve, and sense enough to portion out a legion of 
 
12 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 fine ladies. Wealth and station, added to these, soon floated 
 her upward ; and for years, now, my Lady Dedlock has been 
 at the centre of the fashionable intelligence, and at the top 
 of the fashionable tree. 
 
 How Alexander wept when he had no more worlds to 
 conquer, everybody knows — or has some reason to know by 
 this time, the matter having been rather frequently mentioned. 
 My Lady Dedlock, having conquered her world, fell, not into 
 the melting, but rather into the freezing mood. An exhausted 
 composure, a worn-out placidity, an equanimity of fatigue 
 not to be ruffled by interest or satisfaction, are the trophies 
 of her victory. She is perfectly well-bred. If she could be 
 translated to Heaven to-morrow, she might be expected to 
 ascend without any rapture. 
 
 She has beauty still, 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 would be rather called very pretty than 
 handsome, but improved into classicality by the acquired 
 expression of her fashionable state. Her figure is elegant, 
 and has the effect of being tall. Not that she is so, but that 
 " the most is made,'''' as the Honourable Bob Stables has 
 frequently asserted upon oath, " of all her points.**' The 
 same authority observes, that she is perfectly got up ; and 
 remarks, in commendation of her hair especially, that she 
 is the best-groomed woman in the whole stud. 
 
 With all her perfections on her head, my Lady Dedlock 
 has come up from her place in Lincolnshire (hotly pursued 
 by the fashionable intelligence), to pass a few days at her 
 house in town previous to her departure for Paris, where her 
 ladyship intends to stay some weeks, after which her move- 
 ments are uncertain. And at her house in town, upon this 
 muddy, murky afternoon, presents himself an old-fashioned 
 old gentleman, attorney-at-law, and eke solicitor of the 
 High Court of Chancery, who has the honour of acting as 
 legal adviser of the Dedlocks, and has as many cast-iron 
 boxes in his office with that name outside, as if the present 
 
MR. TULKINGHORN. 
 
 13 
 
 baronet were the coin of the conjurer's trick, and were 
 constantly being juggled through 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. Mute, 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 drawing- 
 rooms, concerning which the fashionable intelligence is 
 eloquent : where everybody knows him, and where half the 
 Peerage stops to say " How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn ? " 
 he receives these salutations with gravity, and buries them 
 along with the rest of his knowledge. 
 
 Sir Leicester Dedlock is wuth my Lady, and is happy to 
 see Mr. Tulkinghorn. There is an air of prescription about 
 him which is always agreeable to Sir Leicester ; he receives 
 it as a kind of tribute. He likes Mr. Tulkinghorn's dress ; ^ 
 there is a kind of tribute in that too. It is eminently 
 respectable, and likewise, in a general way, retainer-like. It 
 
14 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 expresses, as it were, the steward 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 with my Lady Dedlock 
 as one of a class — as one of the leaders and representatives 
 of her little world. She supposes herself to be an inscrutable 
 Being, quite out of the reach and ken of ordinary mortals — 
 seeing herself in her glass, where indeed she looks so. Yet, 
 every dim little star revolving about her, from her maid to 
 the manager of the Italian Opera, knows her weaknesses, 
 prejudices, follies, haughtinesses, and caprices ; and lives upon 
 as accurate a calculation and as nice a measure of her moral 
 nature, as her dressmaker takes of her physical proportions. 
 Is a new dress, a new custom, a new singer, a new dancer, a 
 new form of jewellery, a new dwarf or giant, a new chapel, 
 a new anything, to be set up ? There are deferential 
 people, in a dozen callings, whom my Lady Dedlock suspects 
 of nothing but prostration before her, who can tell you how 
 to manage her as if she were a baby ; who do nothing but 
 nurse her all their lives ; who, humbly affecting to follow 
 with profound subservience, lead her and her whole troop 
 after them ; w ho, in hooking one, hook all and bear them off, 
 as Lemuel Gulliver bore away the stately fleet of the majestic 
 Lilliput. ^' If you want to address our people, sir,''' say Blaze 
 and Sparkle the jewellers — meaning by our people. Lady 
 Dedlock and the rest — " you must remember that you are 
 not dealing with the general public ; you must hit our people 
 in their weakest 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, ^'j^ou 
 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 want to get this dwarf or giant into the houses 
 
A CONSTITUTIONAL KIND OF THINv. 
 
 of niy high connexion, sir, or if you want to secure 
 to this entertainment, the patronage of my high con- 
 nexion, 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 them round 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. 
 
 " IMy Lady's cause has been again before the Chancellor, 
 has it, Mr. Tulkinghorn ? " says Sir Leicester, giving him his 
 hand. 
 
 " Yes. It has been on again to-day,"'' Mr. Tulkinghorn 
 replies ; making one of his quiet bows to my Lady who is 
 on a sofa near the fire, shading 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 ;i/(nc would call anything, has been done 
 to-day,'" replies Mr. Tulkinghorn. 
 
 " Nor ever will be," says my Lady. 
 
 Sir Leicester has no objection to an interminable Chancery 
 suit. It is a slow, expensive, British, constitutional kind of 
 thing. To be sure, he has not a vital interest in the suit in 
 question, her part in which was the only property my Lady 
 brought him ; and he has a shadowy impression that for his 
 name — the name of Dedlock — to be in a 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 conjunction with a 
 variety of other somethings, by the perfection of human 
 wisdom, for the eternal settlement (humanly speaking) of 
 everything. And he is upon the whole of a fixed opinion, 
 that to give the sanction of his countenance to any complaints 
 
14 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 ncfspecting it, would be to encourage some person in the lower 
 I classes to rise up somewhere — like Wat Tyler. 
 
 " As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file,*" 
 says Mr. Tulkinghorn, " and as they are short, and as I 
 proceed upon the troublesome principle of begging leave to 
 possess my clients with any new proceedings in a cause 
 cautious man Mr. Tulkinghorn, taking no more responsibility 
 than necessary ; " and further, as I see you are going to 
 Paris ; I have brought them in my pocket."" 
 
 (Sir Leicester was going to Paris too, by-tlie-bye, but the 
 delight of the fashionable intelligence w^as in his Lady.) 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn 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 
 
 My I^dy interrupts, requesting him to miss as many of 
 the formal horrors as he can. 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn glances over his. spectacles, and begins 
 again lower down. My Lady carelessly and scornfully 
 abstracts her attention. Sir Leicester in a great chair looks 
 at the fire, and appears to have a stately liking for the legal 
 repetitions and prolixities, as ranging among the national 
 bulwarks. It happens that the fire is hot, where my Lady 
 sits; and that the hand-screen is more beautiful than useful, 
 being priceless but small. My Lady, changing her position, 
 sees the papers on the table — looks at them nearer — looks at 
 them nearer still — asks impulsively : 
 
 "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, looking full 
 at him in her careless way again, and toying with her screen. > 
 
 " Not quite. Probably " — Mr. Tulkinghorn examines it as 
 he speaks — "the legal character which it has, was acquired 
 after the original hand was formed. Why do you ask?" 
 
LADY DEBLOCK BORED TO DEATH, 17 
 
 "Anything to vary this detestable monotony. O, go 
 on, do ! " 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn reads again. The heat is greater, my 
 Lady screens her face. Sir Leicester dozes, starts up suddenly, 
 and cries " Eh ? what do you say ? 
 
 "I say I am afraid,"** says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who had risen 
 hastily, " that Lady Dedlock is ill.'" 
 
 " Faint,*'*' my Lady murmurs, with white lips, " only that ; 
 but it is like the faintness of death. Don't speak to me. 
 Ring, and take me to my room ! "** 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into another chamber ; bells 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 down 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.*'** 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 0 
 
CHAPTER 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, w^hen we were alone 
 together, " Now, Dolly, I am not clever, you know very w^ell, 
 and you must be patient with me, like a dear!'' And so 
 she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair, with her 
 beautiful complexion and rosy lips, staring at me — or not so 
 much at me, I think, as at nothing — Avhile 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 me cry to think 
 what a relief it used to be to me, when I came home from 
 school of a day, to run up-stairs to my room, and say, "O 
 you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would be expecting me ! '" 
 and then to sit down on the floor, leaning on the elbow of 
 her great chair, and tell her all I had noticed since Ave 
 parted. I had always rather a noticing way — not a quick 
 way, O no ! — a silent way of noticing what passed before 
 me, and thinking I should like to understand it better. I 
 have not by any means a quick understanding. When I 
 love a person very tenderly indeed, it seems to brighten. 
 But even that may be my vanity. 
 
 I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance — like 
 
ESTHER^S CHILDHOOD. 
 
 19 
 
 some of the princesses in the fairy stories, only I was not 
 charming — by my godmother. At least I only knew her as 
 such. She was a good, good woman ! She went 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, would have been (I used to think) 
 like an angel — but she never smiled. She was always grave, 
 and strict. She was so very 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 differences between a child and a woman ; I felt so poor, 
 so trifling, and so far off; that I never could be unrestrained 
 with her — no, could never even love her as I wished. It 
 made me very sorry to consider how good she was, and how 
 unworthy 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 happened when I 
 was still quite a little thing, that helped it very much. 
 
 I had never heard my mama spoken of. I had never 
 heard of my papa either, but I felt more interested about 
 my mama. I had never worn a black frock, that I could 
 recollect. I had never been shown my mama's grave. I had 
 never been told where it was. Yet I had never been taught 
 to pray for any relation but my godmother. I had more 
 than once approached this subject of my thoughts with Mrs. 
 Rachael, our only servant, who took my light away when I 
 was in bed (another very 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 
 
20 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 where I was 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 sure (I was the 
 youngest there by a good deal), but there seemed to be 
 some other separation between us besides that, and besides 
 their being far more clever than I was, and knowing much 
 more than I did. One of them, in the first week of my 
 going to the school (I remember it very well), invited me 
 home to a little party, to my great joy. But my godmother 
 wrote a stiff letter declining for 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 on mine. My 
 birthday was the most melancholy day at home, in the whole 
 year. 
 
 I have mentioned, that, unless my vanity should deceive 
 me (as I know it may, for I may be very vain, without sus- 
 pecting it — though indeed I don't), my comprehension is 
 quickened 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 
 I 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 god- 
 mother, 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 I said "O, dear 
 godmother, tell me, pray do tell me, did mama die on my 
 birthday?" 
 
 No,'' she returned. ^' Ask me no more, child ! 
 
DIFFERENT FROM OTHER CHILDREN. 21 
 
 " 0, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, 
 dear godmother, if you please! What did I do to her? 
 How did I lose her ? Why am I so different from other 
 children, and why is it my fault, dear godmother ? No, no, 
 no, don't go away. O, speak to me ! 
 
 I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief ; and I caught 
 hold of her dress, and was kneeling to her. She had been 
 saying all the while, " Let me go ! But now she stood 
 still. 
 
 Her darkened face had such power over me, that it stopped 
 me in the midst of my vehemence. I put up my trembling 
 Httle 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 wrong 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. For 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 will 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 
 4rom other children, Esther, because you were not born, 
 like them, in common sinfulness and wrath. You are set 
 apart.'' 
 
S2 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my 
 doll's cheek against mine wet with tears ; and holding that 
 solitary friend upon my bosom, cried myself to sleep. Im- 
 perfect as my understanding of my sorrow w^as, I knew that 
 I had brought no joy, at any time, to anybody's heart, and 
 that I was to no one upon earth what Dolly was to me. 
 
 Dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone 
 together afterwards, 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 which I confessedly 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 
 win some love to myself if I could. I hope it is not self- 
 indulgent to shed these tears as I think of it. I am very 
 thankful, I am very cheerful, but I cannot quite help their 
 coming to my eyes. 
 
 There ! 1 have wiped them away now, and can go on 
 again properly. 
 
 I felt the distance between my godmother and myself so 
 much more after the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling 
 a place in her house which ought to have been empty, that 
 I found her more difficult of approach, though I was fervently 
 grateful to her in my heart, than ever. I felt in the same 
 way towards my school companions ; I felt in the same way 
 towards Mrs. Eachael, who was a widow ; and O, tov/ards her 
 daughter, of whom she was proud, who came to see her once 
 a fortnight ! I was very retired and quiet, and tried to be 
 very diligent. 
 
 One sunny afternoon, when I had come home from school 
 with my books and portfolio, watching my long shadow at 
 my side, and as I was gliding up-stairs to my room as usual, 
 my godmother looked out of the parlour-door, and called me 
 back. Sitting with her, I found — which was very unusual 
 indeed — a stranger. A portly important-looking gentleman, 
 dressed all in black, with a white cravat, large gold watch 
 
ONE DREADFUL NIGHT. 
 
 23 
 
 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 way of speak- 
 ing, "This is Esther, sir."** 
 
 The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me, and 
 said, " Come here, my dear ! He shook hands with me, 
 and asked me to take off my bonnet — looking at me all 
 the while. When I had complied, he said, " Ah ! and 
 afterwards " Yes ! And then, taking off his eye-glasses, 
 and folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his 
 arm-chair, turning the case about in his two hands he gave 
 my godmother a nod. Upon that, my godmother said, 
 " You may go up-stairs, Esther ! and I made him my 
 curtsey and left him. 
 
 It must have been two years afterwards, and I was almost 
 fourteen, when one dreadful night my godmother and I sat 
 at the fireside. I was reading aloud, and she was listening. 
 I had come down at nine o'clock, as I always did, to read 
 the Bible to her; and was reading, from St. John, how our 
 Saviour stooped down, writing with his finger in the dust, 
 when they brought the sinful woman to him. 
 
 " 'So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself 
 and said unto them. He that is without sin among you, let } 
 him first cast a stone at her ! ' " 
 
 I was stopped by my godmother's rising, putting her hand 
 to her head, and crying out, in an awful voice, from quite 
 another part of the book : 
 
 " ' Watch ye therefore ! lest coming suddenly he find you 
 sleeping. And what I say unto you, I say unto all. 
 Watch r'' 
 
 In an instant, while she stood before me repeating these 
 words, she fell down on the floor, I had no need to cry 
 out ; her voice had sounded through the house, and been 
 heard in the street. 
 
 She was laid upon her bed. For more than a week she 
 
24 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 lay there, little altered outwardly; with her old handsome 
 resolute frown that I so well knew, carved upon her face. 
 Many and many a time, in the day and in the night, with 
 my head upon the pillow by her that my whispers might be 
 plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayed for her, 
 asked her for her blessing and forgiveness, entreated her to 
 give me the least sign that she knew or heard me. No, no, 
 no. Her face was immoveable. To the very last, and even 
 afterwards, her frown remained unsoftened. 
 
 On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, 
 the gentleman in black with the white neckcloth reappeared. 
 I was sent for by Mrs. Rachael, and found him in the same 
 place, as if he had never gone away. 
 
 " My name is Kenge,"" he said ; " you may remember it, 
 my child ; Kenge and Carboy, Lincoln's Inn.*'"' 
 
 I replied that I remembered to have seen him once before. 
 
 " Pray be seated — here near me. Don't distress yourself ; 
 it's of no use. Mrs. Rachael, I needn't inform you who were 
 acquainted with the late Miss Barbary's affairs, that her 
 means die with her ; and that this young lady, now her 
 aunt is dead *" 
 
 " My aunt, sir ! " 
 
 "It is really of no use carrying on a deception when no 
 object is to be gained by it," said Mr. Kenge, smoothly. 
 "Aunt in fact, though not in law. Don't distress yourself! 
 Don't weep ! Don't tremble ! Mrs. Rachael, our young friend 
 has no doubt heard of — the — a — Jarndyce and Jarndyce." 
 
 " Never," said Mrs. Rachael. 
 
 "Is it possible," pursued Mr. Kenge, putting up his eye- 
 glasses, "that our young friend — I beg you won't distress 
 yourself ! — never heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce ! " 
 
 I shook my head, wondering even what it was. 
 
 " Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce ? " said Mr. Kenge, looking 
 over his glasses at me, and softly turning the case about and 
 about, as if he were petting something. "Not of one of 
 the greatest Chancery suits known ? Not of Jarndyce and 
 
MR. KENGE, OF KENGE AND CARBOY. 25 
 
 Jarndyce — the — a — in itself a monument of Chancery practice. 
 In which (I would say) every difficulty, every contingency, 
 every masterly fiction, every form of procedure known 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. Rachael ; I was afraid he addressed himself 
 to her, because I appeared inattentive ; " amounts at the 
 present hour to from six-ty to sEVEN-ty thousand pounds ! 
 said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair. 
 
 I felt very ignorant, but what could I do.^ I was so 
 entirely unacquainted with the subject, that I understood 
 nothing about it even then. 
 
 " And she really never heard of the cause ! '''' said Mr. 
 Kenge. " Surprising ! ''^ 
 
 "Miss Barbary, sir,''' returned Mrs. Rachael, " who is now 
 among the Seraphim 
 
 ("I hope so, I am sure,*'' said Mr. Kenge politely.) 
 
 " — Wished Esther only to know what would be serviceable 
 to her. And she knows, from any teaching she has had here, 
 nothing more.'''' 
 
 " Well ! " said Mr. Kenge. " Upon the whole, very proper. 
 Now to the point,'''' addressing me. "Miss Barbary, your 
 sole relation (in fact, that is ; for I am bound to observe 
 that in law you had none), being deceased, and it naturally 
 not being to be expected that Mrs. Rachael ''^ 
 
 " 0 dear no ! '*' said Mrs. Rachael, quickly. 
 . "Quite so,''' assented Mr. Kenge; — "that Mrs. Rachael 
 should charge herself with your maintenance and support (I 
 beg you won''t distress yourself), you are in a position to 
 receive the renewal of an offer which I was instructed to 
 make to Miss Barbary some two years ago, and which, 
 though rejected then, was understood to be renewable under 
 the lamentable circumstances that have since occurred. Now, 
 if I avow, that I represent, in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and 
 otherwise, a highly humane, but at the same time singular 
 
26 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 man, shall I compromise myself by any stretch of my pro- 
 fessional caution ? said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his 
 chair again, and looking calmly at us both. 
 
 He appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of 
 his own voice. I couldn't wonder at that, for it was mellow 
 and full, and gave great importance to every word he uttered. 
 He listened to himself with obvious satisfaction, and some- 
 times gently beat time to his own music with his head, or 
 rounded a sentence with his hand. I was very much im- 
 pressed 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 generally called Conversation Kenge. 
 
 "Mr. Jarndyce,'*' he pursued, "being aware of the — I 
 would say, desolate — position of our young friend, offers to 
 place her at a first-rate establishment; where her education 
 shall be completed, where her comfort shall be secured, 
 where her reasonable wants shall be anticipated, where she 
 shall be eminently qualified to discharge her duty in that 
 station of life unto which it has pleased — shall I say Pro- 
 vidence? — to call 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 from the establishment in ques- 
 tion without his knowledge and concurrence. That she will 
 faithfully apply herself to the acquisition of those accomplish- 
 ments, upon the exercise of which she will be ultimately 
 dependent. That she will tread in the paths of virtue and 
 honour, and — the — a so forth.'''' 
 
 I was still less able to speak, than before, 
 
 " Now, what does our young friend say ? ''' proceeded 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, 
 
IN THE STAGE-COACH. 
 
 S7 
 
 I need not repeat. What she did say, I could more easily 
 tell, if it were worth the telling. What she felt, and will 
 feel to her dying hour, I could never relate. 
 
 This interview took place at Windsor, where I had passed 
 (as far as I knew) my whole life. On that day ^ week, amply 
 provided with all necessaries, I left it, inside the stage-coach, 
 for Reading. 
 
 Mrs. Rachael 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 known her better after so many years, and 
 ought to have made myself enough of a favourite with her 
 to make her sorry then. When she gave me one cold parting 
 kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-drop from the stone 
 porch — it was a very frosty day — I felt so miserable and 
 self-reproachful, that I clung to her and told her it was my 
 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 lawn-gate — we had not come 
 out until v\e heard the wheels — and thus I left her, with a 
 sorrowful heart. She went in before my boxes were lifted 
 to the coach-roof, and shut the door. As long as I could 
 see the 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 hearthrug with roses on it, which always seemed to me 
 the first thing in the world I had ever seen, w^as hanging 
 outside in the frost and snovv\ A day or two before, I had 
 wrapped the dear old doll in her own shawl, and quietly 
 laid her — I am half ashamed to tell it — in the garden-earth, 
 under the tree that shaded my old window. I had no com- 
 panion left but my bird, and him I carried with me in 
 his cage. 
 
 When 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 
 
28 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 snow 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 when 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 would be like, and what 
 they would say to me; when a voice in the coach gave me 
 a terrible start. 
 
 It said, " What the de-vil are you crying for ? 
 
 I was so frightened that I lost my voice, and could only 
 answer in a whisper. "Me, sir?**' For of course I knew 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. 
 
 didn't know I was crying, sir,'' I faltered. 
 
 " But you are ! " said the gentleman. " Look here ! " He 
 came quite opposite to me from the other corner of the 
 coach, brushed one of his large furry cuffs across my eyes 
 (but without hurting me), and showed me that it was wet. 
 
 " There ! Now you know you are," he said. " Don't 
 you?'' 
 
 "Yes, sir," I said. 
 
 "And what are you crying for?" said the gentleman. 
 " Don't you want to go there ? " 
 "Where, sir?" 
 
 "Where? Why, wherever you are going," said the 
 gentleman. 
 
 " I am very glad to go there, sir," I answered. 
 " Well, then ! Look glad ! " said the gentleman. 
 I thought he was very strange; or at least that what I 
 could see of him was very strange, for he was wrapped up to 
 
A STRANGE GENTLEMAN. 29 
 
 the chin, and his face was almost hidden in a fur cap, with 
 broad fur straps at the side of his head, fastened under his 
 chin ; but I was composed again, and not afraid of him. So 
 I told him that I thought I must have been crying, because 
 of my godmother's death, and because of Mrs. RachaePs not 
 being sorry to part with me. 
 
 "Con -found Mrs. Rachael!'*' said the gentleman. "Let 
 her fly away in a high wind on a broomstick ! 
 
 I began to be really afraid of him now, and looked at him 
 with the greatest astonishment. But I thought that he had 
 pleasant eyes, although he kept on muttering to himself in 
 an angry manner, and calling Mrs. Rachael names. 
 
 After a little while, he opened his outer wrapper, which 
 appeared to me large enough to wrap up the whole coach, 
 and put his arm down into a deep pocket in the side. 
 
 " Now, look here ! he said. " In this paper,'''* which was 
 nicely folded, "is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be 
 got for money — sugar on the outside an inch thick, like fat 
 on mutton chops. Here'^s a little pio (a gem this is, both 
 for size and quality), made in France. And what do ycu 
 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, ^vhich I didn't at 
 all understand ; 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 afterw^ards, 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 very neat lady looked up at 
 the window, and said : 
 
30 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " 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 Miss 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 very small green carriage ; 
 and then Miss Donny, the maid, and I, got inside, and were 
 driven away. 
 
 "Everything is ready for you, Esther," said Miss Donny; 
 " and the scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact 
 accordance with the wishes of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce." 
 
 " Of did you say, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce," said Miss Donny, 
 
 I was so bewildered that Miss Donny thought the cold 
 had been too severe for me, and lent me her smelling- 
 bottle. 
 
 "Do you know my — guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma'am?" I 
 asked, after a good deal of hesitation. 
 
 "Not personally, Esther," said Miss Donny; "merely 
 through his solicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London. 
 A very superior gentleman, Mr. Kenge. Truly eloquent 
 indeed. Some of his periods quite majestic ! " 
 
 I felt this to be very true, but was too confused to attend 
 to it. Our speedy arrival at our destination, before I had 
 time to recover myself, increased my confusion ; and I never 
 shall forget the uncertain and the unreal air of everything at 
 Greenleaf (Miss Donny 's house), that afternoon ! 
 
 But I soon became used to it. I was so adapted to the 
 routine of Greenleaf before long, that I seemed to have been 
 there a great while : and almost to have dreamed rather than 
 really lived, my old life at my godmother's. Nothing could 
 be more 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 wex'e two Miss Donnys, 
 
GREENLEAF. 
 
 31 
 
 twins. It was understood that I would have to depend, by- 
 and-by, on my qualifications as a governess; and I was not 
 only instructed in everything 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 was 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 they 
 were ! 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 win some love if I 
 could; and indeed, indeed, I felt almost ashamed to have 
 done so little and have won so much. 
 
 I passed at Greenleaf six happy, quiet years. I never saw 
 in any face there, thank Heaven, on my birthday, that it 
 would have been better if I had never been born. When 
 the day came round, it brought me so many tokens of affec- 
 tionate remembrance that my room was beautiful with them 
 from New Year s Day to Christmas. ^ 
 
 In those six years I had never been away, except on visits 
 at holiday time in the neighbourhood. After the first six 
 months or so, I had taken Miss Donny's advice in reference 
 to the propriety of writing to Mr. Kenge, to say that I w^as 
 happy and grateful ; and with her approval I had written 
 such a letter. I had received a formal answer acknowledging 
 its receipt, and saying, " We note the contents thereof, w^hich 
 shall be duly communicated to our client.'' After that, I 
 sometimes heard Miss Donny and her sister mention how 
 regular my accounts were paid; and about twice a year I 
 ventured to wite a similar letter. I always received by 
 return of post exactly the same answer^, in the same round 
 
32 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 hand; with the signature of Kenge and Carboy in another 
 writing, which I supposed to be Mr. Kenge's. 
 
 It seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this 
 about myself! As if this narrative were the narrative of my 
 life ! But my little body will soon fall into the background 
 now. 
 
 Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for the second time) 
 I had passed at 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. 
 
 Old Square^ LlncoMs Inn, 
 
 Madam, 
 
 Jarndyce and Jarndyce, 
 
 Our clt M7\ Jarndyce being abt to rece into Ms house, tinder 
 an Order of the Ct of Chy, a Wa rd of the Ct in this cause, 
 for zchom he wishes to secure an elgble compn^ directs us to 
 iiiform you that he zcill he glad of your seixes in the afsd 
 capacity. 
 
 We have arrngd for your being forded, carriage free, 
 eight o'^clock coach from Reading, on Monday morning 
 next, to White Horse Cellar, Piccadilly, London, where one of 
 our elks will be in waiting to convey you to our offe as above. 
 We are. Madam, Your obed^ Serv^*, 
 
 Kenge and Carboy, 
 
 Miss Esther Summerson. 
 
 O, never, never, never shall I forget the emotion this letter 
 caused in 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 way so smooth and 
 easy, and to have inclined so many youthful natures towards 
 me ; that I could hardly bear it. Not that I would have had 
 them less sorry — I am afraid not ; but the pleasure of it, and 
 the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it, and the humble 
 
A FAREWELL TO OLD FRIENDS. 
 
 33 
 
 regret of it, were so blended, that my heart seemed ahiiost 
 breaking while it was full of rapture. 
 
 The letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal. 
 When every minute added to the proofs of love and kindness 
 that were given me in those five 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 bedside, 
 where you first spoke so kindly to me ! and when others 
 asked me only to write their names, "With Esther's love;*" 
 and when they all surrounded me with their parting presents, 
 and clung to me weeping, and cried, "What shall we do 
 when dear, dear Esther's gone ! and w hen I tried to tell 
 them how forbearing, and how good they had all been to me, 
 and how I blessed, and thanked them every one ; what a 
 heart I had ! 
 
 And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part 
 with me, as the least among them ; and when the maids said, 
 " Bless you, miss, wherever you go ! " and when the ugly lame 
 old gardener, who I thought had hardly noticed me in all 
 those years, 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 with 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, " O, I am so thankful, I am 
 so thankful ! " many times over ! 
 
 But of course I soon considered that I must not take tears V 
 where I w^as going, after all that had been done for me. o 
 Therefore, of course, I made myself sob less, and persuaded 
 
 VOL, I, D 
 
S4 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 myself to be quiet by saying very often, " Esther, now you 
 really must ! This zcill 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, that we should 
 never get there. However, when we began to jolt upon a 
 stone pavement, and particularly when every other conveyance 
 seemed to be running into us, and we seemed to be running 
 into every other conveyance, I began to believe that we really 
 were approaching the end of our journey. Very soon after- 
 wards we stopped. 
 
 A young gentleman who had inked himself by accident, 
 addressed me from the pavement, and said, "I am from 
 Kenge and Carboy's, miss, of Lincoln's Inn/' 
 
 "If you please, sir," said I. 
 
 He was very obliging; and as he handed me into a fly, 
 after superintending the removal of my boxes, I asked him 
 whether there was a great fire anywhere ? For the streets 
 were so full of dense brown smoke that scarcely anything was 
 to be seen. 
 
 " O dear no, miss," he said. " This is a London particular.'^ 
 
 I had never heard of such a thing. 
 
 "A fog, miss," said the young gentleman. 
 
 " O indeed ! " said 1. 
 
 We drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest streets 
 that ever were seen in the w^orld (I thought), and in such a 
 distracting state of confusion that I wondered how the people 
 kept their senses, until we passed into sudden quietude under 
 an old gateway, and drove on through a silent square until 
 we came to an odd nook in a corner, where there was an 
 entrance up a steep, broad flight of stairs, like an entrance 
 to a church. And there really was a churchyard, outside 
 under some cloisters, for I saw the gravestones from the 
 staircase window. 
 
GOING BEFORE THE CHANCELLOR. 85 
 
 This was Kenge and Carboy's. The young gentleman 
 showed me through an outer office into Mr. Kenge's room 
 — there was no one in it — and politely put an arm-chair for 
 me by the fire. He then called my attention to a little 
 looking-glass, hanging from a nail on one side of the 
 chimney-piece. 
 
 "In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after 
 the journey, as you're going before the Chancellor. Not that 
 it's requisite, I am sure," said the young gentleman civilly. 
 
 "Going before the Chancellor.'^" I said, startled for a 
 moment. 
 
 " Only a matter of form, miss," returned the young gentle- 
 man. "Mr. Kenge is in Court now. He left his compli- 
 ments, and w^ould you partake of some refreshment ; " there 
 were biscuits and a decanter of wine on a small table ; " and 
 look over the paper;" which the young gentleman gave me 
 as he spoke. He then stirred the fire, and left me. 
 
 Everything was so strange — the stranger from its being 
 night in the day-time, the candles burning with, a white 
 flame, and looking raw and cold — that I read the words in 
 the newspaper without knowing what they meant, and found 
 myself reading the same words repeatedly. As it was of no 
 use going on in that way, I put the paper dov/n, took a 
 peep at my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and 
 looked at the room which was not half lighted, and at the 
 shabby dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and at a 
 bookcase full of the most inexpressive-looking books that 
 ever had anything to say for themselves. Then I went on, 
 thinking, thinking, thinking; and the fire went on, burning, 
 burning, burning; and the candles went on flickering and 
 guttering, and there were no snuffers — until the young gentle- 
 man by-and-by brought a very dirty pair ; for two hours. 
 
 At last Mr. Kenge came. He was not altered; but he 
 was surprised to see how altered I was; and appeared quite 
 pleased. "As you are going to be the companion of the 
 young lady who is now ixi the Chancellor's private room> 
 
36 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Miss Summerson,'' he said, "we thought it well that you 
 should be in attendance also. You will not be discomposed 
 by the Lord Chancellor, I dare say?*" 
 
 "No, sir," I said, "I don^t think I shall." Really not 
 seeing, on consideration, why I should be. 
 
 So Mr. Kenge gave me his arm, and we went round the 
 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 young gentleman were standing- 
 near a great, loud-roaring fire. A screen was interposed 
 between them and it, and they were leaning on the screen, 
 talking. d 
 
 They both looked uj) when I came in, and I saw in theJ 
 young lady, with the fire shining upon her, such a beautifuM 
 girl ! With such rich golden hair, such soft blue eyes, and^ 
 such a bright, innocent, trusting face ! m 
 
 " Miss Ada," said Mr. Kenge, " this is Miss Summerson." m 
 
 She came to meet me with a smile of welcome and hen 
 hand extended, but seemed to change her mind in a momentJH 
 and kissed me. In short, she had such a natural, captivating,^ 
 winning manner, that in a few minutes we were sitting in 
 the window-seat, with the hght of the fire upon us, talking 
 together, as free and happy as could be. 
 
 What a load off my mind ! It was so dehghtful to knoAv 
 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 called him up to where we sat, he stood by us, 
 in the Hght 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 day. Our all three 
 coming together for the first time, in such an unusual place, ^ 
 
THE WARDS IN CHANCERY. 
 
 37 
 
 was a thing to talk about ; and we talked about it ; and the 
 fire, which had left oft* roaring, winked its red eyes at us — 
 as Richard said — like a drowsy old Chancery lion. 
 
 We conversed in a low tone, because a full-dressed gentle- 
 man 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 
 Court had risen, and his lordship was in the next room. 
 
 The gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost 
 directly, and requested Mr. Kenge to come in. Upon that, 
 we all went into the next room ; Mr. Kenge first, with my 
 darling — it is so natural to me now, that I can't help writing 
 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. He gave us a searching look as we entered, 
 but his manner w^as 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 was interested 
 by her, even / could see in a moment. It touched me, that 
 the home of such a beautiful young creature should be 
 represented by that dry official place. The Lord High 
 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 turning over leaves, " is Jarndyce of Bleak House." 
 
 "Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," said ilr. Kenge. 
 
 " A dreary name," said the Lord Chancellor. 
 
38 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "But not a dreary place at present, niy lord," said Mr. 
 Kenge. 
 
 " And Bleak House,''^ said his lordship, " is in 
 
 " Hertfordshire, my lord.**" 
 
 " Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House is not manned ? " said his 
 lordship. 
 
 " He is not, my lord,'*'' said Mr. Kenge. 
 A pause. 
 
 " Young Mr. Richard Carstone is present ? " said the 
 Lord Chancellor, glancing towards him. 
 Richard bowed and stepped forward. 
 
 " Hum ! '*' said the Lord Chancellor, turning over more 
 leaves. 
 
 " Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord,'*'' Mr. Kenge 
 observed, in a low voice, " if I m.ay venture to remind your 
 lordship, provides a suitable companion for '*'' 
 
 " For Mr. Richard Carstone ? I thought (but I am not 
 quite sure) I heard his lordship say, in an equally low voice, 
 and with a smile. 
 
 " For Miss Ada Clare. This is the young lady. Miss 
 Summerson.'''' 
 
 His lordship gave me an indulgent look, and acknowledged 
 my 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 
 whispered. His lordship, with his eyes upon his papers, 
 listened, nodded twice or thrice, turned over more leaves, 
 and did not look towards me again, until we were going 
 away. 
 
 Mr. Kenge now retired, and Richard with him, to where 
 I was, near the door, leaving my pet (it is so natural 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, whether she had well reflected on 
 
LIKE THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD. 89 
 
 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 courteously and 
 released her, and then he spoke for a minute or two with 
 Richard Carstone ; not seated, but standing, and altogether 
 with more ease and less ceremony — as if he still knew, though 
 he zcas Lord Chancellor, how to go straight to the candour 
 of a boy. 
 
 " Very well ! said his lordship aloud. " I shall make the 
 order. Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House has chosen, so far as 
 I may judge,''^ 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 w^e 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 Richard Carstone, " thafs over ! And 
 where do we go next. Miss Summerson .^^ 
 
 " Don't you know ? " I said. 
 
 " Not in the least,"*"* said he. 
 
 " And don't i/oit know, my love ? "*' I asked Ada. 
 
 " No ! said she. " Don'^t you ? 
 
 " Not at all ! '' said I. 
 
 We looked at one another, half laughing at our being like 
 the children in the wood, when a curious little old woman 
 in a squeezed bonnet, and carrying a reticule, came curtseying 
 and smiling up to us, with an air of great ceremony, 
 
 " O ! '' said she. " The wards in Jarndyce ! Ve-ry happy, 
 I am sure, to have the honour! It is a good omen for youth, 
 and hope, and beauty, when they find themselves in this 
 place, and don't know what's to come of it.'' 
 
40 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " Mad ! whispered Richard, not thinking she could hear 
 him. 
 
 " Right ! Mad, young gentleman,"'* she returned so quickly 
 that he was quite abashed. "I was a ward myself. I was 
 not mad at that time,**" 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 honour to attend Court 
 regularly. With my documents. I expect a judgment. 
 Shortly. On the Day of Judgment. I have discovered that 
 the sixth seal mentioned in the Revelations is the Great 
 Seal. It has been open a long time ! Pray accept my 
 blessing."'* 
 
 As Ada was a little frightened, I said, to humour the 
 poor old lady, that we were much obliged to her. 
 
 " Ye-es ! '" she said mincingly. " I imagine so. And here 
 IS Conversation Kenge. With Ms documents ! How does 
 your honourable 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 w ith 
 Ada and me. ''Anything but troublesome. I shall confer 
 estates on both, — which is not being troublesome, I trust ? 
 I expect a judgment. Shortly, On the Day of Judgment. 
 This is a good omen for you. Accept my blessing ! " 
 
 She stopped at the bottom of the 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. And beauty. And 
 Chancery. And Conversation Kenge! Ha! Pray accept 
 my blessing!" 
 
OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 0^ 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TELESCOPIC PHILANTHROPY. 
 
 We were to pass the night, Mr. Kenge told us when we 
 arrived ni his room, at Mrs. Jellyby's; and then he turned 
 to me, and said he took it for granted I knew who Mrs. 
 Jelljby was ? 
 
 "I really dont, 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 has devoted herself to an exten- 
 sive 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 cultivation 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 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 Mr. Kenge, " is— a— I dont 
 
42 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 know that I can describe him to you better than by saying 
 that he is the husband of Mrs. Jellyby.**' 
 
 "A nonentity, sir?'' said Richard, with a droll look. 
 
 " I don't say that," returned Mr. Kenge, gravely. " I 
 can't say that, 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 the 
 road to Bleak House would have been very long, dark, and 
 tedious, on such an evening, and as we had been travelling 
 already, Mr. Jarndyce had himself proposed this arrangement. 
 A carriage would be at Mrs. Jelly by '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 waiting to take 
 us round too, as soon as we pleased. 
 
 "Then it only remains," said Mr. Kenge, shaking hands 
 with us, "for me to express my lively satisfaction in (good 
 day. Miss Clare !) the arrangement this day concluded, and 
 my (good bye to you. Miss Summerson !) lively hope that it 
 will conduce to the happiness, the (glad to have had the 
 honour of making your acquaintance, Mr. Carstone !) welfare, 
 the advantage in all points of view, of all concerned ! Guppy, 
 see the party safely there." 
 
 "Where is 'there,' Mr. Guppy .^" said Richard, as we 
 went down-stairs. 
 
 "No distance," said Mr. Guppy; "round in Thavies Inn, 
 you know." 
 
 "I can't say I know where it is, for I come from 
 Winchester, and am strange in London." 
 
 "Only round the corner," said Mr. Guppy. "We just 
 twist up Chancery Lane, and cut along Holborn, and there 
 
AT MRS. JELLYBY^S. 
 
 43 
 
 we are in four minutes'* time, as near as a toucher. This is 
 about a London particular noii\ ain't it, miss ? He seemed 
 quite delighted with it on my account. 
 
 " The fog is very dense, indeed ! said I. 
 
 "Not that it affects you, though, Fm sure,**^ said Mr. 
 Guppy, putting up the steps. " On the contrary, it seems 
 to do you good, miss, judging from your appearance.'** 
 
 I knew he meant well in paying me this compliment, so I 
 laughed at myself for blushing at it, when he had shut the 
 door and got upon the box; and we all three laughed, and 
 chatted about our inexperience, and the strangeness of 
 London, until we turned up vmder an archway, to our 
 destination : a narrow street of high houses, like an oblong 
 cistern to hold the fog. There was a confused little crowd 
 of people, principally children, gathered about the house at 
 which we stopped, which had a tarnished brass plate on the 
 door, with the inscription, Jellyby. 
 
 " Don't be frightened ! " said Mr. Guppy, looking in at 
 the coach-window. "One of the young Jelly bys 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 always up to something," said Mr. Guppy. 
 
 I made my way to the poor child, who was one of the 
 dirtiest little unfortunates I ever saw, and found him very 
 hot and frightened, and crying loudly, fixed by the neck 
 between two iron railings, while a milkman and a beadle, 
 with the kindest intentions possible, were endeavouring to 
 drag him back by the legs, under a general impression that 
 his skull was compressible by those means. As I found 
 (after pacifying him), that he was a little boy, v/ith a 
 naturally large head, I thought that, perhaps, where his 
 head could go, his body could follow, and mentioned that 
 the best mode of extrication might be to push him forward. 
 This was so favourably received by the milkman and beadle, 
 that he would immediately have been pushed into the area. 
 
44 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 if I had not held his pinafore, while Richard and Mr. Guppy 
 ran down through the kitchen, to catch him when he should 
 be released. At last he was happily got down without any 
 accident, and then he began to beat Mr. Guppy with a hoop- 
 stick in quite a frantic manner. 
 
 Nobody had appeared belonging to the house, except a 
 person in 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 when 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 down-staii*s — down a Avhole flight (as it 
 sounded to me), with a great noise. 
 
 Mrs. Jellyby, whose face reflected none of the uneasiness 
 which we could not help showing in our own faces, as the dear 
 child's head recorded its passage with a bump on every stair 
 — Richard afterwards said he counted 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 off*. As if — I am quoting 
 Richard again — they could see nothing nearer than Africa ! 
 
 " I am very glad indeed," said Mrs. Jellyby, in an agreeable 
 voice, "to have the pleasure of receiving you. I have a 
 great respect for Mr. Jarndyce ; and no one in whom he is 
 interested can be an object of indifference to me." 
 
 We expressed our acknowledgments, and sat down behind 
 the door where there was a lame invalid of a sofa. Mrs. 
 Jellyby had very good hair, but was too much occupied with 
 her African duties to brush it. The shawl in which she 
 had been loosely muffled, dropped on to her chair when she 
 
BORRIOBOOLA-GHA. 
 
 45 
 
 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 
 suppose nobody ever was in such a state of ink. And, from 
 her tumbled hair to her pretty feet, which Avere disfigured 
 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, snuffing the 
 two great 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 bundle of 
 wood, and a poker), " you find me, my dears, as usual, very 
 busy; but that you will excuse. The African project at 
 present employs my whole time. It involves me in corre- 
 spondence with public bodies, and with private individuals 
 anxious for the welfare of their species all over the country. 
 I am happy to say it is advancing. We hope by this time 
 next year to have from a hundred and fifty to two hundred 
 healthy families cultivating coffee and educating the natives 
 of Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the Niger.'' 
 
 As Ada said nothing, but looked at me, I said it must 
 be very gratifying, 
 
 "It is gratifying," said Mrs. Jellyby. "It involves the 
 
46 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 devotion of all 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, Miss Summerson, I 
 almost wonder that you never turned your thoughts to 
 Africa.^' 
 
 This application of the subject was really so unexpected 
 to me, that I was quite at a loss how to receive it. I hinted 
 that the climate 
 
 " The finest climate in the world ! ''^ said Mrs. Jcllyby. 
 Indeed, ma'am ? 
 
 " Certainly. With precaution,'^ said Mrs. Jellyby. You 
 may go into Holborn, without precaution, and be run over. 
 You may go into Holborn, with precaution, and never be 
 run over. Just so Avith 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 that 
 head, and on the general subject (which have been extensively 
 circulated), while I finish a letter I am now dictating — to 
 my eldest daughter, who is my amanuensis " 
 
 The girl at the table left off biting her pen, and made 
 a return to our recognition, which was half bashful and 
 half sulky. 
 
 — I shall then have finished for the present," proceeded 
 Mrs. Jellyby, with a sweet smile; "though my work is never 
 done. Where are you, 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 inquiry on the African 
 project.' — No, Peepy ! Not on any account !" 
 
 Peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child who had 
 fallen down-stairs, who now interrupted the correspondence 
 by presenting himself, with 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 bruises or the dirt. Mrs. 
 
POOR PEEPY! 
 
 Jellyby merely added, with the serene composure 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, until he was quiet. 
 I was so occupied with Peepy that I lost the letter in detail, 
 though I derived such a general impression from it of the 
 momentous importance of Africa, and the utter insignificance 
 of all other 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 Summerson their rooms. You will like 
 to make some change, perhaps ? You will excuse me, I 
 know, being so much occupied. O, that very bad child ! 
 Pray put him down, Miss Summerson ! " 
 
 I begged permission to retain him, truly saying that he 
 was not at all troublesome ; and carried him up-stairs 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. 
 
 " 0, 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, 
 
48 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 that she was sorry there was no hot water ; but they couldn'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, 
 with 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 with no effect what- 
 ever on the door. Therefore I propos^ to the children that 
 they should come in and be very gQod at my table, and I 
 would tell them the story of Little Red Riding Hood while 
 I dressed ; which they did, and were as quiet as mice, in- 
 cluding Peepy, who awoke opportunely before the appearance 
 of the wolf. 
 
 When we went down-stairs we found a mug, with A 
 Present from Tunbridge 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 with Mrs. Jellyby's room), and choking 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 ; carefully, 
 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 pf roast beef, a dish 
 
MR. JELLYBY. 
 
 49 
 
 of cutlets, and a pudding ; an excellent dinner, if it had had 
 any cooking to speak of, but it was almost raw. The young 
 woman with the flannel bandage waited, and dropped every- 
 thing 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 suppose to have been the cook), 
 frequently came and skirmished with her at the door, and 
 there appeared to be ill-will between them. ^ 
 All through dinner ; which was long, in consequence of such 
 accidents as the dish of potatoes being mislaid in the coal 
 scuttle, and the handle of the corkscrew coming off, and 
 striking the young woman in the chin; Mrs. Jelly by 
 preserved the evenness of her disposition. She told us a 
 great deal that was interesting about Borrioboola-Gha and 
 the natives ; and received so many letters that Richard, who 
 sat by hev^ saw four en^\:elopes in ^ once. Some 
 
 of the letters were 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 was, as she had told us, devoted to the 
 cause. 
 
 I was a little curious to know who a mild bald gentleman 
 in spectacles was, who dropped into a vacant chair (there 
 was no top or bottom in particular) after the fish was taken 
 away, and seemed passively to submit himself to Borrioboola- 
 Gha, but not to be actively interested in that settlement. 
 As he never spoke a word, he might have been a native, but 
 for his complexion. It was not until we left the table, and 
 he remained alone with Richard, that the possibility of his 
 being Mr. Jellyby ever entered my head. But he zcas Mr. 
 Jelly by ; and a loquacious young man called Mr. Quale, with 
 large shining knobs for temples, and his hair all brushed to 
 the back of his head, who came in the evening, and told Ada 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 he was a philanthropist, also informed her that he called the 
 matrimonial alliance of Mrs. Jellyby with Mr. Jellyby the 
 union of mind and matter. 
 
 ^ This young man, besides having a great deal to say for 
 himself about Africa, and a project of his for teaching the 
 coffee colonists to teach the natives to turn piano-forte legs 
 and establish an export trade, delighted in drawing Mrs. 
 Jellyby out by saying, "I believe now, Mrs. Jellyby, you 
 have received as many as from one hundred and fifty to two 
 hundred letters respecting Africa in a single day, have you 
 not ? or, If my memory does not deceive me, Mrs. Jellyby, 
 you once mentioned that you had sent off five thousand 
 circulars from one post-office at one time ? — always repeating 
 Mrs. Jellyby's answer to us like an interpreter. During the 
 whole evening, Mr. Jellyby sat in a corner with his head 
 against the wall, as if he were subject to low spirits. It 
 seemed that he had several times opened his mouth when 
 alone with Richard, after dinner, as if he had something 
 on his mind ; but had always shut it again, to Richard'^s 
 extreme confusion, without saying anything. 
 
 Mrs. Jellyby, sitting in quite a nest of waste paper, 
 drank coffee all the evening, and dictated at intervals to her 
 eldest daughter. She also held a discussion with Mr. Quale ; 
 of which the subject seemed to be — if I understood it — the 
 Brotherhood of Humanity ; and gave utterance to some 
 beautiful sentiments. I was not so attentive an auditor as I 
 might have wished to be, however, for Peepy and the other 
 children came flocking about Ada and me in a corner of the 
 drawing-room to ask for another story; so we sat down 
 among them, and told them in whispers Puss in Boots and 
 I don't know what else, until Mrs. Jellyby accidentally 
 remembering them, sent them to bed. As Peepy cried for 
 me to take him to bed, I carried him up-stairs, where the 
 young woman with the flannel bandage charged into the 
 midst of the little family like a dragon, and overturned them 
 into cribs. 
 
COUSIN JARNDYCE. 
 
 51 
 
 After that, I occupied myself in making our room a littl6 
 tidy, and in coaxing a very cross fire that had been lighted, 
 to burn ; which at last it did, quite brightly. On my return 
 down-stairs, I felt that Mrs. 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 we left Mrs. Jellyby among 
 her papers drinking coffee, and Miss Jellyby biting the 
 feather of her pen. 
 
 " What a strange house ! " said Ada, when we got up-stairs. 
 "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. Jellyby to take such pains about a scheme for the 
 benefit of Natives — and yet — Peepy and the housekeeping ! " 
 
 Ada laughed ; and put her arm about my neck, as I stood 
 looking at the 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 cheerful ! and you do so much, 
 so unpretendingly ! You would make a home out of even 
 this house." 
 
 My simple darling! She was quite unconscious that she 
 only praised herself, and that it was in the goodness of her 
 own heart that she made so much of me ! 
 
 " May I ask you a question ? " said I, when we had sat 
 before the fire a little while. 
 
 "Five hundred," said Ada. 
 
 "Your cousin, Mr. Jarndyce. I owe so much to him. 
 Would you mind describing him to me ? " 
 
 Shaking her golden hair, Ada turned her eyes upon me 
 with such laughing wonder, that I was full of wonder too — 
 partly at her beauty, partly at her surprise. 
 
 "Esther!" she cried. 
 
52 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " My clear ! 
 
 " You want a description of my cousin Jarndyce ? 
 "My dear, I never saw him."" 
 " And / never saw him ! returned Ada. 
 Well, to be sure ! 
 
 No, she had never seen him. Young as she was when 
 her mama died, she remembered how the tears would come 
 into her eyes, when she spoke of him, and of the noble 
 generosity of his character, which she had said was to be 
 trusted above all earthly things; and Ada trusted it. Her 
 cousin Jarndyce had written to her a few months ago, — "a 
 plain, honest letter,*" Ada said — proposing the arrangement 
 we were now to enter on, and telling her that, "in time it 
 might heal some of the wounds made by the miserable 
 Chancery suit.*" She had replied, gratefully accepting his 
 proposal. Richard had received a similar letter, and had 
 made a similar response. He had seen Mr. Jarndyce once, 
 but only once, five years ago, at Winchester school. He had 
 told Ada, when they were leaning on the screen before 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 was asleep, I still 
 remained before the fire, wondering and wondering about 
 Bleak House, and wondering and wondering that yesterday 
 morning should seem so long ago. I don't know where my 
 thoughts had wandered, when they were recalled by a tap 
 at the door. 
 
 I opened it softly, and found Miss Jellyby shivering there, 
 with a broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand, 
 and an egg-cup in the other. 
 
 "Good night!" she said, very sulkily. 
 
 "Good night!" said I. 
 
 "May I come in?" she shortly and unexpectedly aske 
 me in the same sulky way. 
 
 " Certainly," said I. " Don't wake Miss Clare." 
 
UBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY oflLUNOlS. 
 
MISS JELLYBY. 
 
 5S 
 
 She would not sit down, but stood by the fire, dipping 
 her inky middle finger in the egg-cup, which contained 
 Tinegar, and smearing it over the ink stains on her face ; 
 frowning, 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 sorry. I put my 
 hand upon her head, and touched her forehead, and said it 
 was hot now, but would be cool to-morrow. She still stood, 
 pouting and frowning at me; but presently put down her 
 egg-cup, and turned softly towards the bed where Ada lay. 
 
 " She is very pretty ! '' she said, with the same knitted 
 brow, and in the same uncivil manner. 
 
 I assented with a smile. 
 
 " An orphan. Ain't she ? '' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " But knows a quantity, I suppose ? Can dance, and play 
 music, and sing? She can talk French, I suppose, and do 
 geography, and globes, and needlework, and everything?'' 
 
 ''No doubt," said 1. 
 
 can't," she returned. "I can't do anything hardly, 
 except write. I'm always writing for Ma. I wonder you 
 two were not ashamed of yourselves to come in this after- 
 noon, and see me able to do nothing else. It was like 
 your ill-nature. Yet you think yourselves very fine, I dare 
 say ! " 
 
 I could see that the poor girl was near crying, and I 
 resumed my chair without speaking, and looked at her (I 
 hope) as mildly as I felt towards her. 
 
 " It's disgraceful," she said. " You know it is. The whole 
 house is disgraceful. The children are disgraceful, /'m dis- 
 graceful. Pa's miserable, and no wonder ! Priscilla drinks 
 — she's always drinking. It's a great shame and a giieat 
 story of you, if you say you didn't smell her to-day. It was 
 
64 
 
 BLEAK HOUSR 
 
 as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner; you know 
 it was ! 
 
 *'My dear, I don't know it,'" said I. 
 
 " You do," she said, very shortly. " You shan't say you 
 don't. You do!" 
 
 " O, my dear ! " said I, " if you won't let me speak " 
 
 "You're speaking now. You know you are. Don't tell 
 stories, Miss Summerson." 
 
 "My dear," said 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 would be 
 so very unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me, 
 because the servant did not come near me at dinner; but I 
 don't doubt what you tell me, and I am sorry to hear it." 
 
 "You needn't make a merit of that," said she. 
 
 "No, my dear," said 1. "That would be very foolish." 
 
 She was still standing by the bed, and now stooped down 
 (but still 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 distressful manner 
 that I greatly pitied ; but I thought it better not to speak. 
 
 " I wish I was dead ! " she broke out. " I wish we were 
 all dead. It would be a great deal better for us." 
 
 In a moment afterwards, she knelt on the ground at my 
 side, hid her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, 
 and wept. I comforted her, and would have raised her, but 
 she cried. No, no ; she wanted to stay there ! 
 
 " You used to teach girls," she said. " If you could only 
 have taught me, I could have learnt from you ! I am so 
 very miserable, and I like you so much ! " 
 
 I could not persuade her to sit by me, or to do anything 
 but move a ragged stool to where she was kneeling, and 
 take that, and still hold my dress in the same manner. By 
 degrees, the poor tired girl fell asleep ; and then I con- 
 trived to raise her head so that it should rest on my lap, 
 
AN EARLY VISITOR. 
 
 55 
 
 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 painfully 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 with 
 curtseying 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 
 down in his bedgown and cap, and was so cold that his 
 teeth were chattering as if he had cut them all. 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 A MORNING ADVENTURE. 
 
 Although the morning was raw, and although the fog still 
 seemed heavy — I say seemed, for the windows were so en- 
 crusted with dirt, that they would have made Midsummer 
 sunshine dim — I was sufficiently forewarned of the discomfort 
 within doors at that early hour, and sufficiently curious about 
 London, to think it a good idea on the part of Miss Jelly by 
 Avhen 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 would call a regular break- 
 fast, 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 drinks it. But Fm 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 would," returned Miss Jellyby, "Fll 
 get my things on." 
 
 Ada said she would go too, and was soon astir. I made 
 a proposal to Peepy, in default of being able to do anything 
 better for him, that he should let me wash him, and after- 
 wards lay him down on my bed again. To this he submitted 
 with the best grace possible ; staring at me during the whole 
 
A WALK BEFORE BREAKFAST. 57 
 
 operation, as if he never had been, and never could again be, 
 so astonished in his Hfe — 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 reflected that nobody in the house 
 was likely to notice it. 
 
 What with the bustle of despatching Peepy, and the bustle 
 of getting myself ready, and helping Ada, I was soon quite 
 in a glow. We found Miss Jelly by trying to warm herself 
 at the fire in the writing-room, which Priscilla was then 
 lighting with a smutty parlour candlestick — throwing the 
 candle in to make it burn better. Everything was just as 
 we had left it last night, and was evidently intended to 
 remain so. Below-stairs the dinner-cloth had not been taken 
 away, but had been left ready for breakfast. Crumbs, dust, 
 and waste paper were all over the house. Some pewter-pots 
 and a milk-can hung on the area railings ; the door stood 
 open ; and we met the cook round the corner coming out of 
 a public-house, wiping her mouth. She mentioned, as she 
 passed us, that she had been to see what o'clock it was. 
 
 But before we met the cook, we met Richard, who was 
 dancing up and down Thavies Inn to warm his feet. He 
 was agreeably surprised to see us stirring so soon, and said 
 he would gladly share our walk. So he took care of Ada, 
 and Miss Jellyby and I went first. I may mention that Miss 
 Jellyby had relapsed into her sulky manner, and that I really 
 should not have thought she liked me much, unless she had 
 told me so. 
 
 "Where would you wish to go?'*'' she asked. 
 " Anywhere, my dear ? I replied. 
 
 "Anywhere's nowhere,*" said Miss Jellyby, stopping per- 
 versely. 
 
 "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 
 
68 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 to our house, with his great shining lumpy forehead, night 
 after night, till he was as old as Methuselah, I w^ouldn'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. "Your 
 duty as a child 
 
 " O ! don'^t talk of duty as a child, Miss Summerson ; 
 where's Ma'^s duty as a parent ? All made over to the public 
 and Africa, I suppose ! Then let the public and Africa 
 show duty as a child ; it's much more their affair than mine. 
 You are shocked, I dare say ! Very well, so am I shocked 
 too ; so we are both shocked, and there's an end of it ! '' 
 
 She walked me on faster yet. 
 
 "But for all that, I say again, he may come, and come, 
 and come, and I won't have anything to say to him. I can't 
 bear him. If there's any stuff* in the world that I hate and 
 detest, it's the stuff* he and Ma talk. I wonder the very 
 paving-stones opposite our house can have the patience to 
 stay there, and be a witness of such inconsistencies and 
 contradictions as all that sounding nonsense, and Ma's 
 management ! " 
 
 I could not but understand her to refer- to Mr. Quale, the 
 young gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. 
 I w^as saved the disagreeable necessity of pursuing the subject 
 by Richard 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 prepara- 
 tions in the setting forth of shop windows 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 Richard to Ada, 
 
THE LITTLE OLD LADY. 
 
 behind me. "We are never to get out of Chancery! We 
 have come by another way to our place of meeting yesterday, 
 fl,nd — by the Great Seal, here's the old lady again ! 
 
 Truly, there she was, immediately in front of lis, curtsey- 
 ing, and smiling, and saying, with her yestorday'^s air of 
 patronage : 
 
 "The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure!**^ 
 " You are out early, ma'am, ''^ said I, as she curtseyed 
 to me. 
 
 "Ye-cs! I usually, walk here early. Before the Court 
 sits. It's retired. I collecc 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, 
 dra^ving my arm* tighter through her own. 
 
 The little old lady's hearing was remarkably quick. She 
 answered for herself directly. 
 
 " A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honour 
 to attend court regularly. With my documents. Have I 
 the pleasure of addressing another of the youthful parties in 
 Jarndyce?'^ said the old lady, recovering herself, with her 
 head on one side, from a very low curtsey. 
 
 Richard, anxious to atone for his thoughtlessness of yester- 
 day, good-naturedly explained that Miss Jellyby was not 
 connected with the suit. 
 
 " Ha ! " said the old lady. " She does not expect a 
 judgment? She will still grow old. But not so old. O 
 dear, no ! This is the garden of Lincoln's Inn. I call it my 
 garden. It is quite a bower in the summer-time. Where 
 the birds sing melodiously. I pass the greater part of the 
 long vacation here. In contemplation. You find the long 
 vacation exceedingly long, don't you ? '** 
 
 We said yes, as she seemed to expect us to say so. 
 " When the leaves are falling from the trees, and there are 
 no more flowers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the 
 
60 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 liord Chancellor's court,'' said the old lady, " the vacation is 
 fuffiJJed; and the sixth seal, mentioned in the Revelations, 
 again prevails. Pray come and see my lodging. It will be 
 a good omen for me. Youth, and hope, and beauty, are 
 very seldom there. It is a long long time since I had a visit 
 from either." 
 
 She had taken n)y hand, and, leading ine and Miss Jellyby 
 away, beckoned Richard and Ada to come too. I did not 
 know how to excuse myself, and looked to Richard for aid. 
 As he was half amused and half curious, and all in doubt 
 how to get rid of the old lady without offence, she continued 
 to lead us away, and he and Ada eontinued to follow ; our 
 strange conductress informing us all the time, with much 
 smiling condescension, that she lived close by. 
 
 It was quite true, as it soon appeared. Sho lived so close 
 by, that we had not time to have done humouring her for a 
 few moments, before she was at home. Slipping us oat at a 
 little side gate, the old lady stopped most unexpectedly in 
 a narrow back street, part of some courts and lanes imme- 
 diately outside the wall of the Inn, and said, " This is my 
 lodging. Pray walk up ! " 
 
 She had stopped at a shop, over which was written, KiiooKj 
 Rag and BorrLE Warehouse. Also, in long thin letters, 
 Krook, Dealer in Marine Stores. In one part of the 
 window was a picture of a red paper mill, at Avhich a cart 
 was 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 Bought. In another. Ladies' and Gentlemen's 
 Wardrobes Bought. Everything seemed to be bought, and 
 nothing to be sold there. In all parts of the windoAv, were 
 quantities of dirty bottles : blacking bottles, medicine bottles, 
 ginger-beer and soda-water bottles, pickle bottles, wine bottles, 
 ink bottles : I am reminded by mentioning the latter, that 
 the shop had, in several little particulars, the air of being 
 in a legal neighbourhood, and of being, as it were, a dirty 
 
THE LIITLE OLD LADY^S LODGING. 61 
 
 hanger-on and disowned relation of the law. There were a 
 great many ink bottles. There was a little tottering bench 
 of shabby old volumes, outside the door, labelled "Law 
 Books, all at del,''' Some of the inscriptions I have enume- 
 rated were written in law-hand, like the papers I had seen in 
 Kenge and Carboy's office, and the letters I had so long 
 received from the firm. Among them was 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 despatch : 
 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 parch- 
 ment scrolls, and discoloured and dog's-eared law-papers. I 
 could 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 gowns torn up. One had only to fancy, as Richard 
 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 should not have seen so much 
 but for a lighted lantern that an old man in spectacles 
 and a hairy cap was carrying about in the shop. Turning 
 towards the door, he now caught sight of us. He was short, 
 cadaverous, and withered ; with his head sunk sideways 
 between his shoulders, and the breath issuing in visible 
 smoke from his mouth, as if he were on fire within. His 
 throat, chin, and eyebrows were so frosted with white hairs, 
 and so gnarled with veins and puckered skin, that he looked 
 from his breast upward, like some old root in a fall of snow. 
 
62 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " Hi hi ! said the old man coming to the door. " Have 
 you anything to sell ? 
 
 We naturally drew back and glanced at our conductress, 
 who had been trying to open the house-door with a key she 
 had taken from her pocket, and to whom Richard 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 
 pressingly earnest in her entreaties that we would walk up, 
 and see her apartment 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 all 
 went in, stimulated by Richard's laughing encouragement, 
 and relying on his protection. 
 
 "My landlord, Krook," said the little old lady, conde- 
 scending 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 very odd ! " 
 
 She shook her head a great many times, and tapped her 
 forehead with her finger, to express to us that we must have 
 the goodness to excuse him, "For he is a little — ^you know! 
 — M — !" said the old lady, with great stateliness. The old 
 man overheard, and laughed. 
 
 "It's true enough," he said, going before us with the 
 lantern, "that they call me the Lord Chancellor, and call 
 my shop Chancery. And why do you think they call me 
 the Lord Chancellor, and my shop Chancery ? " 
 
 " I don't know, I am sure ! " said Richard, rather care- 
 lessly. 
 
MR. KROOK. 
 
 63 
 
 "You see,**' said the old man, stopping and turning round, 
 « tliey — Hi ! Here's lovely hair ! I have got three sacks of 
 ladies'" hair below, but none so beautiful and fine as this. 
 What colour, and what texture ! 
 
 " That'll do, my good friend ! '' said Richard, 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. Krook 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 tliey know nothing), wasting away and going to 
 I'ack and ruin, that that's why they have given me and my 
 place a christening. And I have so many old parchmentses 
 and papers in my stock. And I have a liking for rust and 
 must and cobwebs. And all's fish that comes to my net. 
 And I can't abear to part with anything I once lay hold of 
 (or so my neighbours think, but what do they know ?) or to 
 alter anything, or to have any sweeping, nor scouring, nor 
 cleaning, nor repairing going on about me. That's the way 
 I've got the ill name of Chancery. / don't mind. I go to 
 see my noble and learned brother pretty well every day, when 
 he sits in the Inn. He don't notice me, but I notice him. 
 There's no great odds betwixt us. We both grub on in a 
 muddle. Hi, Lady Jane ! " 
 
 A large grey cat leaped from some neighbouring shelf on 
 his shoulder, and startled us all. 
 
 " Hi ! show 'em how you scratch. Hi ! Tear, my lady ! 
 said her master. 
 
 The cat leaped down, and ripped at a bundle of rags with 
 
64 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 her tigerish claws, with a sound that it set my teeth on edge 
 to hear. 
 
 "She'd do as much for any one I was to set her on,'' said 
 the old man. " 1 deal in cat-skins among other general 
 matters, and hers was offered to me. Ifs 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 young friends are pressed for time. I have none to spare 
 myself, having to attend court very soon. My young friends 
 are the wards in Jarndyce." 
 
 " Jarndyce ! said the old man with a start. 
 
 "Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The great suit, Krook," returned 
 his lodger. 
 
 " Hi ! " exclaimed the old man, in a tone of thoughtful 
 amazement, and with a wider stare than before. "Think 
 of it!" 
 
 He seemed so rapt all in a moment, and looked so curiously 
 at us, that Richard said : 
 
 "Why you appear to trouble yourself a good deal about 
 the causes before your noble and learned brother, the other 
 Chancellor!" 
 
 "Yes," said the old man abstractedly. "Sure! Your 
 
 name now will be " 
 
 "Richard Carstone." 
 
 "Carstone," he repeated, slowly checking off that name 
 upon his forefinger; and each of the others he went on to 
 mention, upon a separate finger. "Yes. There was the 
 name of 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 Richard, quite astonished, to Ada and me. 
 
THE STORY OF TOM JARNDYCE^S DEATH. 65 
 
 " 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 was on, or expected, talking to the little shop- 
 keepers, 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 with horror. 
 
 " He come in at the door," said the old man, slowly point- 
 ing an imaginary track along the vshop, "on the day he did 
 it — the whole neighbourhood had said for months before, 
 that he would do it, of a certainty sooner or later — he come 
 in at the door that day, and walked along there, and sat 
 .himself on a bench that stood there, and asked me (you'll 
 judge I was a mortal sight younger then) to fetch him a 
 pint of wine. ' For,' says he, ' Krook, I am much depressed ; 
 my cause is on again, and I think I'm nearer judgment than 
 I ever was.' I hadn't a mind to leave him alone; and I 
 persuaded him to go to the tavern over the way there, t'other 
 side my lane (I mean Chancery Lane) ; and I followed and 
 looked in at the window, and saw him, comfortable as I 
 thought, in the arm-chair by the fire, and company with 
 him. I hadn't hardly got back here, when I heard a shot 
 go echoing and rattling right away into the inn. I ran out 
 — neighbours ran out — twenty of us cried at once, 'Tom 
 Jarndyce ! ' " 
 
 The old man 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 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
66 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 colour had entirely left her, and Richard was scarcely 
 less pale. Nor could 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 into the inheritance 
 of a protracted misery, attended in the minds of many people 
 with such dreadful recollections. I had another uneasiness, 
 in the application of the painful 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 
 up-stairs again ; informing us, with the toleration of a superior 
 creature for the infirmities of a common mortal, that her 
 landlord was " 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 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 furniture ; a few old prints from books, of 
 Chancellors and barristers, wafered against the wall; and 
 some half-dozen reticules and work-bags, ^' containing docu- 
 ments," as she informed us. There were neither coals nor 
 ashes in the grate, and I saw no articles of clothing anywhere, 
 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 honoured, I am sure,'' said our poor hostess, 
 with the greatest suavity, "by this visit from the wards in 
 
THE LITTLE OLD LADY'S BIRDS. 
 
 67 
 
 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, unavoid- 
 able ; being in Chancery. I am sorry I cannot offer chocolate. 
 I expect a judgment shortly, and shall then place my establish- 
 ment on a superior footing. At present, I don't mind con- 
 fessing to the wards in Jarndyce (in strict confidence), that 
 I sometimes find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. 
 I have felt the cold here. I have £plt something sharper than 
 cold. It matters very little. Pray excuse the introduction 
 of such mean topics."' 
 
 She partly drew aside the curtain of the long low garret- 
 window, and called our attention to a number of bird-cages 
 hanging there : some, containing several birds. There were 
 larks, linnets, and goldfinches — I should think at least 
 twenty. 
 
 "I began to keep the little creatures,'' she said, "with an 
 object that the wards will readily comprehend. With the 
 intention of restoring them to liberty. When my judgment 
 should be given. Ye-es ! They die in prison, though. 
 Their Hves, poor silly things, are so short in comparison 
 with Chancery proceedings, that, one by one, the whole 
 collection has died over and over again. I doubt, do you 
 know, whether one of these, though they are all young, will 
 live to be free! Ve-ry mortifying, is it not?" 
 
 Although she sometimes asked a question, she never seemed 
 to expect a reply; but rambled on as if she were in the 
 habit of doing so, when no one but herself was present. 
 
 "Indeed," she pursued, "I positively doubt sometimes, I 
 do assure you, whether while matters are still unsettled, and 
 the sixth or Great Seal still prevails, / may not one day be 
 found lying stark and senseless here, as I have found so many 
 birds!" 
 
68 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 honour of youth," a smile 
 and curtsey ; " hope," a smile and curtsey ; " and beauty," 
 a smile and curtsey. " There ! We'll let in the full light." 
 
 The birds began to stir and chirp. 
 
 "I cannot admit the air freely," said the little old lady; 
 the room was 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 out- 
 side for hours and hours. I have discovered," whispering 
 mysteriously, "that her natural cruelty is sharpened by a 
 jealous fear of their regaining their liberty. In consequence 
 of the judgment I expect being shortly given. She is sly, 
 and full of malice. I half 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 bells, reminding the poor soul 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 done for our- 
 selves. 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 would on no account detain her, she opened the 
 door to attend us down-stairs. 
 
 " With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual 
 that I should be there before the Chancellor comes in," said 
 she, "for he might mention my case the first thing. I have 
 
"A LrrrLE— M—, you KNOWI^^ 69 
 
 a presentiment that he will mention it the first thing this 
 morning.*" 
 
 She stopped to tell us, in a whisper, as we were going 
 down, that the whole house was filled with strange lumber 
 which her landlord had bought piecemeal, and had no wish 
 to sell, 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 explana- 
 tion; "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 tip- 
 toe, 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. 
 
 Richard 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 with 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 would have made. 
 
 *'Can you read it?" he asked me with a keen glance. 
 
 "Surely,'' said I. « It's very plain." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "J." 
 
 With another glance at me, and a glance at the door, he 
 
70 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 the 
 letter r, and asked me the same question. He went on 
 quickly, until he had formed, in the same curious manner, 
 beginning at the ends and bottoms of the letters, the word 
 Jarndyce, without once leaving two letters on the wall 
 together. 
 
 "What does that spell .^^'^ he asked me. 
 
 When I told him, he laughed. In the same odd way, 
 yet with the same mpidity, he then produced singly, and 
 rubbed out singly, the letters forming the words BlExVK 
 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 up-stairs, 
 that I was quite relieved by Richard's appearing at the door 
 and saying : 
 
 "Miss Summerson, I hope you are not bargaining for the 
 sale of your hair. Don't be tempted. Three sacks below 
 are quite enough for Mr. Krook ! " 
 
 I lost no time in wishing Mr. Krook good morning, and 
 joining my friends 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, look- 
 ing after us, with his cat upon his shoulder, and her tail 
 sticking up on one side of his hairy cap, like a tall feather. 
 
 " Quite an adventure for a morning in London ! '' said 
 Richard, with a sigh. " Ah, cousin, cousin, it's a weary word 
 this Chancery ! " 
 
lIBRArtY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIYERSITV of iLLINOiS. 
 
SUPERIOR TO CHANCERY. 
 
 71 
 
 ''It is to me, and has been ever since I can remembeiV 
 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, 
 without knowing how or why, and be in constant doubt and 
 discord all 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 through all these years where it is.^' 
 
 " Ah, cousin ! said Richard. " Strange, indeed ! all this 
 wasteful wanton chess-playing is very strange. To see that 
 composed Court yesterday jogging on so serenely, and to 
 think of the wretchedness of the pieces on the board, gave 
 me the headache and the heartache both together. My head 
 ached with wondering how it 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, Chancery will work none of its bad 
 influences on us. We have happily been brought together, 
 thanks to our good kinsman, and it can't divide us now ! 
 
 " Never, I hope, cousin Richard ! '''' said Ada, gently. 
 
 Miss Jellyby gave my arm a squeeze, and me a very 
 significant look. I smiled in return, and we made the rest 
 of the way back very pleasantly. 
 
 In half an hour after our arrival, Mrs. Jellj^by 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 break- 
 fast ; for the morning'*s post brought a heavy correspondence 
 relative to Borrioboola-Gha, w^hich would occasion her (she 
 said) to pass a busy day. The children tumbled about, and 
 notched memoranda of their accidents in their legs, which 
 
72 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 were 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 Mrs. 
 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 fast 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 
 children 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 VI. 
 
 QUITE AT HOME. 
 
 The day had brightened very much, and still brightened as 
 we went w^estward. We went our way through the sunshine 
 and the fresh air, wondering more and more at the extent of 
 the streets, the brilliancy of the shops, the great traffic, and 
 the crowds of people whom the pleasanter weather seemed to 
 have brought out like many-coloured flowers. By-and-by we 
 began to leave the wonderful city, and to proceed through 
 suburbs which, of themselves, would have made a pretty large 
 town, in my eyes ; and at last we got into a real country road 
 again, with windmills, 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 behind ; 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 cheerful were the influences around. 
 
 "The whole road has been reminding me of my namesake 
 Whittington,"' said Richard, " and that waggon is the finishing 
 touch. Halloa ! what's the matter ? 
 
 We had stopped, and the waggon had stopped too. Its 
 music 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. 
 
74 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " Our postilion is looking after the waggoner,'' said Richard; 
 "and the waggoner is coming back after us. Good day, 
 friend ! The waggoner w as at our coach-door. Why, 
 here's an extraordinary thing ! " added Richard, looking 
 closely at the man. " He has got your name, Ada, in his 
 hat!" 
 
 He had all our names in his hat. Tucked within the band 
 were 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 post-boy. 
 
 " Yes, sir," he replied. " Going to London." 
 
 We opened the notes. Eaxh 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 Jarndyce/* 
 
 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 
 dependence through so many years. I had not considered 
 how I could thank him, my gratitude lying too deep in my 
 heart for that; but I now began to consider how I coul 
 meet him without thanking him, and felt it would be ver 
 difficult indeed. 
 
 The notes revived, in Richard and Ada, a general impressio 
 that they both had, without quite knowing how they cam 
 by it, that their cousin Jarndyce could never bear acknow 
 ledgments for any kindness he performed, and that, soone 
 
NEARING BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 75 
 
 than receive any, he would resort to the most singular 
 expedients and evasions, or would even run away. Ada dimly 
 remembered to have heard her mother tell, when she was a 
 very little child, that he had once done her an act of un- 
 common generosity, and that on her 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 we 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 would 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 would say to us, and what we should say to him. AU 
 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 St. Albans ; near to which town Bleak House was, 
 we knew. 
 
 By that time we were so anxious and nervous, that even 
 Richard 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, wdiom he had wrapped up with great 
 care, the night being sharp and frosty, we trembled from 
 head to foot. When w^e turned out of the town, round a 
 corner, and Richard told us that the post-boy, who had for 
 a long time sympathised with our heightened expectation, 
 was looking back and nodding, we both stood up in the 
 
76 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 carriage (Richard holding Ada, lest she should be jolted 
 down), and gazed round upon the open country and the 
 starlight night, for our destination. There was a light 
 sparkling on the top of a hill before us, and the driver, 
 pointing to ' it with his whip, and crying, " That's Bleak 
 House ! put his horses into a canter, and took us forward 
 at such a rate, up-hill though it was, that the wheels sent 
 the road drift flying about our heads like spray from a 
 water-mill. Presently we lost the light, presently saw it, 
 presently lost it, presently saw it, and turned into an avenue 
 of trees, and cantered up towards where it was beaming 
 brightly. It was in a window of what seemed to be an 
 old-fashioned house, with three peaks in the roof in front, 
 and a circular sweep leading to the porch. A bell was 
 rung as we drew 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 own hearts, we alighted in no inconsiderable con- 
 fusion. 
 
 " Ada, my love, Esther, my dear, you are welcome. I 
 rejoice to see you ! Rick, if I had a hand to spare at 
 present, I would give it you ! 
 
 The gentleman who said these words in a clear, bright, 
 hospitable voice, had one of his arms round Ada's waist, and 
 the other round mine, and kissed us both in a fatherly way, 
 and bore us across the hall into a ruddy little room, all in 
 a glow with a blazing fire. Here he kissed us again, and, 
 opening his arms, made us sit down side by side, on a sofa 
 ready drawn out near the hearth. I felt that if we had been 
 at all demonstrative, he would have run away in a moment* 
 
 " Now, Rick ! said he, " I have a hand at liberty. A word 
 in earnest is as good as a speech. I am heartily glad to see 
 you. You are at home. Warm yourself ! 
 
 Richard shook him by both hands with an intuitive 
 mixture of respect and frankness, and only saying (though 
 
MR. JARNDYCE. 
 
 77 
 
 with an earnestness that rather alarmed me, I was so afraid 
 of Mr. Jarndyce's suddenly disappearing), " You are very 
 kind, sir! We are very much obliged to you!*" laid aside 
 his hat and coat, and came up to the fire. 
 
 "And how did you like the ride? And how did you like 
 Mrs. Jellyby, my dear ? said Mr. Jarndyce to Ada. 
 
 While Ada was speaking to him in 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-grey. 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 Reading. 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 I thought of Mrs. Jellyby ? 
 
 "She exerts herself very much for Africa, sir,"*" I said. 
 
 "Nobly!'''' returned Mr. Jarndyce. "But you answer like 
 Ada.'''' Whom I had not heard. " You all think something 
 else, I see.**' 
 
 " We rather thought,^'' said I, glancing at Richard and 
 Ada, who entreated me with their eyes to speak, "that 
 perhaps she was a little unmindful of her home.*''' 
 
 " Floored ! '''' cried Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 I was rather alarmed ao;ain. 
 
 " Well ! I want to know your real thoughts, my dear. I 
 may have sent you there on purpose.'" 
 
 "We thought that, perhaps,'' said I, hesitating, "it is 
 right to begin with the obligations of home, sir; and that. 
 
78 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 perhaps, while those are overlooked and neglected, no other 
 duties can possibly be substituted for them.'^ 
 
 " The little Jellybys,''' said Richard, 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 east." 
 
 "It was in the north, sir, as we came down," observed 
 Richard. 
 
 " My dear Rick," said Mr. Jarndyce, poking the fire ; " I'll 
 take an oath it's either in the east, or going to be. I am 
 always conscious of an uncomfortable sensation now and then 
 when the wind is blowing in the east." 
 
 " Rheumatism, sir ? " said Richard. 
 
 " I dare say it is. Rick. I believe it is. And so the 
 little Jell — I had my doubts about 'em — are in a — oh. Lord, 
 yes, it's easterly ! " said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 He had taken two or three undecided turns up and down 
 while uttering these broken 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 all 
 back again. 
 
 "Those little Jellybys. Couldn't you — didn't you — now, 
 if it had rained sugar-plums, or three-cornered raspberry 
 tarts, or anything of that sort ! " said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 " 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. Jarndyce, with 
 great enjoyment. " Sounds uncommonly natural. Yes, my 
 dear.?" 
 
AN OLD-FASHIONED HOUSE. 
 
 79 
 
 " It did better than that. It rained Esther." 
 
 " Ay ? said Mr. Jarndyce. " What did Esther do ? 
 
 "Why, cousin John,**' said Ada, clasping her hands upon 
 his arm, and shaking her head at me across him — for I 
 wanted her to be quiet : " Esther was their friend directly. 
 Esther nursed them, coaxed them to sleep, washed and 
 dressed them, told them stories, kept them quiet, bought 
 them keepsakes — My dear girl ! I had only gone out with 
 Peepy, after he was found, and given him a little, tiny horse ! 
 — "and, cousin John, she softened poor Caroline, the eldest 
 one, so much, and was 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 xvill thank you for the 
 companion you have given me.'' I felt as if she challenged 
 him to run away. But he didn't. 
 
 " Where did you say the wind was, Rick ? " asked Mr. 
 Jarndyce. 
 
 "In the north, as we came down, sir." 
 
 "You are right. There's no east in it. A mistake of 
 mine. Come, girls, come and see your home ! " 
 
 It was one of those delightfully irregular houses where you 
 go up and down steps out of one room into another, and 
 where you come upon more rooms when you think you have 
 seen all there are, and where there is a bountiful provision 
 of little halls and passages, and where you find still older 
 cottage-rooms in unexpected places, with lattice windows 
 and green growth pressing through them. Mine, which we 
 entered first, was of this kind, with an up-and-down roof, 
 that had more corners in it than I ever counted afterwards, 
 and a chimney (there was a wood-fire on the hearth) paved 
 all around with pure white tiles, in every one of which a 
 bright miniature of the fire was blazing. Out of this room, 
 you went down two steps, into a charming little sitting- 
 
80 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 room, looking down upon a flower-garden, which room was 
 henceforth to belong to Ada and me. Out of this you went 
 up three steps, into Ada's bed-room, which had a fine broad 
 window, commanding a beautiful view (we saw a great 
 expanse of darkness lying underneath the stars), to which 
 there was a hollow window-seat, in which, with a spring- 
 lock, three dear Adas might have been lost at once. Out 
 of this room, you passed into a little gallery, with which 
 the other best rooms (only two) communicated, and so, by a 
 little staircase of shallow steps, with a number 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 went out at the door by which you had 
 entered it, and turned up a few crooked steps that branched 
 off' in an unexpected manner from the stairs, you lost your- 
 self 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 bamboo 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 
 w^ent 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, wondering how 
 you got back there, or had ever got out of it. 
 
OLD-FASHIONED FURNITURE. 
 
 81 
 
 The furniture, old-fashioned rather than old, like the 
 house, was as pleasantly irregular. Ada's sleeping-room was 
 all flowers — in chintz and paper, in velvet, in needlework, in 
 the brocade of two stiff courtly chairs, which stood, each 
 attended by a little page of a stool for greater state, on 
 either side of tlie fireplace. Our sitting-room was green ; 
 and had, framed and glazed, upon the walls, numbers of 
 surprising and surprised birds, staring out of pictures at a 
 real trout in a case, as brown and shining as if it had been 
 served with gravy ; at the death of Captain Cook ; and at 
 the whole process of preparing tea in China, as depicted by 
 Chinese artists. In my room there were oval engravings of 
 the months — ladies haymaking, in short waists, and large 
 hats tied under the chin, for June — smooth-legged noblemen, 
 pointing, with cocked-hats, to village steeples, for October. 
 Half-length portraits, in crayons, abounded all through the 
 house ; but were so dispersed that I found the brother of a 
 youthful officer of mine in the china-closet, and the grey old 
 age of my pretty young bride, with a flower in her bodice, 
 in the breakfast-room. As substitutes, I had four angels, 
 of Queen Anne's reign, taking a complacent gentleman to 
 heaven, in festoons, with some difficulty ; and a composition 
 in needlework, representing fruit, a kettle, and an alphabet. 
 All the moveables, from the wardrobes to the chairs and 
 tables, hangings, glasses, even to the pincushions and scent- 
 bottles on the dressing-tables, displayed the same quaint 
 variety. They agreed in nothing but their perfect neatness, 
 their display of the whitest linen, and their storing-up, 
 wheresoever the existence of a drawer, small or large, 
 rendered it possible, of quantities of rose-leaves and sweet 
 lavender. Such, with its illuminated windows, softened here 
 and there by shadows of curtains, shining out upon the star- 
 light night; with its light, and warmth, and comfort; with 
 its hospitable jingle, at a distance, of preparations for dinner; 
 with the face of its generous master brightening everything 
 we saw; and just wind enough without to sound a low 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
82 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 will be more so with such bright young looks in it. 
 You have barely half an hour before dinner. There'^s no 
 one here but the finest creature upon earth — a child.**' 
 
 "More children, Esther!'' said Ada. 
 
 "I don't mean Hterally a child," pursued Mr. Jarndyce; 
 "not a child in years. He is grown up — he is at least as 
 old as I am — but in simplicity, and freshness, and enthusiasm, 
 and a fine guileless inaptitude for all worldly affairs, he is a 
 perfect child." 
 
 We felt that he must be very interesting. 
 
 "He knows Mrs. Jelly by," said Mr. Jarndyce. "He is a 
 I musical man ; an Amateur, but might have been a Pro- 
 Ifessional. He is an Artist, too; an Amateur, but might 
 have been a Professional. He is a man of attainments and 
 of captivating mannei's. He has been unfortunate in his 
 affairs, and unfortunate in his pursuits, and unfortunate in 
 his family ; but he don't care — he's a chikl ! " 
 
 "Did you imply that he has children of his own, sir.^^" 
 inquired Richard. 
 
 " Yes, Rick ! Half-a-dozen. More ! Nearer a dozen, I 
 should think. But he has never looked after them. How 
 could he? He wanted somebody to look after Mm, He is 
 a child, you know ! " said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 " And have the children looked after themselves at all, 
 sir.^" inquired Richard. 
 
 " Why, just as you may suppose," said Mr. Jarndyce : his 
 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 ! " 
 
ESTHER APPOINTED HOUSEKEEPER. 83 
 
 Richard observed that the situation was exposed on a 
 sharp night. 
 
 "It is exposed,'' said Mr. Jarndyce. "No doubt that's 
 the cause. Bleak House has an exposed sound. But you 
 are coming my way. Come along ! " 
 
 Our luggage having arrived, and being all at 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, all labelled. 
 
 " For you, miss, if you please," said she. 
 
 "For me.?" said I. 
 
 "The housekeeping keys, miss." 
 
 I showed my surprise ; for she added with some little 
 surprise 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 
 bunch is the cellars, miss. Any time you v/as pleased to 
 appoint to-morrow morning, I was to show you the presses 
 and things they belong to." 
 
 I said I would be ready at half-past six; and, after she 
 was gone, stood looking at the basket, quite lost in the 
 magnitude of my trust. Ada found me thus ; and had such 
 a delightful confidence in me when I showed her the keys 
 and told her about them, that it would have been insensi- 
 bility 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 from effort and 
 
84 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 spontaneous, and was said with such a captivating gaiety, 
 that it was fascinating to hear him talk. Being of a more 
 slender figure than Mr. Jarndyce, and having a richer com- 
 plexion, with browner hair, he looked younger. Indeed, he 
 had more the appearance, in all respects, of a damaged young 
 man, than a well-preserved elderly one. There was an easy 
 negligence in his manner, and even in his dress (his hair 
 carelessly disposed, and his neck-kerchief loose and flowing, 
 as I have seen artists paint their own portraits), which I 
 could not separate from the idea of a romantic youth who 
 had undergone some unique process of depreciation. It 
 struck me as being not at all like the manner or appearance 
 of a man who had advanced in life, by the usual road of 
 years, cares, and experiences. 
 
 I gathered from the conversation, that 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 humour, that when he 
 w^as 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 
 couldn't come. The prince, at last objecting to this, "in 
 which,"'' said Mr. Skimpole, in the frankest manner, "he was 
 perfectly right,''" the engagement terminated, and Mr. Skim- 
 pole having (as he added with delightful gaiety) "nothing 
 to live upon but love, fell in love, and married, and sur- 
 rounded 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; buti 
 to no purpose, for he must confess to two of the oldest' 
 infirmities in the world : one was, that he had no idea of 
 
MR. SKIMPOLE. 
 
 85 
 
 time; the other, that he had no idea of money. In con- 
 sequence 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 life, and here he was ! He was 
 very 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 was, to let him live. That wasn't 
 much. His wants were few. Give him the papers, conver- 
 sation, music, mutton, coffee, 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 world, but he 
 didn't cry for the moon. He said to the world, "Go your 
 several ways in peace ! Wear red coats, blue coats, lawn 
 sleeves, put pens behind your ears, wear aprons; go after 
 glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you prefer ; only 
 — let Harold Skimpole live ! 
 
 All this, and a great deal more, he told us, not only with 
 the utmost brilliancy and enjoyment, but with a certain 
 vivacious candour — speaking of himself as if he were not at 
 all his own affair, as if Skimpole were a third person, as if 
 he knew that Skimpole had his singularities, but still had 
 his claims too, which w^ere the general business of the com- 
 munity and must not be slighted. He was quite enchanting. 
 If I felt at all confused at that early time, in endeavouring 
 to reconcile anything he said with anything I had thought 
 about the duties and accountabilities of life (which I am far 
 from sure of), I was confused by not exactly understanding 
 why he was free of them. That he tms free of them, I 
 scarcely doubted ; he was so very clear about it himself. 
 
 "I covet nothing,'*' said Mr. Skimpole, in the same light 
 way. "Possession is nothing to me. Here is my friend 
 Jarndyce's excellent house. I feel obliged to him for possess- 
 ing 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 
 
86 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 mentioning Mrs. Jellyby. There is a bright-eyed woman, of 
 a strong will and immense power of business-detail, who 
 throws herself into objects Avith surprising ardour ! I don't 
 regret that / have not a strong will and an immense power 
 of business-detail, to throw myself into objects with surprising 
 ardour. I can admire her without envy. I can sympathise 
 with the objects. I can dream of them. I can lie down 
 on the grass — in fine weather — and float along an African 
 river, embracing all the natives I meet, as sensible of the 
 deep silence, and sketching the dense overhanging tropical 
 growth as accurately, as if I were there. I don't know that 
 it's of any direct use my doing so, but iVs all I can do, and 
 I do it thoroughly. Then, for Heaven's sake, having Harold 
 Skimpole, a confiding child, petitioning you, the world, an 
 agglomeration of practical people of business habits, to let 
 him live and admire the human family, do it somehow or 
 other, like good souls, and suffer him to ride his rocking- 
 horse!'' 
 
 It was plain enough that Mr. Jarndyce had not been 
 neglectful of the adjuration. 
 
 Mr. Skimpole's general position there would have rendered 
 it so, without the addition of what he presently said. 
 
 "It's only you, the generous creatures, whom I envy," 
 said Mr. Skimpole, addressing us, his new friends, in an 
 impersonal manner. " I envy you your power of doing what 
 you do. It is what I should revel in, myself. I don't feel 
 any vulgar gratitude to you. I almost feel as if t/ou ought 
 to be grateful to me^ for giving you the opportunity of en- 
 joying the luxury of generosity. I know you like it. For 
 anything I can tell, I may have come into the world expressly 
 for the purpose of increasing your stock of happiness. I 
 may have been born to be a benefactor to you, by sometimes 
 giving you an opportunity of assisting me in my little per- 
 plexities. Why should I regret my incapacity for details 
 and worldly affairs, when it leads to such pleasant con- 
 sequences? I don't regret it therefore." 
 
THE CHILD OF THE UNIVERSE. 87 
 
 Of all his playful speeches (playful, yet always fully mean- 
 ing 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 grateful 
 of mankind upon the least occasion, should so desire to 
 escape the gratitude of others. 
 
 We were all enchanted. I felt it a merited tribute to the 
 engaging qualities of Ada and Richard, that Mr. Skimpole, 
 seeing them for the first time, should be so unreserved, and 
 should lay himself out to be so exquisitely agreeable. They 
 (and especially Richard) were naturally 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. Skimpole talked. And what 
 with his fine hilarious manner, and his engaging candour, 
 and his genial way of lightly tossing his own weaknesses 
 about, as if he had said, "I am a child, you know! You 
 are designing people compared with me ; (he really made 
 me consider myself in that light ;) " but I am gay and 
 innocent ; forget your worldly arts and play with me ! — 
 the effect was absolutely dazzling. 
 
 He was so full of feeling too, and had such a delicate 
 sentiment for what was beautiful or tender, that he could 
 have won a heart by that alone. In the evening when I was 
 preparing to make tea, and Ada was touching the piano in 
 the adjoining room and softly humming a tune to her cousin 
 Richard, which they had happened to mention, he came and 
 sat down on the sofa near me, and so spoke of Ada that I 
 almost loved him. 
 
 "She is like the morning,'' he said. "With that golden 
 hair, those blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she 
 is like the summer morning. The birds here will mistake her 
 for it. We will not call such a lovely young creature as 
 that, who is a joy to all mankind, an orphan. She is the 
 child of the universe.*" 
 
88 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Mr. Jarndyce, I found, was standing near us, with his 
 hands behind him, and an attentive smile upon his face. 
 
 "The universe,"*^ he observed, "makes rather an indifferent 
 parent, I am afraid.**** 
 
 " O ! I don't know ! cried Mr. Skimpole, buoyantly. 
 
 "I think I do know,*" said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 " Well ! ""^ cried Mr. Skimpole, " you know the world (which 
 in your sense is the universe), and I know nothing of it, so 
 you shall have your way. But if I had mine,**' glancing at 
 the cousins, " there should be no brambles of sordid realities 
 in such a path as that. It should be strewn with roses ; it 
 should lie through bowers, where there was no spring, autumn, 
 nor winter, but perpetual summer. Age or change should 
 never wither it. The base word money should never be 
 breathed near it ! 
 
 Mr. Jarndyce patted him on the head with a smile, as if 
 he had been really a child ; and passing a step or two on, and 
 stopping a moment, glanced at the young cousins. His look 
 was thoughtful, but had a benignant expression in it which I 
 often (how often !) saw again : Avhich has long been engraven 
 on my heart. The room in which they were, communicating 
 with that in which he stood, was only lighted by the fire. 
 Ada sat at the piano ; Richard stood beside her, bending 
 down. Upon the wall, their shadows blended together, 
 surrounded by strange forms, not without a ghostly motion 
 caught from the unsteady fire, though reflecting from motion- 
 less objects. Ada touched the notes so softly, and sang so 
 low, that the wind, sighing away to the distant hills, was as 
 audible as the music. The mystery of the future, and the 
 little clue afforded to it by the voice of the present, seemed 
 expressed in the whole picture. 
 
 But it is not to recall this fancy, well as I remember it, 
 that I recall 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 
 
MR. SKIMPOLE IS "TOOK;' 89 
 
 he withdrew it, rested for but a moment on me, I felt as if, 
 in that moment, he confided to me — and knew that he con- 
 fided to me, and that I received the confidence — his hope 
 that Ada and Richard might one day enter on a dearer 
 relationship. 
 
 Mr. Skimpole could play on the piano, and the violoncello ; 
 and he was a composer — had composed half an opera once, 
 but got tired of it — and played what he composed with taste. 
 After tea we had quite a little concert, in which Richard — 
 who was enthralled by Ada's singing, and told me that she 
 seemed to know all the songs that ever were written — and 
 Mr. Jarndyce, and I, were the audience. After a little while 
 I missed, first Mr. Skimpole, and afterwards Richard ; and 
 while I was thinking how could Richard stay away so long, 
 and lose so much, the maid who had given me the keys looked 
 in at the door, saying, "If you please, miss, could you spare 
 a minute ? 
 
 When I was shut out with her in the hall, she said, hold- 
 ing up her hands, " Oh if you please, miss, Mr. Carstone says 
 would you come up-stairs to Mr. Skimpole's room. He has 
 been took, miss ! 
 
 "Took.?'' said I. 
 
 "Took, miss. Sudden," said the maid. 
 
 I was apprehensive that his illness might be of a dangerous 
 kind ; but of course, I begged her to be quiet and not disturb 
 any one ; and collected myself, as I followed her quickly up- 
 stairs, 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 went into a chamber ; where, to my unspeakable 
 surprise, instead of finding Mr. Skimpole stretched upon the 
 bed, or prostrate on the floor, I found him standing before 
 the fire smiling at Richard, while Richard, with a face of 
 great embarrassment, looked at a person on the sofa, in a 
 white great-coat, with smooth hair upon his head and not 
 much of it, which he was wiping smoother, and making less 
 of, with a pocket-handkerchief. 
 
90 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Miss Summerson,^' said Richard, hurriedly, "I am glad 
 you are come. You will be able to advise us. Our friend, 
 Mr. Skimpole — don''t be alarmed ! — is arrested for debt." 
 
 " And, really, my dear Miss Summerson,**^ said Mr. Skimpole, 
 with his agreeable candour, "I never was in a situation, in 
 which that excellent sense, and quiet habit of method and 
 usefulness, which anybody must observe in you who has the 
 happiness of being a quarter of an hour in your society, was 
 more needed.'*' 
 
 The person on the sofa, who appeared to have a cold in. 
 his head, gave such a very loud snort, that he startled me. 
 
 "Are you arrested for much, sir?**' I inquired of Mr. 
 Skimpole. 
 
 "My dear Miss Summerson,'^'* said he, shaking his head 
 pleasantly, " I don't know. Some pounds, odd shillings, and 
 half-pence, I think, were mentioned.'' 
 
 " It's twenty-four pound, sixteen, and seven-pence ha'penny,'' 
 observed the stranger. "That's wot it is." 
 
 "And it sounds — somehoAv 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 out 
 of his seat. 
 
 "Mr. Skimpole," said Richard to me, "has a delicacy in 
 applying to my cousin Jarndyce, because he has lately — I 
 think, sir, I understood you that you had lately " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " returned Mr. Skimpole, smiling. " Though I 
 forgot how much it was, and when it was. Jarndyce would 
 readily do it again ; but I have the epicure-like feeling that 
 I would prefer a novelty in help ; that I would rather," and 
 he looked at Richard and me, "develop generosity in a new 
 soil, and in a new form of flower." 
 
 " What do you think will be best, Miss Summerson ? " said 
 Richard, aside. 
 
 I ventured to inquire, generally, before replying, what 
 would happen if the money were not produced. 
 
COAVINSES. 
 
 91 
 
 "Jail,^' said the strange man, coolly putting his handker- 
 chief into his hat, which v/as on the floor at his feet. " Or 
 Coavinses.'*'' 
 
 "May I ask, sir, what is ^ 
 
 " Coavinses ? '"^ said the strange man. "A 'ouse.''^ 
 
 Richard and I looked at one another again. It was a most 
 singular thing that the arrest was our embarrassment, and not 
 Mr. Skimpole's. He observed us with a genial interest; but 
 there seemed, if I may venture on such a contradiction, 
 nothing selfish in it. He had entirely washed his hands of 
 the difficulty, 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, Mr. Richard or 
 his beautiful cousin, or both, could sign something, or make 
 over something, or give some sort of undertaking, or pledge, 
 or bond ? I don'^t know what the business name of it may 
 be, but I suppose there is some instrument within their power 
 that would settle this ? 
 
 "Not a bit on it,*''' said the strange man. ^ 
 
 "Really?''*' returned Mr. Skimpole. "That seems odd, 
 now, to one who is no judge of these things!**' 
 
 " Odd or even,'** said the stranger, gruffly, " I tell you, not 
 a bit on it ! 
 
 " Keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper ! *" 
 Mr. Skimpole gently reasoned with him, as he made a little 
 drawing of his head on the fly-leaf of a book. "Don*'t be 
 ruffled by your occupation. We can separate you from your 
 office; we can separate the mdividual from the pursuit. We 
 are not so prejudiced as to suppose that in private life you 
 are otherwise than a very estimable man, with a great deal 
 of poetry 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 disdainful 
 rejection of it, he did not express to me. 
 
 "Now, my dear Miss Summerson, and my dear Mi\ 
 
92 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Richard/^ said Mr. Skimpole, gaily, innocently, and con- 
 fidingly, as he looked at his drawing with his head on one 
 side ; " here you see me utterly incapable of helping myself, 
 and entirely in your hands ! I only ask to be free. The 
 butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not deny to Harold 
 Skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies ! " 
 
 "My dear Miss Summerson,**' said Richard, in a whisper, 
 " 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 allowance during several ycax's. I had 
 always 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 this 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 would 
 have the pleasure of paying his debt. 
 
 When I came back, 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, without making any mistakes. 
 He put the money in his pocket, and shortly said, " Well, 
 then, ni wish you a good evening, miss.'' 
 
 "My friend," said Mr. Skimpole, standing with his back 
 to the fire, after giving up the sketch when it was half 
 
LIBRAh'Y 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY of ILLINOIS. 
 
NO rOETRY! 
 
 93 
 
 finished, " I should Hke 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 Skimpole. 
 
 "KnowVl it yes'day aft'noon at tea-time,"^** said Coavinses. 
 
 "It didn't affect your appetite? Didn't make you at all 
 uneasy ? " 
 
 " Not a 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 my hearing," returned 
 Coavinses. 
 
 "No," observed Mr. Skimpole. "But what did you think 
 upon the road " 
 
 " Wot do you mean ? " growled Coavinses, with an appear- 
 ance 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 think, at all events," proceeded Mr. 
 Skimpole, "to this effect. 'Harold Skimpole loves to see 
 the sun shine ; loves to hear the wind blow ; loves to watch 
 the changing lights and shadows; loves to hear the birds, 
 those choristers in Nature's great cathedral. And does it 
 seem to me that I am about to deprive Harold Skimpole ©f 
 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 adequate expression to it by putting a 
 long interval between each word, and accompanying the last 
 with a jerk that might have dislocated his neck. 
 
94 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Very 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 Richard shortly after 
 him. I was sufficiently engaged, during the remainder of the 
 evening, in taking my first lesson in backgammon from Mr, 
 Jarndyce, Avho was very fond of the game, and from whom 
 I wished of course to learn it as quickly as I could, in order 
 that I might be of the very small use of being able to play 
 when he had no better adversary. But I thought, occasionally 
 when Mr, Skimpole played some fragments of his o^vn com- 
 positions ; or when, both at the piano and the violoncello, 
 and at our table, he preserved, with an absence of all eftbrt, 
 his delightful spirits and his easy flow of conversation; that 
 Richard and I seemed to retain the transferred impression 
 of having been arrested since dinner, and that it was very 
 curious altogether. 
 
 It was late before we 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 twelve 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 Richard 
 were lingering for a few moments by the fire, wondering 
 whether Mrs. Jellyby had yet finished her dictation for the day, 
 when Mr. Jarndyce, who had been out of the room, returned. 
 
 " Oh, dear me, what's this, what'^s this ! ''' he said, rubbing 
 his head and walking about with his good-humoured vexation. 
 " Whaf s this they tell me ? Rick, my boy, Esther, my dear, 
 what have you been doing? Why did you do it.^^ How 
 could you do it.^^ How much apiece was it.^ — The wind's 
 round again. I feel it all over me ! '" 
 
THE EAST WIND RISES. 
 
 95 
 
 We neither of us quite knew what to answer. 
 
 "Come, Rick, come! I must settle this before I sleep. 
 How much are you out of pocket? You two made the 
 money up, you know ! Why did you ? How could you ? — 
 O Lord, yes, iVs due east — must be ! 
 
 "Really, sir,'' said Richard, "I don't think it would be 
 honourable in me to tell you. Mr. Skimpole relied upon 
 us " 
 
 "Lord bless you, my dear boy! He relies upon every- 
 body!" said Mr. Jarndyce, giving his head a great rub, and 
 stopping short. 
 
 "Indeed, sir.?^" 
 
 "Everybody ! And he'll be in the same scrape again, next 
 week!" said Mr. Jarndyce, walking again at a great pace, 
 with a candle in his hand that had gone out. " He's always 
 in the same scrape. He was born in the same scrape. I 
 verily believe that the announcement in the newspapers when 
 his mother was confined, was ' On Tuesday last, at her resi- 
 dence in Botheration Buildings, Mrs. Skimpole of a son in 
 difficulties.' " 
 
 Richard 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 press me 
 any more. Of course, if you do press me, sir, I shall know I 
 am wrong, and will tell you." 
 
 " Well !" cried Mr. Jarndyce, stopping again, and making 
 several absent endeavours to put his candlestick in his pocket. 
 
 here! 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. Rick ; 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 
 
96 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 taking them out again, and vehemently rubbing them all 
 over his head. 
 
 I ventured to take this opportunity of hinting that Mr. 
 Skimpole, being in all such matters, quite a child — 
 
 "Eh, my dear?'^ said Mr. Jarndyce, catching at the word. 
 
 " — Being quite a child, sir,'"* said I, " and so different from 
 other people '''' 
 
 " You are right ! said Mr. Jarndyce, brightening. " Your 
 Avoman's wit hits the mark. He is a child — an absolute child. 
 I told you he was a child, you know, when I first mentioned 
 him.^^ 
 
 Certainly ! certainly ! we said. 
 
 " And he is a child. Now, isn't he ? '''' asked Mr. Jarndyce, 
 brightening more and more. 
 He was indeed, we said. 
 
 " When you come to think of it, it^s the height of childish- 
 ness in you — I mean me — ""^ said Mr. Jarndyce, "to regard 
 him for a moment as a man. You can't make hwi responsible. 
 The idea of Harold Skimpole with designs or plans, or know- 
 ledge 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 which was tortured by condemning, or mis- 
 trusting, 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 7jou two out for parties in 
 the affair ! Nobody but a child w ould have thought of 7/our 
 having the money ! If it had been a thousand pounds, it 
 would have been just the same !" said Mr. Jarndyce, with his 
 whole face in a glow. 
 
 We all confirmed it from our night's experience. 
 
THE WIND IS IN THE SOUTH. 
 
 97 
 
 " To be sure, to be sure ! ''^ said Mr. Jarndyce. " However, 
 Rick, 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.'** 
 
 We all promised faithfully ; Richard, 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. Jarndyce, "a habitable dolFs 
 house, with good board, and a few tin people to get into debt 
 with and borrow money of, would set the boy up in life. He 
 is in a child's sleep by this time, I suppose ; it's time I should 
 take my craftier head to my more worldly pillow. Good night, 
 my dears. God bless you ! " 
 
 He peeped in again, with a smiling face, before we had 
 lighted our candles, and said, " O ! I have been looking at 
 the weather-cock. I find it was a false alarm about the wind. 
 It's in the south ! " And went away singing to himself. 
 
 Ada and I agreed, as we talked together for a little while 
 up-stairs, that this caprice about the wind was a fiction ; 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. We thought 
 this very characteristic of his eccentric gentleness ; and of the 
 difference between him and those petulant people who make 
 the weather and the winds (particularly that unlucky wind 
 which he had chosen for such a different purpose) the stalk- 
 ing-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 ]\Ir. Skimpole, or in Mrs. Jellyby, I could 
 not expect to be able to reconcile ; having so little experience 
 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 them. My 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 fancy, made a little wild by the wind perhaps, would not 
 consent to be all unselfish, either, though I would have per- 
 suaded it to be so if I could. It wandered back to my god- 
 mother'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 history — even as to the possibility of his being my 
 father — though that idle dream 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 cheerful 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 hopefully to bed. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE ghost's walk. 
 
 While Esther sleeps, and while Esther wakes, it is still wet 
 weather down at the place in Lincolnshire. The rain is ever 
 falling, drip, drip, drip, by day and night, upon the broad 
 flagged terrace-pavement, The Ghost's Walk. The weather 
 is so very bad, down in Lincolnshire, that the liveliest 
 imagination can scarcely apprehend its ever being fine again. 
 Not that there is any superabundant life of imagination on 
 the spot, for Sir Leicester is not here (and, truly, even if he 
 were, would not do much for it in that particular), 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 great 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 shoulders, seem to be always consulting — they may con- 
 template some mental pictures of fine weather on occasions, 
 and may be better artists at them than the grooms. The 
 old roan, so famous for cross-country work, turning his large 
 eyeball to the grated window near his rack, may remember 
 the fresh leaves that glisten there at other times, and the 
 scents that stream in, and may have a fine run with the 
 hounds, while the human helper, clearing out the next stall, 
 never stirs beyond his pitchfork and birch-broom. The gi'ey, 
 
100 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 seem- 
 ingly monotonous 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 corrupting) 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 own house, 
 where he sits on end, panting and gi-owling short, and very 
 nmch wanting something to worry, besides himself and his 
 chain. So, now, half-waking and all-winking, he may recall 
 the house full of company, the coach-houses full of vehicles, 
 the stables full 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, 
 " Rain, rain, rain ! Nothing but rain — and no family here ! 
 as he goes in again, and lies down with a gloomy yawn. 
 
 So with the dogs in the kennel-buildings across the park, 
 who have their restless fits, and whose doleful voices, when 
 the wind has been very 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 raindrops are pattering round their inactivity. So the 
 rabbits with their self-betraying 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 
 
CHESNEY WOLD. 
 
 101 
 
 gnaw. The turkey in the poultry -yard, always troubled 
 with a class-grievance (probably Christmas), may be remi- 
 niscent of that summer-morning wrongfully taken from him, 
 when he got into the lane among the felled trees, where 
 there was a barn and barley. The discontented goose, who 
 stoops to pass under the old gateway, twenty feet high, may 
 gabble out, if we only knew it, a waddling preference for 
 weather when the gateway casts its shadow on the ground. 
 
 Be this as it may, there is not much fancy otherwise 
 stirring 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 mystery. 
 
 It has rained so hard and rained so long, down in Lincoln- 
 shire, that Mrs. Rouncewell, the old housekeeper at Chesney 
 Wold, has several times taken off her spectacles and cleaned 
 them, to make certain that the drops were not upon 
 the glasses. Mrs. Rouncewell might have been sufficiently 
 assured by hearing the rain, but that she is rather deaf, 
 which nothing will' induce her to believe. She is a fine old 
 lady, handsome, stately, wonderfully neat, and has such a 
 back and such a stomacher, that if her stays should turn 
 out when she dies to have been a broad old-fashioned family 
 fire-grate, nobody who knows her would have cause to be 
 surprised. Weather affects Mrs. Rouncewell little. The 
 house is there in all 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 com- 
 manding a smooth quadrangle, adorned at regular intervals 
 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 fluttered ; but it is shut-up 
 now, and lies on the breadth of Mrs. RouncewelPs iron- 
 bound bosom, in a majestic sleep. 
 
 It is the next difficult thing to an impossibility to imagine 
 Chesney Wold without Mrs. Rouncewell, but she has only 
 
102 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 been here fifty years. Ask her how long, this rainy day, 
 and she shall answer "fifty year three months and a fort- 
 night, by the blessing of Heaven, if I live till Tuesday.*" 
 Mr. Rouncewell 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 the churchyard in the park, 
 near the mouldy porch. He was born in the market-town, 
 and so was his young widow. Her progress in the family 
 began in the time of the last Sir Leicester, and originated 
 in the still-room. 
 
 The present representative of the Dedlocks is an excellent 
 master. He supposes all his dependants to be utterly bereft 
 of individual characters, intentions, or opinions, and is per- 
 suaded that he was born to supersede the necessity of their 
 having any. If he were to make a discovery to the contrary, 
 he would be simply stunned — would never recover himself, 
 most likely, except to gasp and die. But he is an excellent 
 master still, holding it a part of his state to be so. He 
 has a great liking for Mrs. Rouncewell ; he says she is a 
 most respectable, creditable woman. He always shakes hands 
 v/ith her, when he comes down to Chesney Wold, and when 
 he goes away ; and if he were very ill, 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. Rouncewell here!'' 
 feeling his dignity, at such a pass, safer with her than with 
 anybody else. y 
 
 Mrs. Rouncewell has known trouble. She has had two 
 sons, of whom the younger ran wild, and went for a soldier, 
 and never came back. Even to this hour, Mrs. RouncewelFs 
 calm hands lose their composure when she speaks of him, 
 and unfolding themselves from her stomacher, hover about 
 her in an agitated manner, as she 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 
 Chesnev Wold, and would have been made steward in due 
 
MRS. ROUxNCEWELL AND HER GRANDSON. 103 
 
 season ; but he took, when he was a schoolboy, to constructing 
 steam-engines out of saucepans, 'and setting birds to draw 
 their own water, with the least possible amount of labour; 
 so assisting them with artful contrivance of hydraulic pres- 
 sure, that a thirsty canary had only, in a literal sense, to 
 put his shoulder to the wheel, and the job was done. This 
 propensity gave Mrs. Rouncewell great uneasiness. She felt 
 it with a mother's anguish, to be a move in the Wat Tyler 
 direction : well knowing that Sir I-ieicester had that general 
 impression of an aptitude for any art to which smoke and a 
 tall chimney might be considered essential. But the doomed 
 young rebel (otherwise a mild youth, and very persevering), 
 showing no sign of grace as he got older; but, on the 
 contrary, 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, 
 when he came to Chesney Wold to visit his mother, or ever 
 thought of him afterwards, it is certain that he only regarded 
 him as one of a body of some odd thousand conspirators, 
 swarthy and grim, who were in the habit of turning out by 
 torchlight, two or three nights in the week, for unlawful 
 purposes. 
 
 Nevertheless Mrs. RouncewelPs son has, in the course of 
 nature and art, grown up, and established himself, and 
 married, and called unto him Mrs. RouncewelPs 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 preparations for the venture of this life, 
 stands leaning against the chimney-piece this very day, in 
 Mrs. Rounceweirs room at Chesney Wold. 
 
104 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "And, again and again, I am glad to see you. Watt! 
 And, once again, I am glad to see you. Watt!*" says Mrs. 
 Rouncewell; "You are a fine young fellow. You are like 
 your poor uncle George. Ah ! " Mrs. Rounceweirs hands 
 unquiet, as usual, on this reference. 
 
 "They say I am like my father, grandmother.^' 
 
 " Like him, also, my dear, — but most like your poor uncle 
 George ! And your dear father.'^ Mrs. Rouncewell folds 
 her hands again. " He is well ? '''' 
 
 "Thriving, grandmother, in every way.**" 
 
 "I am thankful I**" Mrs. Rouncewell is fond of her son, 
 but has a plaintive feeling towards him — much as if he were 
 a very honourable soldier, who had gone over to the enemy. 
 
 "He is quite happy says she. 
 
 " Quite.^^ 
 
 " I am thankful ! So he has brought you up to follow in 
 his ways, and has sent you into foreign countries and the 
 like? Well, he knows best. There may be a world beyond 
 Chesney Wold that I don't understand. Though I am not 
 young, either. And I have seen a quantity of good company 
 too!" 
 
 " Grandmother,''^ says the young 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 shows the house already, very pretty. She lives with 
 me at my table here.'*'' 
 
 " I hope I have not driven her away ? '''* 
 
 "She supposes we have family affairs to speak about, I 
 dare say. She is very modest. It is a fine quality in a 
 young woman. And scarcer,''"' says Mrs. Rouncewell, expanding 
 her stomacher to its utmost limits, " than it formerly was ! ''' 
 
 The young man inclines his head, in acknowledgment of 
 the precepts of experience. Mi's. Rouncewell listens. 
 
COMPANY TO SEE THE HOUSE. 
 
 105 
 
 " Wheels ! " says she. They have long been audible to 
 the younger ears of her companion. " What wheels 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, Rosa.'^'*'' says Mrs. Rouncewell. 
 
 "It's two young men in a gig, ma'am, who want to see 
 the house — yes, and if you please, I told them so ! in quick 
 reply to a gesture of dissent from the housekeeper. " I 
 went to the hall-door, and told them it was the wrong day, 
 and the wrong hour; but the young man who was driving 
 took off his hat in the wet, and begged me to bring this 
 card to you."" 
 
 "Read it, my dear Watt,'' says the housekeeper. 
 
 Rosa is so shy as she gives it to him, that they drop it 
 between them, and almost knock their foreheads together as 
 they pick it up. Rosa is shyer than before. 
 
 "Mr. Guppy" is all the information the card yields. 
 
 " Guppy ! " repeats Mrs. Rouncewell. " Mr. Guppy ! Non- 
 sense, I never heard of him ! " 
 
 " If you please, he told me that ! " says Rosa. " But he 
 said that he and the other young gentleman came from 
 London only last night by the 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 know what to 
 do with themselves, they had come through the wet to see it. 
 They are lawyers. He says he is not in Mr. Tulkinghorn's 
 office, but he is sure he may make use of Mr. Tulkinghorn's 
 name, if necessary." Finding, now she leaves off, that she 
 has been making quite a long speech, Rosa is shyer than ever. 
 
 Now, Mr. Tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel 
 of the place; and, besides, is supposed to have made Mrs. 
 
106 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Ilounceweirs will. The old lady relaxes, consents to the 
 ♦ admission of the visitors as a favour, and dismisses Rosa, 
 The grandson, however, being smitten by a sudden wish to 
 see the house himself, proposes to join the party. The 
 grandmother, who is pleased that he should have that interest, 
 accompanies him — though to do him justice, he is exceedingly 
 unwilling to trouble her. 
 
 " Much obliged to you, ma'am ! says Mr. Guppy, divesting 
 himself of his wet dreadnought in the hall. " Us London 
 lawyers don't often get an out; and when we do, we like to 
 make the most of it, you know.**' 
 
 The old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deport- 
 ment, waves her hand tov/ards the great staircase. Mr. 
 Guppy and his friend follow Rosa, Mrs. Rouncewell and her 
 grandson follow them, a young gardener goes before to open 
 the shutters. 
 
 As is usually the case with people who go over houses, 
 Mr. Guppy and his friend are dead beat before they have 
 v.ell begun. They straggle about in wrong places, look at 
 wrong 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 Rosa's exposition. Her grand- 
 son is so attentive to it, that Rosa is shyer than ever — and 
 prettier. Thus they pass on from room to room, raising 
 the pictured Ded locks for a few brief minutes as the young 
 gardener admits the light, and reconsigning them to their 
 graves as he shuts it out again. It appears to the afflicted 
 Mr. Guppy and his inconsolable friend, that there is no end 
 to the 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 
 
PORTRAIT OF LADY DEBLOCK. 107 
 
 on the threshold, and has hardly strength of mind to enter. 
 But a portrait over the chimney-piece, painted by the fashion- 
 able artist of the day, acts upon him like a charm. He 
 recovers in a moment. He stares at it with uncommon 
 interest; he seems to be fixed and fascinated by it. 
 
 " Dear me ! says Mr. Guppy. " Who's that ? 
 
 "The picture over the fireplace,*''' says Rosa, "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, staring in a kind of dismay 
 at his friend, "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 
 ahvays refused permission.'"' 
 
 "Well!***' says Mr. Guppy in a low voice, " Fll be shot if 
 it ain''t very curious how well I know that picture ! So that's 
 Lady Dedlock, is it!'"' 
 
 "The picture on the right is the present Sir Leicester 
 Dedlock. The picture on the left is his father, the late Sir 
 Leicester.**** 
 
 Mr. Guppy has no eyes for either of these magnates. 
 "It's unaccountable to me,'*"' he says, still staring at the 
 portrait, " how well I know that picture ! Fm davshed ! '**' 
 adds Mr. Guppy, looking round, "if I don*'t think I must 
 have had a dream of that picture, you know ! " 
 
 As no one present takes any especial interest in Mr. Guppy *'s 
 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 follows 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 shown, as being very elegant, and he looks out of the 
 windows from which she looked out, not long ago, upon 
 
108 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 the weather that bored her to death. All things 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 terrace below is much admired. It is called, from 
 an old story in the family. The Ghost's Walk.'^ 
 
 " No ? says Mr. Guppy, greedily curious ; " what's the 
 story, miss ? Is it anything about a picture ? 
 
 " Pray tell us the story,'' says Watt, in a half whisper. 
 
 " I don't know it, sir." Rosa is shyer than ever. 
 
 " It is not related to visitors ; it is almost forgotten," says 
 the housekeeper, advancing. "It has never been more than 
 a family anecdote." 
 
 "You'll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do 
 with a picture, ma'am," observes Mr. Guppy, "because I do 
 assure you that the more I think of that picture the better 
 I know it, without knowing how I know it ! " 
 
 The story has nothing to do with a picture; the house- 
 keeper can guarantee that. Mr. Guppy is obliged to her 
 for the information ; and is, moreover, 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. Rouncewell can trust to the discretion 
 of her two young hearers, and may tell thein how the terrace 
 came to have that ghostly name. She seats herself in a large 
 chair by the fast-darkening window, and tells them : 
 
 " In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles the First 
 — I mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels who 
 leagued themselves against that excellent King — Sir Morbury 
 Dedlock was the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there 
 was any account of a ghost in the family before those days, 
 I can't say. I should, think it very likely indeed." 
 
 Mrs. Rouncewell holds this opinion, because she considers 
 that a family of such antiquity and importance has a right 
 to a ghost. She regards a ghost as one of the privileges of 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE GHOSTS WALK. 109 
 
 the upper classes ; a genteel distinction to which the common 
 people have no claim. 
 
 "Sir Morbury Dedlock,'' says Mrs. Rouncewell, "was, I 
 have no occasion to say, on the side of the blessed martyr. 
 But it is supposed that his Lady, who had none of the 
 family blood in her veins, favoured the bad cause. It is said 
 that she had relations among King Charles''s enemies : that 
 she was in correspondence with them ; and that she gave 
 them information. When any of the country gentlemen who 
 followed His Majesty's cause met here, it is said that my 
 Lady was always nearer to the door of their council-room 
 than they supposed. Do you hear a sound like a footstep 
 passing along the terrace. Watt ? '** 
 Rosa draws nearer to the housekeeper. 
 "I hear the rain-drip on the stones,^** replies the young 
 man, "and I hear a curious echo — I suppose an echo — which 
 is very like a halting step.''' 
 
 The housekeeper gravely nods and continues : 
 "Partly on account of this division between them, and 
 partly on other accounts, Sir Morbury and his Lady led a 
 troubled life. She was a lady of a haughty temper. They 
 were not well suited to each other in age or character, and 
 they had no children to moderate between them. After her 
 favourite 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 husband saw her gliding down the stairs and 
 followed her into the stall where his own favourite horse 
 stood. There he seized her by the 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,'^ 
 
110 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 The housekeeper has dropped her voice to a Httle more 
 than a whisper. 
 
 "She had been a lady of a handsome figure and a noble 
 carriage. She never complained of the change; she never 
 spoke to any one of being crippled, or of being in pain ; but, 
 day by day, she tried to walk upon the terrace ; and with the 
 help of the stone balustrade, went up and down, up and 
 down, up and down, in sun and shadow, with greater difficulty 
 every day. At last, one afternoon, her husband (to whom 
 she had never, on any persuasion, opened her lips since that 
 night), standing at the great south window, saw her drop 
 upon the pavement. He hastened down to raise her, but 
 she repulsed him as he bent over her, and looking at him 
 fixedly and coldly, said 'I will die here where I have walked. 
 And I will walk here, though I am in my grave. I will 
 walk here, until the pi'ide of this house is humbled. And 
 when calamity, or when disgrace is coming to it, let the 
 Dedlocks listen for my step ! '' 
 
 Watt looks at Rosa. Rosa in the deepening gloom looks 
 down upon the ground, half frightened and half shy. 
 
 "There and then she died. And from those days,'''' says 
 Mrs. Rouncewell, "the name has come down — The Ghosfs 
 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 story. Whatever the sound is, it is a 
 worrying 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. 
 
THE SOUND UPON THE TERRACE. Ill 
 
 Watt, there is a tall French clock behind you (placed there, 
 'a purpose) that has a loud beat when it is in motion, and 
 can play music. You understand how those things are 
 managed ? 
 
 "Pretty well, grandmother, I think."'' 
 
 "Set it a-going.**" 
 
 Watt sets it a-going — music and all. 
 
 " Now, come hither,"' says the housekeeper. " 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 terrace, through the music, and the beat, and every- 
 thing ? "" 
 
 " I certainly can ! "" 
 
 "So my Lady says."" 
 
/ 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 COVERING A MULTITUDE OF SINS. 
 
 It was interesting when I dressed before daylight, to peep 
 out of 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 w^atch 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 a pleasure in discovering the unknown 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 interval 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. Imper- 
 ceptibly, 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 tower, 
 threw a softer train of shadow on the view than seemed 
 compatible with its rugged character. But so from rough 
 outsides (I hope I have learnt), serene and gentle influences 
 often proceed. 
 
 Every part of the house was in such order, and every one 
 was so attentive to me, that I had no trouble with my two 
 bunches of keys : though what with trying to remember the 
 contents of each little store-room drawer, and cupboard ; 
 
MORE AT HOME IN BLEAK HOUSE. US 
 
 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 breakfast-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 
 teapot; 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. .1 found it quite a 
 delightful 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 wheels that I asked 
 the gardener to roll 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 windows, 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. 
 
 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 should think he had not, for he seemed 
 to like it), but he protested against the overweening assump- 
 tions 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 
 
114 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 unsupportable 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 really cannot attend to 
 the shop ! I find myself in a world in which there is so much 
 to see, and so short a time to see it in, that I must take 
 the liberty of looking about me, and begging to be provided 
 for by somebody who doesn'^t want to look about him.*^ 
 This appeared to Mr. Skimpole to be the Drone 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 fellow 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 merry ; 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 with- 
 drew to attend to my new duties. They had occupied me for 
 some time, and I was passing through the passages on my 
 return with my basket of keys on my arm, when Mr. Jarndyce 
 called me into a small room next his bed-chamber, which I 
 found to be in part a little library of books and papers, and 
 in part quite a little museum of his boots and shoes, and 
 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. " When I am 
 
THE GROWLERY. 115 
 
 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 honoured there, and my heart 
 so full 
 
 I kissed his hand. I don't know what I said, or even that 
 I spoke. He was disconcerted, and walked to the window ; I 
 almost 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. " That's over. Pooh ! Don't 
 be foolish." 
 
 "It shall not happen again, sir," I returned, "but at first 
 
 it is difficult " 
 
 Nonsense!" he said, "it's easy, easy. Why not? I 
 hear of a good little orphan girl without a protector, and I 
 take it into my head to be that protector. She grov/s up, 
 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 off old scores, and I have before me 
 thy pleasant, trusting, trusty face again." 
 ^ I said to myself, " Esther, my dear, you surprise me ! 
 This really is not what I expected of you ! " and it had such 
 a good effect, that I folded my hands upon my basket and 
 quite recovered myself. Mr. 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 long. 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 l^awvers 
 
116 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 have twisted it into such a state of bedevihnent 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 swearing, 
 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 
 ecjuitably v/altzing ourselves off to dusty death, about Costs. 
 That's the great question. All the rest, by some extra- 
 ordinary 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 any- 
 thing," he returned. "A certain Jarndyce, in an evil hour, 
 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 Will is squandered away ; the legatees 
 under the Will are reduced to such a miserable condition that 
 they would be sufficiently punished, if they had committed aii 
 enormous crime in having money left them ; and the Will 
 itself is made a dead letter. All through the deplorable 
 cause, everything that everybody in it, except one man, 
 knows already, is referred to that only one man who don't 
 know it, to find out — all through the deplorable cause, every- 
 body 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 without having them, which is 
 the usual course, for nobody wants them) ; and must go down 
 the middle and up again, through such an infernal country- 
 dance of costs and fees and nonsense and corruption, as was 
 never dreamed of in the wildest visions of a Witch's Sabbath. 
 Equity sends questions to 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 
 
A WILL— AND NO WAY. 
 
 117 
 
 for A, and that solicitor instructing and that counsel appear- 
 ing for B; and so on through the whole alphabet, like the 
 history of the Apple Pie. And thus, through years and 
 years, and lives and lives, everything 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 he parties to it, whether we like it or 
 not. But it won'*t do to think of it ! When my great 
 uncle, poor Tom Jarndyce, began to think of it, it was the 
 beginning of the end ! 
 
 "The Mr. Jarndyce, sir, whose story I have heard .'^'**' 
 
 He nodded gravely. I was his heir, and this was his 
 house, Esther. When I came here, it was bleak, indeed. He 
 had left the signs of his misery upon it.**' 
 
 " How changed it must be now ! '' I said. 
 
 "It had been called, before his time, the Peaks. He gave 
 it its present name, and lived here shut up : day and night 
 poring over the wicked heaps of papers in the suit, and 
 hoping against hope to disentangle it from its mystification 
 and bring it to a close. In the meantime, the place became 
 dilapidated, the wind whistled through the cracked walls, the 
 rain fell through the broken roof, the weeds choked the 
 passage to the rotting door. When I brought what remained 
 of him home here, the brains seemed to me to have been 
 blown out of the house too ; it was so shattered and ruined."*' 
 
 He walked a little to and fro, after saying this to himself 
 with a 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 hopeful change he had made in 
 Bleak House. 
 
 " Bleak House : true. There is, in that city of London 
 there, some property of ours, which is much at this day what 
 Bleak House was then, — I say property of ours, meaning of 
 the Suit's, but I ought to call it the property of Costs ; for 
 
118 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Costs is the only power on earth that will ever get anything 
 out of it now, or will ever know it for anything but an eye- 
 sore and a heartsore. It is a street of perishing bhnd 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 peehng away in flakes of rust ; the chimneys sinking in ; 
 the stone steps to every door (and every door might be 
 Death's Door) turning stagnant green ; the very crutches on 
 which the ruins are propped, decaying. Although Bleak 
 .House was not in Chancery, its master was, and it was 
 stamped with the same seal. These are the Great SeaFs 
 impressions, my dear, all over England — the children know 
 them!'' 
 
 " How chanoed it is ! '' I said ao-ain. 
 
 " 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 
 Rick and Ada," looking seriously at me, " you can. I leave 
 it to vour discretion, Esther." 
 
 " I hope, sir " — said I. 
 
 ^' I think you had better call me Guardian, my dear." 
 
 I felt that I was choking again — I taxed myself with it, 
 " Esther, now, you know you are ! " — when he feigned to say 
 this slightly, as if it were a whim, instead of a thoughtful 
 tenderness. But I gave the housekeeping keys the least shake 
 in the world as a reminder to 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; and you woukl 
 soon find it out if I had not the honesty to confess it." 
 
WIGLOMERATION. 1 1 9 
 
 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."' 
 
 "You are clever enough to be the good little woman of 
 our lives here, my dear," he returned, playfully ; " the little 
 old woman of the Child's (I don't mean Skimpole's) Rhyme. 
 
 " ' Little old woman, and whitlier so high 
 *To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.' 
 
 You will sweep them so neatly out of oz/r 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. 
 
 "However," said Mr. Jarndyce, "to return to our gossip. 
 Here's Rick, a fine young fellow full 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 into his pockets and stretching out his 
 legs. "He must have a profession; he must make some 
 choice for himself. There will be a world more Wiglomera- 
 tion about it, I suppose, 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. 
 Ivenge and Carboy will have something to say about it- 
 Master Somebody— a sort of ridiculous Sexton, digging 
 graves for the merits of causes in a back room at the end 
 
120 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 will all 
 have to be handsomely fee'd, all round, about it; the whole 
 thing will be vastly ceremonious, wordy, unsatisfactory, and 
 expensive, and I call it, in general, Wiglomeration. How 
 mankind ever came to be afflicted with Wiglomeration, or 
 for whose sins these young people ever fell into a pit of it, I 
 don'^t know ; so it is/' 
 
 He began to rub his head again, and to hint that he felt 
 the wind. But it was a delightful instance of his kindness 
 towards me, 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 turn 
 comfortable again, and put his hands in his pockets and 
 stretch out his legs. 
 
 "Perhaps it would be best, first of all,'"^ said I, "to ask 
 Mr. Richard what he inclines to himself."** 
 
 " Exactly so,"' he returned. " That's what I mean ! You 
 know, just accustom yourself to talk it over, with your tact 
 and in your quiet way, with him and Ada, and s^e 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 Richard. But of course I said 
 nothing in reply, except that I would 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 niy 
 guardian only laughed the pleasantest laugh I ever heard. 
 
 " Come ! " he said, rising and pushing back his chair. " I 
 think we may have done with the Growlery for one day! 
 Only a concluding word. Esther, my dear, do you wish to 
 ask me anything.^" 
 
NUMEROUS CORRESPONDENTS. 121 
 
 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. From that hour I felt quite easy with him, 
 quite unreserved, quite content to know no more, quite 
 happy. 
 
 We lived, at first, rather a busy life at Bleak Hbuse; for 
 we had to become acquainted with many residenis 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 corre- 
 spondents 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 w^ere even 
 more so. They threw themselves into committees in the 
 most impassioned manner, and collected subscriptions with a 
 vehemence quite extraordinary. It appeared to us that 
 some of them must pass their whole lives in dealing out 
 subscription-cards to the whole Post-office Directory — shilling 
 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 w^anted 
 autographs, they wanted flannel, they wanted whatever Mr. 
 
BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 building (engraving 
 of proposed West Elevation attached) the Sisterhood 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 teapot. They took a multitude 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 denominations. 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. Pardiggle, 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. Pardiggle became the 
 subject of conversation : and that it invariably interrupted 
 Mr. Jarndyce, 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. Pardiggle, suspecting her to be a type of the former 
 class; and were glad when she called one day with her five 
 young sons. 
 
A VISITING LADY AND FAMILY. 
 
 123 
 
 She was 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 reHIy did, foF she 
 linocKrHown little chairs with 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. Pardiggle, 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 
 of five-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. 
 Francis, my third (nine), one-and-sixpence-halfpenny ; Felix, 
 my fourth (seven), eightpence to the Superannuated Widows ; 
 Alfred, my youngest (five), has voluntarily enrolled himself 
 in the Infant Bonds of Joy, and is pledged never, through 
 life, to use tobacco in any form." 
 
 We had never seen such dissatisfied children. It was not 
 merely that they were weazened and shrivelled — though they 
 were certainly that 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 con- 
 tribution was mentioned, darkened in a peculiarly vindictive 
 manner, but his was by far the worst. I must except, how- 
 ever, the little recruit into the Infant Bonds of Joy, who 
 was stolidly and evenly miserable. 
 
 "You have been visiting, I understand,'' said Mrs. Par- 
 diggle, "at Mrs. Jellyby's?'' 
 
 We said yes, we had passed one night there. 
 
124 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " Mrs. Jelly by pursued the lady, always speaking in the 
 same demonstrative, loud, hard tone, so that her voice im- 
 pressed 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. Jelly by 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. Neverthe- 
 less, 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 *o was Ada) that from 
 the ill-conditioned eldest child, these words extorted a sharp 
 yell. He turned it off into a yawn, but it began as a yell. 
 
 "They attend Matins with me (very prettily done), at 
 half-past six o'clock in the morning all the year round, 
 including of course the depth of winter,'' said Mrs. Pardiggle 
 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 Reading lady, I am a Distributing lady ; I am on the local 
 Linen Box Committee, and many general Committees; and 
 my canvassing alone is very extensive — perhaps no one's more 
 so. But they are my companions everywhere; and by these 
 means they acquire that knowledge of the poor, and that 
 capacity of doing charitable business in general — in short, 
 that taste for the sort of thing — which will render them in 
 after life a service to their neighbours, and a satisfaction to 
 themselves. My young family are not frivolous ; they expend 
 the entire amount of their allowance, in subscriptions, under 
 
O. A. PARDIGGLE, F.R.S. 
 
 my direction ; and they have attended as many public meet- 
 ings, and listened to as many lectures, orations, and discus- 
 sions, as generally fall to the lot of few grown people. Alfred 
 (five), who, as I mentioned, has of his own election joined 
 the Infant Bonds of Joy, was one of the very few children 
 who manifested consciousness on that occasion, after a fervid 
 address of two ho'iifs from the chairman of the evening/' 
 
 Alfred glowered at us as if he never could, or would, 
 forgive the injury of that night. 
 
 "You 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.R.S., one pound. That is their father. 
 We usually observe the same routine. I put down my mite 
 first ; then my young family enrol their contributions, accord- 
 ing to their ages and their little means ; and then Mr. 
 Pardiggle brings up the rear. Mr. Pardiggle is happy to 
 throw in his limited donation, under my direction ; and 
 thus things are made, not only pleasant to ourselves, but, 
 we trust, improving to others." 
 
 Suppose Mr. Pardiggle were to dine with Mr. Jellyby, 
 and suppose Mr. Jellyby were to relieve his mind after dinner 
 to Mr. Pardiggle, would 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 indifference. 
 
 " You know Mr. Gusher ? " said our visitor. 
 
 We were obliged to say that we had not the pleasure of 
 Mr. Gusher's acquaintance. 
 
 "The loss is yours, I assure you,'' said Mrs. Pardiggle, 
 
126 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 with her commanding deportment. "He is a very fervid 
 impassioned speaker — full 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 J 
 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 me' 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 colour of my cheeks. 
 
 "Found out, I mean,'' said Mrs. Pardiggle, "the promi- 
 nent point in my character. I am aware that it is so pro- 
 minent as to be discoverable immediately. I lay myself open 
 to detection, I knoAv. 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 w^hat fatigue is." 
 
 W e murmured that it was very astonishing and very grati- 
 fying; or something to that effect. I don't think we knew 
 what it was either, but this is what our politeness expressed. 
 
 " I do not understand what it is to be tired ; you cannot 
 tire me if you try ! " said Mrs. Pardiggle. " The quantity 
 of exertion (which is no exertion to me), the amount of 
 business (which I regard as nothing), that I go through, 
 sometimes astonishes myself. I have seen my young family, 
 and Mr. 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. 
 
MRS. PARDIGGLE^S PATRONAGE. 
 
 127 
 
 "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 answers admirably ! 
 Miss Summerson, 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, Avhich 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 adapt- 
 ing my mind to minds very differently situated, and addressing 
 them from suitable points of view. That I had not that 
 delicate knowledge of the heart which must be essential to 
 such a work. That I had much to learn, myself, before I 
 could teach others, and that I could not confide in my good 
 intentions alone. For these reasons, I thought it best to 
 be as useful as I could, and to render what kind services I 
 could, to those immediately about me ; and to try to let 
 that circle of duty gradually and naturally 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 ''would like to see how 
 I go through my work, I am now about — wdth my young 
 family — to visit a brickmaker in the neighbourhood (a very 
 bad character), and shall be glad to take you with me. Miss 
 Clare also, if she will do me the favour." 
 
 Ada and I interchanged 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 
 
128 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 contained. Mrs. Pardiggle took possession of Ada, and I 
 followed with the family. 
 
 Ada told me afterwards that Mi*s. 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 pxnnting, 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 children, and am 
 happy in being usually favoured 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 sulkily " By her ! he pinched me 
 and said " O then ! Now ! Who are you ! You wouldn't 
 like it, I think? What does she make a sham for, and 
 pretend to give me money, and take it away again? Why 
 do you call it my allowance, and never let me spend it?**' 
 These exasperating questions so inflamed his mind, and the 
 minds of Oswald and Francis, that they all pinched me at 
 once, and in a dreadfully expert way : screwing up such little 
 pieces of my arms that I could 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 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 walk with young people, as 
 from these unnaturally constrained children, when they paid 
 me the compliment of being natural. 
 
A VISIT TO THE BRICKMAKER^S. 129 
 
 I was glad when we came to the brickmaker^s house; 
 though it was one of a cluster of wretched hovels in a brick- 
 field, 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 Httle 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 determination, and talking with much volubility about 
 the untidy habits of the people (though I doubted if the best 
 of us could have been tidy in such a place), conducted us 
 into a cottage at the farthest corner, the ground-floor room 
 of which we nearly filled. Besides ourselves, there were in 
 this damp offensive room — a woman with a black eye, nursing 
 a poor little gasping baby by the fire ; a man, all stained 
 with clay and mud, and looking very dissipated, lying at full 
 length on the ground, smoking a pipe ; a powerful young 
 man, fastening a collar on a dog; and a bold girl, doing 
 some kind of washing in very dirty water. They all looked 
 up at us as we came in, and the woman seemed to turn her 
 face towards the fire, as if to hide her bruised eye; nobody 
 gave us any welcome. 
 
 " Well, my friends,'" said Mrs. 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 the floor, whose head 
 rested on his hand as he stared at us, "any more on you to 
 come in, is there ? '' 
 
 VOL. I. X 
 
130 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "N05 my friend," said Mrs. Pardiggle, seating herself on 
 one stool, and knocking down another. " AVe are all 
 here." 
 
 "Because I thought there warn't enough of you, perhaps?" 
 said the man, with his pipe between his lips, as he looked 
 round upon us. 
 
 The young man and the girl both laughed. Two friends 
 of the young man whom we had attracted to the doorway, 
 and who stood there with 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 work; 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 wants a end of these 
 liberties took with my place. I wants a end of being 
 drawed like a badger. Now youVe a-going to poll-pry and 
 question according to custom — I know what you're a-going 
 to be up to. Well ! You haven't got no occasion to be up 
 to it. ril save you the trouble. Is my daughter a-w^ashin ? 
 Yes, she is a-washin. 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 fit for a babby, and I'm not a babby. If 
 you was to leave me a doll, 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. 
 
OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY of ILLINOIS. 
 
TAKEN INTO RELIGIOUS CUSTODY. 131 
 
 And how did my wife 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, calculated, 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 were an inexorable 
 moral Policeman carrying them all off to a station-house. 
 
 Ada and I were very uncomfortable. We both felt intrusive 
 and out of place ; and we both thought that Mrs. Pardiggle 
 would have got on infinitely better, if she had not had such 
 a mechanical way of taking possession of people. The 
 children sulked and stared ; the family took no notice of us 
 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 Robinson 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 off. The man on the floor then turning 
 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. Pardiggle with demonstrative cheerfulness. 
 
 " So long as you goes now," said he, folding his arms and 
 
132 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 shutting his eyes with an oath, you may do wot you 
 like!^^ 
 
 Mrs. Pardiggle accordingly rose, and made a little vortex 
 in the confined room from which the pipe itself very narrowly 
 escaped. Taking one of her young family in each hand, and 
 telling the others to follow closely, and expressing her hope 
 that the brickmaker and all his house would be improved 
 when she saw them 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 
 discoloured 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. 
 
 " O 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 sorry for the mother. I never saw a sight so pitiful 
 as this before ! O baby, baby ! 
 
 Such compassion, such gentleness, as that with which she 
 bent down weeping, and put her hand upon the mother's, 
 might have softened any mother's heart that ever beat. The 
 woman at first gazed at her in astonishment, and then burst 
 into tears. 
 
 Presently I took the light burden from her 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 
 
TRUE WOMAxNLY SYMPATHY. 133 
 
 tried to comfort the mother, and we whispered ^to her what 
 Our Saviour said of children. She answered nothing, but sat 
 weeping — weeping very much. 
 
 When I turned, I found that the young man had taken 
 out the dog, 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 beaten, 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 uninterrupted. 
 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 that he did this 
 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 Richard, 
 whom we found at home, was so distressed to see her in tears 
 (though he said to me when she was not present, how 
 
134 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 beautiful it was too !) that we arranged to return at night with 
 some little comforts, and repeat our visit at the brickmaker's 
 house. We said as little as we could to Mr. Jarndyce, but 
 the wind changed directly. 
 
 Richard accompanied us at night to the scene of our morn- 
 ing expedition. On our way there, we had to pass a noisy 
 drinking-house, where a number of men were flocking about 
 the door. Among them, and prominent in some dispute, 
 Avas 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. 
 
 AVe left our escort within sight of the brickmaker's dwelling, 
 and proceeded by ourselves. When we 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. " Fm 
 a-watching for my master. My heart's in my mouth. If he 
 Avas 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, quite worn out. 
 She's scarcely had the child off her lap, poor thing, these 
 seven days and nights, except when I've been able to take it 
 for a minute or two." 
 
 As she gave way for us, she went softly in, and put what 
 we had brought, near the miserable bed on which the mother 
 slept. No effort had been made to clean the room — it seemed 
 in its nature almost hopeless of being clean; but the small 
 waxen form, from which so much solemnity diffused itself, had 
 been composed 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 ! 
 
THE POOR DEAD BABY. 
 
 135 
 
 " May Heaven reward you ! we said to her. " You are a 
 good woman." 
 
 " Me, young ladies ? " she returned with surprise. " Hush ! 
 Jenny, Jenny ! 
 
 The mother had moaned in her sleep, and moved. The 
 sound of the familiar voice seemed to calm her again. She 
 was quiet once more. 
 
 How little I 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 would come to lie, after covering 
 the motionless and peaceful breast ! I only thought that 
 perhaps the Angel of the child might not be all unconscious 
 of the woman who replaced it with so compassionate a hand ; 
 not all unconscious of her 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 ! 
 
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 our time, that the winter 
 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 course, or show that I knew 
 anything about it. On the contrary, I was so demure, and 
 used to seem so unconscious, that sometimes I considered 
 within myself while I was sitting at work, whether I was not 
 growing quite deceitful. 
 
 But there was no help for it. All I had to do was to be 
 
DAME DURDEN. 
 
 137 
 
 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 rehed 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 up 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 — grinding away at those books and 
 instruments, and then galloping up hill and down dale, all 
 the country round, like a highwayman — it does me so much 
 good to come and have a steady walk with our comfortable 
 friend, that here I am again ! 
 
 You know. Dame Durden, dear,'" Ada would say at 
 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 while, thinking, 
 with your dear face for company ; and to hear the wind, and 
 remember the poor sailors at sea " 
 
 Ah ! Perhaps Richard was going to be a sailor. W e 
 had talked it over very often, now, and there was some 
 talk of gratifying the inclination of his childhood for the sea. 
 Mr. Jarndyce had written to a relation of the family, a great 
 Sir Leicester Dedlock, for his interest in Richard's favour, 
 generally ; and Sir Leicester had replied in a gracious manner, 
 " that he would be happy to advance the prospects of the 
 young gentleman if it should ever prove to be within his 
 power, which was not at all probable — and that my Lady 
 sent her compliments to the young gentleman (to whcffh she 
 perfectly remembered that she was allied by remote con- 
 sanguinity), and trusted that he would ever do his duty in 
 any honourable profession to which he might devote himself." 
 
 " So I apprehend it's pretty clear," said Richard to me, 
 " that I shall have to work my own way. Never mind ! 
 
138 
 
 BLEAK HOUSK 
 
 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, Richard had a carelessness in his character that 
 quite 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 Richard. The number of 
 little acts of thoughtless expenditure which Richard justified 
 by the recovery of his ten pounds, and the number of times 
 he talked to me as if he had saved or realised that amount, 
 would form a sum in simple addition. 
 
 " My prudent Mother Hubbard, why not ? '' he said to 
 me, when he wanted, without the least consideration, to 
 bestow five pounds on 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 Richard. 
 " I have got ten pounds more than I expected to have, 
 and consequently I can afford to spend it without being 
 particular." 
 
MR. BOYTHORN EXPECTED. 
 
 139 
 
 In exactly the same way, when he was persuaded out of 
 the sacrifice of these five pounds by being convinced that it 
 would do no good, he carried that sum to his credit and 
 drew upon it. 
 
 ^' Let me see ! he would say. " I saved five pounds out of 
 the brickmaker's 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 Richard's was as frank and generous a nature as 
 there possibly can be. He was ardent and brave, and, in 
 the midst of all his wild restlessness, was so gentle, that I 
 knew him like a brother in a few weeks. His gentleness 
 was natural to him, and would have shown itself abundantly, 
 even without Ada'^s influence ; but, with it, he became one of 
 the most winning of companions, always so ready to be in- 
 terested, 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 ? we all thought. And I dare say we all thought, 
 too — I am sure 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 five-and-forty years ago. He was then 
 
140 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 the most impetuous boy in the world, and he is now the 
 most impetuous man. He was then the loudest boy in the 
 world, and he is now the loudest man. He was then 
 the heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, and he is now 
 the heartiest and sturdiest man. He is a tremendous 
 fellow.^' 
 
 " In stature, sir ! asked Richard. 
 
 " Pretty well. Rick, in that respect,'' said Mr. Jarndyce ; 
 "being some ten years older than I, and a couple of inches 
 taller, with his head thrown back like an old soldier, his 
 stalwart chest squared, his hands like a clean blacksmith's, 
 and his lungs ! — there's no simile for his lungs. Talking, 
 laughing, or snoring, they make the beams of the house 
 shake." 
 
 As Mr. Jarndyce sat enjoying the image of his friend 
 Boythorn, we observed the favourable omen that there was 
 not the least indication of any change in the wind. 
 
 "But it's the inside of the man, the warm heart of the 
 man, the passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man, 
 Rick — and Ada, and little Cobweb too, for you are all 
 interested in a visitor ! — that I speak of," he pursued. " His 
 language is as sounding as his voice. He is always in 
 extremes ; perpetually in the superlative degree. In his con- 
 demnation he is all ferocity. You might suppose him to be 
 an Ogre, from what he says ; and I believe he has the reputa- 
 tion of one with some people. There ! I tell you no more 
 of him beforehand. You must not be surprised to see him 
 take me under his protection; for he has never forgotten 
 that I was a low boy at school, and that our friendship 
 began in his knocking two of my head tyrant's teeth out (he 
 says six) before breakfast. Boythorn and his man," to me, 
 " will be here this afternoon, my dear." 
 
 I took care that the necessary preparations were made for 
 Mr. Boythorn's reception, and we looked forward to his 
 arrival with some curiosity. The afternoon wore away, how- 
 ever, and he did not appear. The dinner-hour arrived, and 
 
MR. BOYTHORN ARRIVES. 141 
 
 still he did not appear. The dinner was put back an hour, 
 and we were sitting round the fire with no light but the 
 blaze, when the hall-door suddenly burst open, and the hall 
 resounded with these words, uttered with the greatest 
 vehemence and in a stentorian tone : 
 
 "We have been m^HirecTed, 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 con- 
 sunmiate villain, ever to have such a son. I would have had 
 that fellow shot without the least remorse ! '''' 
 
 "Did he do it on purpose .^^ Mr. Jarndyce inquired. 
 
 " I have not the slightest doubt that the scoundrel has passed 
 his whole existence in misdirecting travellers ! returned the 
 other. "By my soul, I thought him the worst-looking dog 
 I had ever beheld, when he was telling me to take the 
 turning to the right. And yet I stood before that fellow 
 face to face, and didn't knock his brains out ! ""^ 
 
 " Teeth, you mean ? '''' said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! laughed Mr. Lawrence 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 would 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 would 
 have turned back at the garden-gate, and gone away to the 
 remotest summits of the Himalaya Mountains, sooner than I 
 would have presented myself at this unseasonable hour." 
 
 " Not quite so far, I hope ? " said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
142 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " By my life and honour, yes ! cried the visitor. " I 
 wouldn't be guilty of the audacious insolence of keeping a 
 lady of tlie house waiting all this time, for any earthly con- 
 sideration. 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 favour; 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 which 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 showed himself exactly as he was — 
 incapable (as Richard said) of anything on a limited scale, 
 and firing away with those blank great guns, because he 
 carried no small arms whatever — that really I could not help 
 looking at him with equal pleasure as he sat at dinner, 
 whether he smilingly conversed with Ada and me, or was led 
 by Mr. Jarndyce into some great volley of superlatives, or 
 threw up his head like a bloodhound, and gave out that | 
 tremendous Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
MR. BOYTHORN'S CANARY. 143 
 
 " You have brought your bird with you, I suppose ? said 
 Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 "By Heaven, he is the most astonishing bird in Europe!''' 
 replied the other. " He is the most wonderful creature ! I 
 wouldn't take ten thousand guineas for that bird. I have 
 left an annuity for his sole support, in case he should outlive 
 me. He 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 
 quietly 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 
 would have a settlement out of somebody, by fair means or 
 by foul. If you would empower me to do it, I would do 
 it for you with the greatest satisfaction ! " (All this time the 
 very small canary was eating out of his hand.) 
 
 "I thank you, Lawrence, but the suit is hardly at such a 
 point at present," returned Mr. Jarndyce, laughing, "that 
 it would be greatly advanced, even by the legal process of 
 shaking the Bench and the whole Bar." 
 
 "There never was such an infernal cauldron as that Chan- 
 cery, on the face of the earth!" sai3n\Ir. Boythorn. "Nothing 
 but a mine below it on a busy day in term time, with all 
 its records, rules, and precedents collected in it, and every 
 functionary belonging to it also, high and low, upward and 
 downward, from its son the Accountant-General to its father 
 
144 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 the Devil, and the whole blown to atoms with ten thousand 
 hundred-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 with its quick 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 from the toils of the law yourself ! '''' 
 
 "The fellow has brought actions against me for trespass, 
 and I have brought actions against him for trespass,'" returned 
 Mr. Boythorn. "By Heaven, he is the proudest fellow 
 breathing. It is morally impossible that his name can be 
 Sir Leicester. It must be Sir Lucifer."'' 
 
 " Complimentary to our distant relation ! " said my Guardian 
 laughingly, to Ada and Richard. 
 
 "I would beg Miss Clare's pardon and Mr. Carstone's 
 pardon,'" resumed our 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 Richard. 
 
 " By my soul ! " exclaimed Mr. Boythorn, suddenly firing 
 another volley, "that fellow is, and his father was, and his 
 grandfather was, the^most stiff-necked, arrogant, imbecile, 
 pig-headed numskull,! ever, by some inexplicable mistake of 
 Nature, born in atijT 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 
 
THE BOYTHORN AND DEDLOCK WARS. 145 
 
 another, like the ivory balls in a Chinese carving. The 
 fellow, by his agent, or secretary, or somebody, writes to me, 
 'Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, presents his compliments 
 to Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, and has to call his attention to 
 the fact that the green pathway by the old parsonage-house, 
 now the property of Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, is Sir Leicester"'s 
 right of way, being in fact a portion of the park of Chesney 
 Wold ; and that Sir Leicester finds it convenient to close up 
 the same." I write to the fellow, 'Mr. Lawrence Boythorn 
 presents his compliments to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, 
 and has to call his attention to the fact that he totally 
 denies the whole of Sir Leicester Dedlock's positions on 
 every possible subject, and has to add, in reference to 
 closing up the pathway, that he will be glad to see the 
 man who may undertake to do it.** The fellow sends a 
 most abandoned villain with one eye, to construct a gate- 
 way. I play upon that execrable scoundrel with a fire- 
 engine, until the breath is nearly driven out of his body. 
 The fellow erects a gate in the night. I chop it down 
 and burn it in the morning. He sends his myrmidons to 
 come over the fence, and pass and repass. I catch them 
 in humane man traps, fire split peas at their legs, play upon 
 them with the engine — resolve to free mankind from the 
 insupportable burden of the existence of those lurking ruffians. 
 He brings actions for trespass; I bring actions for trespass. 
 He brings actions for assault and battery; I defend them, 
 and continue to assault and batter. Ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 To hear him say all this with unimaginable 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 nature 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. 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "No, no,'''' he said, "no closing up of my paths, by any 
 Dedlock ! Though I wilHngly 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 seven hundred 
 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 waist — and got broke for 
 it — is not the man to be walked over, by all the Sir Lucifers, 
 dead or alive, locked or unlocked. Ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 "Nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over, 
 either ? said my Guardian. 
 
 " Most assuredly not ! said Mr. Boy thorn, clapping him 
 on the shoulder with an air of protection, that had some- 
 thing serious in it, though he laughed. "He will stand by 
 the low boy, always. Jarndyce, you may rely upon him ! 
 But, speaking of this trespass — with apologies to Miss Clare 
 and Miss Summerson for the length at which I have 
 pursued so dry a subject — is there nothing for me from 
 your men, Kenge and Carboy.'^'''* 
 
 "I think not, Esther?'*' said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 " Nothing, Guardian.*" 
 
 " Much obliged ! *" said Mr. Boythorn. " Had no need to 
 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 inquired because, 
 coming from Lincolnshire, I of coui^e have not yet been in 
 town, and I thought some letters might have been sent down 
 here. I dare say they will report progress to-morrow 
 morning.*'"' 
 
 I saw him so often, in the course of the evening, which 
 passed very . pleasantly, contemplate Richard and Ada with 
 an interest and a satisfaction that made his fine face remark- 
 ably agreeable as he sat at a little distance from the piano 
 listening to the music — and he had small occasion to tell us 
 
A ROMANTIC LOVE STORY. 
 
 147 
 
 that he was passionately fond of music, for his face showed 
 it — that I asked my Guardian, as we sat at the backganmion 
 board, whether Mr. Boy thorn had ever been married. 
 
 «No,^' said he. "No.^^ 
 
 " But he meant to be ! said I. 
 
 "How did you find out that?"^^ he returned, with a 
 smile. 
 
 "Why, Guardian,*^^ I explained, not without reddening a 
 little at hazarding what was in my thoughts, " there is some- 
 thing so tender in his manner, after all, and he is so very 
 courtly and gentle to us, and- 
 
 Mr. Jarndyce directed his eyes to where he was sitting, as 
 I have just described him. 
 
 I said no more. 
 
 "You are right, little woman,'''' he answered. "He was all 
 but married, once. Long ago. And once.'*'* 
 "Did the lady die?'^ 
 
 " No — but she died to him. That time has had its influence 
 on all his later life. Would you suppose him to have a head 
 and a heart full of romance yet ? 
 
 "I think. Guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is 
 easy to say that, when you have told me so.**** 
 
 " He has never since been what he might have been,'*'' said 
 Mr. Jarndyce, "and now you see him in his age with no one 
 near him but his servant, and his little yellow friend. — Ifs 
 your throw, my dear!''' 
 
 I felt, from my Guardian's manner, that beyond this point 
 I could not pursue the subject without changing the wind. 
 I therefore forbore to ask any further questions. I w^as in- 
 terested, 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 
 
148 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 to know whether it is at all remarkable that I almost always 
 dreamed of that period of my life. 
 
 With the morning, there came a letter from Messrs. Kenge 
 and Carboy to Mr. Boythorn, informing him that one of their 
 clerks would wait upon him at noon. As it was the day of 
 the week on which I paid the 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 very fine day to make a little excursion, 
 Mr. Boythorn was to wait for Kenge and Carboy's clerk, and 
 then was to go on foot to meet them on their return. 
 
 Well ! I was full of 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 gentle- 
 man 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 j 
 looked at me with an attention that quite confused me, when ' 
 I begged him to take a seat until the servant should return ; 
 and as he sat there, crossing and uncrossing his legs in a 
 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 scrutinising 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 with some j 
 embarrassment, holding the handle of the door, " Shall I have 
 
MR. GUPPY. 
 
 149 
 
 the honour 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 evidently 
 much embarrassed ; and I fancied that the best thing I could 
 do, would be to wait until I saw that he had everything he 
 wanted, and then to leave him to himself. The lunch was 
 soon 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 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. Guppy sat down at the table, and began nervously 
 sharpening the carving-knife on the carving-fork ; still look- 
 ing at me (as I felt quite sure without looking at him), in 
 the same unusual manner. The sharpening lasted so long, 
 that at last I felt a kind of obligation on me to raise my 
 eyes, in order that I might break the spell under which he 
 seemed to labour, of not bein^ able to leave off. 
 
 He immediately looked at the dish, and began to carve. 
 
 " What will you take yourself, miss ? You'll take a morsel 
 of something ? '' 
 
 "No, thank you,'' said I. 
 
 "Shan't I give you a piece of anything at all, miss.^" said 
 Mr. Guppy, hurriedly 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, Fm sure. Fve 
 everything that I can require to make me comfortable — at 
 least I — not comfortable — Pm never that : " he drank off two 
 more glasses of wine, one after another. 
 
150 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 I thought I had better go. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, miss ! said Mr, Guppy, rising, when 
 he saw me rise. "But would you allow me the favour of a 
 minute'^s private conversation ? 
 
 Not knowing what to say, I sat down again. 
 
 "What 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 else- 
 where. 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 should be very sorry to do 
 you any injury." 
 
 " Thank you, miss. I'm sure of it — that's quite sufficient." 
 All this time Mr. Guppy was either planing his forehead with 
 his handkerchief, or tightly rubbing the palm of his left hand 
 with the palm of his right. " If you would excuse my taking 
 another glass of w^ine, miss, I think it might assist me in 
 getting on, without a continual choke that cannot fail to be 
 mutually unpleasant." 
 
 He did so, and came back again. I took the opportunity 
 of moving Avell 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. My 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 further rise of five is guaranteed 
 at the expiration of a term not exceeding twelve months from 
 
i 
 
 Of jHf- 
 
 UNIVERSITY ohuiNOlS. 
 
MR. GUPPY DECLARES HIMSELF. 151 
 
 the present date. My mother has a little property, which 
 takes the form of a small life annuity ; upon which she lives 
 in an independent though unassuming manner, in the Old 
 Street Road. She is eminently calculated for a mother-in-law. 
 She never 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 wines, spirits, or malt liquors. My own 
 abode 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 ridiculous position immediately, sir, or you will oblige 
 me to break my implied promise and ring the bell ! 
 
 " Hear me out, miss ! said Mr. Guppy, folding his hands. 
 
 "I cannot consent to hear another word, 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." 
 
 He 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 honour, 
 so likewise I obey. Would that I could 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 
 
152 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 ferreted out evidence, got up 
 cases, and seen lots of life. Blest Avith 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 might I not, if I had your confidence, and you set 
 me on ? 
 
 I told him that he addressed my interest, or what he 
 supposed to be my interest, quite as unsuccessfully as he 
 addressed my inclination ; and he would now understand that 
 I requested him, if he pleased, to go away immediately. 
 
 " Cruel miss,"" said Mr. Guppy, " hear but another word ! 
 I think you must have seen that I was struck with those 
 charms, on the day when I waited at the Whytorseller. I 
 think you must have remarked that I could not forbear a 
 tribute to those charms when I put up the steps of the 
 'ackney-coach. It was a feeble tribute to Thee, but it was 
 well meant. Thy image has ever since been fixed in my 
 breast. I have walked up and down, of an evening, opposite 
 Jelly by 's house, only to look upon the bricks that once con- 
 tained Thee. This out of to-day, quite an unnecessary out 
 so far as the attendance, which was its pretended object, 
 went, was planned by me alone for Thee alone. If I speak 
 of interest, it is only to recommend myself and my respectful 
 wretchedness. Love was before it, and is before it.''' 
 
 ^'I should be pained, Mr. Guppy,'' said I, rising and 
 putting my hand upon the bell-rope, "to do you, or any 
 one who was sincere, the injustice of slighting any honest 
 feeling, however disagreeably expressed. If you have really 
 meant to give me a proof of your good opinion, thougmj 
 
MR. GUPPY DEPARTS. 
 
 153 
 
 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 will never mention it," said I, " unless you should give 
 me future occasion to do so." 
 
 "A quarter of a minute, miss! In case you should think 
 better — at any time, however distant, thafs no consequence, 
 for my feelings can never alter — of anything I have said, 
 particularly what might I not do — Mr. William Guppy, 
 eighty-seven, Penton Place, or if removed, or dead (of 
 blighted hopes or anything of that sort), care of Mrs. Guppy, 
 three hundred and two, Old Street Road, will be sufficient." 
 
 I rang the bell, the servant came, and Mr. Guppy, laying 
 his written card upon the table, and making a dejected bow, 
 departed. Raising 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 cheerful 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 still more by beginning to cry 
 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, long 
 buried in the garden. 
 
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, pursues his lawful calling. In the 
 shade of Cook's Court, at most times a shady place, Mr. 
 Snagsby 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, pounce, pins, pencils, 
 sealing-wax, and wafers ; in red tape and green ferret ; in 
 pocket-books, almanacks, 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, Peffer and Snagsby, displacing the time- 
 honoured and not easily to be deciphered legend, Peffer, 
 only. For smoke, which is the London ivy, had so wreathed 
 itself round PefFer's name, and clung to his dwelling-place, 
 that the affectionate parasite quite overpowered the parent 
 tree. 
 
 Peffer is never seen in Cook's Court now. He is not ex- 
 pected there, for he has been recumbent this quarter of a 
 century in the churchyard of St. Andrew's, Holborn, with the 
 waggons and hackney-coaches roaring past him, all the davi 
 
MR. SNAGSBY, LAW-STATIONER. 155 
 
 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 would 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 w;aist, 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 Rumour 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 
 still cherishes her figure — which, however tastes may diff'er, 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 dulcet tones, is rarely heard. 
 He is a mild, bald, timid man, with a shining head, and a 
 
156 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the back. He 
 tends to meekness and obesity. As he stands at his door in 
 Cook's Court, in his grey shop-coat and black calico sleeves, 
 looking up at the 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 re- 
 tiring and unassuming man. From beneath his feet, at such 
 times, as from a shrill ghost unquiet in its grave, there fre- 
 quently arise complainings and lamentations in the voice 
 already mentioned ; and haply, on some occasions, when these 
 reach a sharper pitch than usual, Mr. 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 com- 
 pliment to her stormy character. It is, however, the posses- 
 sion, and the only possession, except fifty shillings per annum 
 and a very small box indifferently filled with clothing, of a 
 lean young woman from a workhouse (by some supposed to 
 have been christened Augusta) ; who, although she was farmed 
 or contracted for, during her growing time, by an amiable 
 benefactor of his species resident at Tooting, and cannot fail 
 to have been developed under the most favourable circum- 
 stances, " has fits " — which the parish can't account for. 
 
 Guster, really aged three or four and twenW, but looking 
 a round ten years older, goes cheap with this] unaccountable 
 drawback of fits ; and is so apprehensive of bein^ returned on 
 the hands of her patron saint, that except when she is found 
 with 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 satisfac- 
 tion to the parents and guardians of the 'prentice^, who feel 
 that there is little danger of her inspiring tender emotions 
 in the breast of youth ; she is a satisfaction to Mrs. Snagsby, 
 
MRS. SxNAGSBY. 
 
 167 
 
 who can always find fault with her; she is a satisfaction to 
 Mr. Snagsby, who thinks it a charity to keep her. The law- 
 stationer s establishment is, in Guster's eyes, a Temple of 
 plenty and splendour. 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 
 Coavinses'' the sheriff'^s officer's back-yard at the other, she 
 regards as a prospect of unequalled beauty. The portraits it 
 displays in oil — and plenty of it too — of Mr. Snagsby looking 
 at Mrs. Snagsby, and of Mrs. Snagsby looking at Mr. 
 Snagsby, are in her eyes as achievements of Raphael or Titian. 
 Guster has some recompenses for her many privations. 
 
 Mr. Snagsby refers everything not in the practical mysteries 
 of the business to Mrs. Snagsby. She manages the money, 
 reproaches the Tax-gatherers, appoints the times and places 
 of devotion on Sundays, licenses Mr. Snagsby's entertain- 
 ments, 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 down Chancery 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. Rumour, always 
 flying, bat-like, about Cook's Court, and skimming in and 
 out at everybody's windows, does say that Mrs. 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 observed, that 
 the wives who quote him to their self-willed husbands as a 
 shining example, in reality look down upon him ; and that 
 nobody does so with greater superciliousness than one par- 
 ticular lady, whose lord is more than suspected of laying his 
 umbrella on her as an instrument of correction. But these 
 
158 
 
 BI.EAK HOUSE. 
 
 vague whisperings may arise from Mr. Siiagsby'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 find a stone coffin or two, now, under that chapel, he'll 
 be bound, if you was to dig for it. He solaces his imagina- 
 tion, too, by thinking of the many Chancellors and Vices, and 
 Masters of the Rolls, who are deceased ; and he gets such a 
 flavour of the country out of telling the two 'prentices how 
 he has heard say that a brook " as clear as crystial once ran 
 right down the middle of Holborn, when Turnstile really was 
 a turnstile, leading slap away into the meadows — gets such a 
 flavour of the country out of this, that he never wants to go 
 there. 
 
 The day is closing in and the gas is lighted, but is not yet 
 fully effective, 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 slice of sky belonging to 
 Cook's Court. The crow flies straight across Chancery Lane 
 and Lincoln's Lm Garden, into Lincoln's Lm Fields. 
 
 Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr. 
 Tulkinghorn. It is let off* in sets of chambers now ; and in 
 those shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like 
 maggots in nuts. But its roomy staircases, passages, and 
 ante-chambers still remain ; and even its painted ceilings, 
 where Allegory, in Roman 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 transcendent 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. ^7 
 
Mil. TULKINGHOIWS HOUSE AND OFFICE. 159 
 
 Like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk 
 of the present afternoon. Rusty, out of date, withdrawing 
 from attention, able to afford it. Heavy broad-backed old- 
 fashioned mahogany and horsehair chairs, not easily lifted, 
 obsolete tables 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 w^here 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. Very 
 few loose papers are about. He has some manuscript near 
 him, but is not referring to it. With the round top of an 
 inkstand, and two broken bits of sealing-wax, he is silently 
 and slowly working out whatever train of indecision is in his 
 mind. Now, the inkstand top is in the middle: now, the 
 red bit of sealing-wax, now the black bit. That's not it. 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn must gather them all up and begin again. 
 
 Here, beneath the painted ceiling, with foreshortened 
 Allegory staring down at his intrusion 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. Mr. Tulkinghorn 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 drawn, are drawai by special- 
 pleaders in the Temple on mysterious instructions ; fair copies 
 that he requires to be made, are made at the stationers'*, 
 expense being no consideration. The middle-aged man in the 
 Pew knows scarcely more of the affairs of the Peerage than 
 any crossing-sweeper in Holborn. 
 
 The red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other 
 inkstand top, the little sand-box. So ! You to the middle, 
 
160 
 
 BLEAK IIOUSH. 
 
 you to the right, you to the left. This train of indecision 
 must surely be worked out now or never.— Now ! Mr. 
 Tulkinghorn 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 anything more explicit. 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn goes, as the ci^ow came — not quite so 
 straight, but nearly — to Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. To 
 Snagsby's, liaw-Stationer's, Deeds engrossed and copied, 
 Law- Writing executed in all its branches, &c., &c., &c. 
 
 It is somewhere about five or six o'^clock in the afternoon, 
 and a balmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in Cook's Court. 
 It hovers about Snagsby's door. The hours are early there; 
 dinner at half-past one, and supper at half-past nine. Mr, 
 Snagsby was about to descend into the subterranean regions 
 to take tea, when he looked out of his door just now, and 
 saw the crow who was out late, 
 
 "Master at home?'' 
 
 Guster is minding the 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 opposite house, 
 are not driving the two 'prentices to distraction, as they 
 fondly suppose, but are merely awakening the unprofitable 
 admiration of Guster, whose hair won't grow, and never 
 would, and, it is confidently thought, never will, 
 
 " Master at home ? " says Mr. Tulkinghorn. 
 
 Master is at home, and Guster will fetch him. Guster 
 disappears, glad to get out of the shop, which she regards 
 with mingled dread and veneration as a storehouse of awful 
 implements of the great torture of the law ; a place not to 
 be entered after the gas is turned off. 
 
 Mr. Snagsby appears : greasy, warm, herbaceous, and 
 chewing. Bolts a bit of bread and butter. Says, "Bless 
 my soul, sir ! Mr. Tulkinghorn ! " 
 
 " I want half a word with you, Snagsby." 
 
A VISITOR TO MR. SNAGSBY. 
 
 161 
 
 "Certainly, sir! Dear me, sir, why didn't you send your 
 young man round for me? Pray walk into the back shop, 
 sir." Snagsby has brightened in a moment. 
 
 The confined room, strong of parchment-grease, is warehouse, 
 counting-house, and copying-office. Mr. Tulkinghorn sits, 
 facing round, on a stool at the desk. 
 
 " Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby."'' 
 
 "Yes, sir.''' Mr. Snagsby turns 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. 
 
 "You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately.'' 
 
 "Yes, sir, we did." 
 
 " There was one of them," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, carelessly 
 feeling — tight, unopenable Oyster of the old school ! — in the 
 wrong coat-pocket, "the handwriting of which is peculiar, 
 and I rather like. As I happened to be passing, and thought 
 I had it about me, I looked in to ask you — but I haven't 
 got it. No matter, any other time will do — Ah ! here it is ! 
 — I looked in to ask you who copied this ? " 
 
 "Who copied 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 hand 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 seemed 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 sure ! 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 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
162 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Law-stationer, read it while the forefinger was coming clown 
 the hill. 
 
 " What do you call him? Nemo?**'' says Mr. Tiilkinghorn. 
 
 "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 Enghsh for some one, sir, I think,"''' Mr. 
 Snagsby submits, with his deferential cough. "It is a 
 person''s name. Here it is, you see, sir ! Forty-two folio. 
 Given out Wechiesday 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 should say, 
 " My dear, a customer ! " 
 
 "Half after nine, sir," repeats Mr. Snagsby. "Our law- 
 writers, who live by job-work, are a queer lot ; and this may 
 not be his name, but i^s the name he goes by. I remember 
 now, sir, that he gives it in a written advertisement he sticks 
 up down at the Rule Office, and the King's Bench Office, and 
 the Judges' Chambers, and so forth. You know the kind 
 of document, sir — wanting employ ? " 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the 
 back of Coavinses', the sheriff's officer's, where lights shine 
 in Coavinses' windows. Coavinses' coffee-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 effect : " Tul-king-horn — rich — in-flu-en-tial ! " 
 
 " Have you given this man work before I " asks Mr. 
 Tulkinghorn. 
 
 "O dear, yes, sir! Work of yours." 
 
A COPYING-CLERICS LODGINGS. 163 
 
 ''Thinking of more important matters, I forget where you 
 said he Hved ? 
 
 "Across the lane, sir. In fact, he lodges at a — '"^ Mr. 
 Snagsby makes another bolt, as if the bit of bread and butter 
 were insurmountable — "at a rag and bottle shop/'" 
 
 " Can you show me the place as I go back ? 
 
 " With the greatest pleasure, sir ! 
 
 Mr. Snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his grey coat, pulls 
 on 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. Tulkingliorn ? 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 still 
 lying open. Is evidently curious. 
 
 "You will find that the place is rough, sir,'*'' says Mr. 
 Snagsby, walking deferentially in the road, and leaving the 
 narrow pavement to the lawyer ; " and the party is very 
 rough. But they're a wild lot in general, sir. The advantage 
 of this particular man is, that he never wants sleep. He'll 
 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 
 full effect. Jostling against clerks going to post the day's 
 letters, and against counsel and attorneys going home to 
 dinner, and against plaintiffs and defendants, and suitors of 
 all 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 of nobody knows what, and 
 collects about us nobody knows whence or how : we only 
 knowing in general that when there is too much of it, we 
 find it necessary to shovel it away — the lawyer and the 
 
164 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 law-statioliei" come to a Rag and Bottle shop, and general 
 emporium of much disregarded merchandise, lying and being 
 in the shadow of the wall of Lincoln''s Inn, 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 uncon- 
 cernedly. "Thank you."' 
 
 "Are you not going in, sir?*" 
 
 " No, thank you, no ; I am going on to the Fields at 
 present. Good evening. Thank you ! Mr. Snagsby lifts 
 his hat, and returns to his little woman and his tea. 
 
 But Mr. Tulkinghorn does not go on to the Fields at 
 present. He goes a short way, turns 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 part 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. Krook has eyed his man narrowly. Knows him by 
 sight. Has an indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute. 
 
 "Did you wish to see him, sir?*^** 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It's what I seldom do myself,"' says Mr. Krook with a 
 grin. " Shall I call him down ? But it's a weak chance if 
 he'd come, sir ! " 
 
 " I'll go up to him, then," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. 
 
 " 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. Tulkinghorn. " Hi — hi ! " he 
 says, when Mr. Tulkinghorn has nearly disappeared. The 
 lawyer looks down over the hand-rail. The cat expands he 
 wicked mouth, and snarls at him. 
 
MR. KROOirS ADVICE. 
 
 165 
 
 Order, Lady Jane ! Behave yourself to visitors, my lady I 
 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. FlI tell you what, though ; 
 my lodger is so black -humoured and gloomy that I believe 
 he'd as soon make that bargain as any other. Don't put 
 him out, sir. That's my advice ! " 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way. He comes 
 to the dark door on the second floor. He 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 extin- 
 guished it, if he had not. It is a small room, nearly black 
 with soot, and gi'ease, and dirt. In the rusty skeleton of a 
 grate, pinched at the middle as if Poverty had gripped it, a 
 red coke fire burns low. In the corner by the chimney, stand 
 a deal table and a broken desk ; a wilderness marked with a 
 rain of ink. In another corner, a ragged old portmanteau 
 on one of the two chairs, serves for cabinet or wardrobe ; no 
 larger one is 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 perishing upon the hearth. 
 No curtain veils the darkness of the night, but the discoloured 
 shutters are drawn together; and through the two gaunt 
 holes pierced in them, famine might be staring in — the Ban- 
 shee of the man upon the bed. 
 
 For, on a low bed opposite the fire, a confusion of dirty 
 patchwork, lean-ribbed ticlcing, 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 
 yellow look in the spectral darkness of a candle that has gut- 
 tered down, until the whole length of its wick (still burning) 
 has doubled over, and left a tower of ^vinding-sheet above it. 
 His hair is ragged, mingling with his whiskei\s and his beard 
 
166 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 — 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 is, 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 odour of stale 
 tobacco, there comes into the lawyer's mouth the bitter, 
 vapid taste of opium. 
 
 " Hallo, my friend ! he cries, and strikes his iron candle- 
 stick against the door. 
 
 He thinks he has awakened his friend. He lies a little 
 turned away, but his eyes are surely open. 
 
 " Hallo, my friend ! he cries again. " Hallo ! Hallo ! 
 
 As he rattles on the 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. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 OUll DEAR BROTHER. 
 
 A TOUCH on the lawyer's wrinkled hand, as he stands in 
 the dark room, irresolute, makes him start and say "AVhat's 
 that?" 
 
 " It's me,*" returns the old man of the house, whose breath 
 is in his ear. " Can't you wake him ? '' 
 " No." 
 
 " AVhat have you done v/ith 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 ineffectual 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 wall, 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. 
 
168 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 ^' God save us ! exclaims Mr. Tulkinghorn. " He is dead ! 
 
 Krook drops the heavy hand he has taken up, so suddenly 
 that the arm swings over the bedside. 
 
 They look at one another for a moment. 
 
 ^' Send for some doctor ! Call for Miss Elite up the stairs, 
 sir. Here's poison by the bed ! Call out for Elite, 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 
 Elite ! Elite ! Make haste, here, whoever you are ! Elite \ 
 Krook follows him with his eyes, and, while he is calling, 
 linds opportunity 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 
 — with a broad snuffy upper lip, and a broad 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 Phairy ! 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) in- 
 quires if he has been dead any time ? 
 
 " Any time, sir ? says the medical gentleman. " It's 
 probable he wull have been dead aboot three hours." 
 
 "About that time, I should say," observes a dark young 
 man, on the other side of the bed. 
 
 "Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?'' 
 inquires the first. 
 
 The dark young man says yes. 
 
 " Then I'll just tak' my depairture," replies the 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 n^me by becoming indeed No one, 
 
TOO MUCH OPIUM. 
 
 169 
 
 "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 from 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 flavoured 
 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 tell. He was 
 very poor, I suppose ? " 
 
 "I suppose he was. His room — don't look rich," says Krook, 
 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 circumstances 
 to me." 
 
 " Did he owe you any rent ? " 
 "Six weeks." 
 
 " He will never pay it ! " says the young man, resuming 
 his examination. " 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 his face towards that other face, 
 and his hand upon the region of the heart. "I recollect 
 once thinking there was something in his manner, uncouth 
 as it was, that denoted a fall in life. Was that so.?" he 
 continues, looking round, 
 
170 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Krook replies, " You might as well 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-writing, I know no more of him.*" 
 
 During this dialogue, Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by 
 the old portmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally 
 removed, to all appearance, from all three kinds of interest 
 exhibited near the bed — from the young surgeon's professional 
 interest in death, noticeable as being quite apart from his 
 remarks on the deceased as an individual ; from the old man's 
 unction ; and the little crazy woman's awe. His imperturb- 
 able face has been as inexpressive as his rusty clothes. One 
 could not even say he has been thinking all this while. He 
 has shown neither patience nor 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. Tulkinghorn from Ms case. 
 
 He now interposes ; addressing the young surgeon, in his 
 unmoved, professional way. 
 
 " I looked in here," he observes, "just before you, with the 
 intention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw 
 alive, some employment at his trade of copying. I had heard 
 of him from my stationer — Snagsby of Cook's Court. Since 
 no one here knows anything about him, it might be as 
 well to send for Snagsby. Ah ! " to the little crazy woman, 
 who has often seen him in Court, and whom he has often 
 seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show, to go for 
 the law-stationer. " Suppose you do ! " 
 
 While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless in- 
 vestigation, and covers its subject with the patchwork counter- 
 pane. Mr. Krook and he interchange a word or two. Mr, 
 Tulkinghorn says nothing; but stands, ever, near the old 
 portmanteau. 
 
 Mr. Snagsby arrives hastily, in his grey coat and his black 
 sleeves. " Dear me, dear me," he says ; " and it has come to 
 this, has it ! Bless my soul ! " ^ 
 
ABOUT NEMO OR NIMROD. 
 
 171 
 
 ''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 his hand ; " I really don't know what advice I 
 could offer, except sending for the beadle.'' 
 
 "I don't speak of advice," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn. "/ 
 could advise " 
 
 ("No one better, sir, I am sure," says Mr. Snagsby, v;ith 
 his deferential cough.) 
 
 "I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to 
 where he came from, or to anything concerning him." 
 
 "I assure you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, after prefacing his 
 reply with his cough of general propitiation, " that I no more 
 know where he came from than I know " 
 
 " Where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the surgeon, to 
 help him out. 
 
 A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the lav/-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 couldn'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 rag and bottle 
 shop " 
 
 " That was the time ! " says Krook, with a nod. 
 
 " About a year and a half ago," says Mr. Snagsby, strength- 
 ened, " he came into our place one morning after breakfast, 
 and, finding my httle woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby 
 when I use that appellation) in our shop, produced a specimen 
 of his handwriting, and gave her to understand that he was in 
 want of copying work to do, and was — not to put too fine a 
 point upon it — ^" a favourite apology for plain-speaking with 
 
172 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Mr. Snagsby, which he always offers with a sort of argumenta- 
 tive 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 un- 
 shaved, 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 the way he gradually fell into job-work at our 
 place; and that is the most I know of him, except that he 
 was a quick hand, and a hand not sparing of night-work ; 
 and that if you gave him out, say five-and-forty folio on the 
 Wednesday night, you would have it brought in on the 
 Thursday morning. All of which — " Mr. Snagsby concludes 
 by politely motioning with his hat towards the bed, as much 
 as to add, "I have no doubt my honourable friend would 
 confirm, if he were in a condition to do it.'' 
 
 " Hadn't you better see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn to 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, other- 
 wise. Being here, I'll wait, if you make haste ; and then. I 
 can testify on his behalf, if it should ever be necessary, that 
 all was fair and right. If you will hold the candle for Mr. 
 Snagsby, my friend, he'll soon see whether there is anything 
 to help you," 
 
A FRUITLESS SEARCH. 
 
 "In the first plice, here's an old portmanteau, sirj**' says 
 Snagsby. 
 
 Ah, 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 surgeon leans against the 
 corner of the chimney-piece ; Miss Elite peeps and trembles just 
 within the door. The apt old scholar of the old school, with 
 his dull black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees, his 
 large black waistcoat, his long-sleeved black coat, and his 
 wisp of limp white neckerchief tied in the bow the Peerage 
 knows so well, 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 
 crumpled paper, smelling of opium, on which are scrawled 
 rough memoranda — as, took, such a day, so many grains; 
 took, such another day, so many more — begun some time ago, 
 as if with the intention of being 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 drawer of the ink-splashed 
 table. There is not a morsel of an old letter, or of any 
 other writing, in either. The young surgeon examines the 
 dress on the law-writer. A knife and some odd halfpence 
 are all he finds. Mr. Snagsby's suggestion is the practical 
 suggestion after all, and the beadle must be called in. 
 
 So the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest 
 come out of ^he room. " Don't leave the cat there ! " says 
 the surgeon : " that won't do ! " Mr. Krook therefore drives 
 her out before him ; and she goes furtively down-stairs, wind- 
 ing her lithe tail and licking her lips. 
 
 " Good night ! " says Mr. Tulkinghorn ; and goes home to 
 Allegory and meditation. 
 
 By this time the news has got into the court. Groups of 
 
174 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 its inhabitants assemble to discuss the thing; and the out- 
 posts 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 
 condescending to see the boys at his base occasionally; but 
 whenever he does see them, they quail and fall back. Mrs. 
 Perking, who has not been for some weeks on speaking terms 
 with Mrs. Piper, in consequence of an unpleasantness origin- 
 ating in young Perkins having " fetched young Piper " a 
 crack,"' renews her friendly intercourse on this auspicious 
 occasion. The potboy at the corner, who is a privileged 
 amateur, as possessing official knowledge of life, and having 
 to deal with drunken men occasionally, exchanges confidential 
 communications with the policeman, and has the appearance 
 of an impregnable youth, unassailable by truncheons and 
 unconfinable in station-houses. People talk across the court 
 out of window, and bare-headed scouts come hurrying in 
 from Chancery Lane to know w^hat's the matter. The general 
 feeling seems to be that it's a blessing Mr. Krook warn't made 
 away with first, mingled with a little natural disappointment 
 that he was not. In the midst of this sensation, the beadle 
 arrives. 
 
 The beadle, though generally understood in the neighbour- 
 hood to be a ridiculous institution, is not without a certain 
 popularity for the moment, if it w^ere only as a man who 
 is going to see the body. The policeman considers him an 
 imbecile civilian, a remnant of the barbarous watchmen-times ; 
 but gives him admission, as something that must be borne 
 with until Government shall abolish him. The sensation is 
 heightened, as the tidings spread from mouth to mouth that 
 the beadle is on the ground, and has gone in. 
 
 By-and-by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying 
 the sensation, which has rather languished in the interval. He 
 is understood to be in want of witnesses, for the Inquest 
 to-morrow, who can tell the Coroner and Jury anything 
 
THE BEADLE ON THE GROUND. 175 
 
 whatever respecting the deceased. Is immediately referred 
 to innumerable people who can tell nothing whatever. Is 
 made more imbecile by being constantly informed that Mrs. 
 Green's son " was a law-writer his-self, and knowed him better 
 than anybody — which son of Mrs. Green's appears, on in- 
 quiry, to be at the present time aboard a vessel bound for 
 China, three months out, but considered accessible by telegraph, 
 on application to the Lords of the Admiralty. Beadle goes 
 into various shops and parlours, examining the inhabitants; 
 always shutting the door first, and by exclusion, delay, and 
 general idiotcy, exasperating the public. Policeman seen 
 to smile to potboy. Public loses interest, and undergoes 
 reaction. Taunts the beadle, in shrill youthful voices, with 
 having boiled a boy ; choruses fragments of a popular song 
 to that effect, and importing that the boy was made into 
 soup for the workhouse. Policeman at last finds it necessary 
 to support the law, and seize a vocalist ; who is released upon 
 the flight of the rest, on condition of his getting out of this 
 then, come ! a,nd cutting it — a condition he immediately 
 observes. So the sensation dies off for the time ; and the 
 unmoved policeman (to whom a little opium, more or less, is 
 nothing), with his shining hat, stiff stock, inflexible great-coat, 
 stout belt and bracelet, and all things fitting, pursues his 
 lounging way with a heavy tread : beating the palms of his 
 white gloves one against the other, and stopping now and 
 then, at a street-corner, to look casually about for anything 
 between a lost child and a murder. 
 
 Under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes 
 flitting about Chancery Lane with his summonses, in which 
 every Juror's name is wrongly spelt, and nothing rightly 
 spelt but the beadle's own name, which nobody can read or 
 wants to know. The summonses served, and his witnesses 
 forewarned, the beadle goes to Mr. Krook's, to keep a small 
 appointment he has made with certain paupers; v/ho, pre- 
 sently arriving, are conducted up-stairs ; where they leave 
 the great eyes in the shutter something new to stare at, 
 
176 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 in that last shape which earthly lodgings take for No one — 
 and for Every one. 
 
 And, all that night, the coffin stands ready by the old 
 portmanteau; and the lonely figure on the bed, whose path 
 in life has lain through five-and-forty years, lies there, with 
 no more track behind him, that any one can trace, than a 
 deserted infant. 
 
 Next day the court is all alive — is like a fair, as Mrs. 
 Perkins, more than reconciled to Mrs. Piper, says, in amicable 
 conversation with that excellent woman. The Coroner is to 
 sit in the first-floor room at the SoPs Arms, where the Har- 
 monic 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 sustain- 
 ing, 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 establish- 
 ment and the door of the SoFs Arms, shows the curiosity in 
 his keeping to a few discreet spirits, and accepts the compli- 
 ment of a glass of ale or so in return. 
 
 At the appointed hour arrives the Coroner, for whom the 
 Jurymen are waiting, and who is received with a salute of 
 skittles from the good dry skittle-ground attached to the SoPs 
 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 land- 
 lord to the Harmonic Meeting Room, where he puts his hat 
 on the piano, and takes a Windsor-chair at the head of a 
 long table, formed of several short tables put together, and 
 ornamented with glutinous rings in endless involutions, made 
 by pots and glasses. As many of the Jury as can croM^d 
 
THE CORONER'S INQUEST. 
 
 177 
 
 tofrether at the table sit there. The rest get among the 
 spittoons and pipes, or lean against the piano. Over the 
 Coroner's head is a small iron garland, the pendant handle 
 of a bell, which rather gives the Majesty of the Court the 
 appearance of going to be hanged presently. 
 
 Call over and swear the Jury ! While the ceremony is in 
 progress, sensation is created by the entrance of a chubby 
 little man in a large shirt-collar, with a moist eye, and an 
 inflamed nose, who modestly takes a position near the door 
 as one of the general public, but seems familiar with the room 
 too. A whisper circulates that this is Little Swills. It is 
 considered not unlikely that he will get up an imitation of 
 the Coroner, and make it the principal feature of the Har- 
 monic 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 im- 
 panelled 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. Krook's back second floor, from which a few of the Jury- 
 men retire pale and precipitately. The beadle is very careful 
 that two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs and buttons 
 (for whose accommodation he has provided a special little 
 table near the Coroner, in the Harmonic Meeting Room) 
 should see all that is to be seen. For they are the public 
 chroniclers of such inquiries, by the line; and he is not 
 superior to the universal human infirmity, but hopes to read 
 in print what " Mooney, the active and intelligent beadle of 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
178 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 the district,*" said and did ; and even aspires to see the name 
 of Mooney as familiarly and patronisingly mentioned as the 
 name of the Hangman is, according to the latest examples. 
 
 Little Swills is waiting for the Coroner and Jury on their 
 return. Mr. Tulkinghorn, also. Mr. Tulkinghorn is received 
 with distinction, and seated near the Coroner; between that 
 high judicial officer, a bagatelle-board, and the coal-box. The 
 inquiry proceeds. The Jury learn how the subject of their 
 inquiry died, and learn no more about him. " A very eminent 
 solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen,'"' says the Coroner, " who, 
 I am informed, ^vas accidentally present, when discovery of 
 the death was made ; but he could only repeat the evidence 
 you have already heard from 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 ? '''' 
 
 Mrs. Piper pushed forward by Mrs. Perkins. Mrs. Piper 
 sworn. 
 
 Anastasia Piper, gentlemen. Married woman. Now, Mrs. 
 Piper — what have you got to say about this ? 
 y Why, Mrs. Piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in t 
 parentheses and without punctuation, but not much to tell. | 
 Mrs. Piper lives in the court (which her husband is a cabinet- < 
 maker), and it has long been well beknown among the 
 neighbours (counting from the day next but one before the 
 half-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 originatinin. See 
 the Plaintive often and considered as his air was feariocious 
 and not to be allowed to go about some children being 
 timid (and if doubted hoping Mrs. Perkins may be brought 
 forard for she is here and will do credit to her husband and j 
 herself and family). Has seen the Plaintive wexed and 
 
A DEPRAVED WITNESS. 
 
 179 
 
 worrited by the children (for children they will ever be 
 and you cannot expect them specially if of playful disposi- 
 tions to be Methoozellers which you was not yourself). On 
 accounts of this and his dark looks has often dreamed as she 
 see him take a pick-axe from his pocket and split Johnny'^s 
 head (which the child knows not fear and has repeatually 
 called after him close at his eels). Never however see the 
 Plaintive take a pick-axe or any other wepping far from it. 
 Has seen him hurry away when run and called after as if 
 not partial to children and never see him speak to neither 
 child nor grown person at any time (excepting the boy that 
 sweeps the crossing down the lane over the way round the 
 corner which if he was here would tell you that he has been 
 seen a-speaking to him frequent). 
 
 Says the Coroner, is that boy here ? Says the beadle, no, 
 sir, he is not here. Says the Coroner, go and fetch him 
 then. In the absence of the active and intelligent, the 
 Coroner converses with Mr. Tulkinghorn. 
 
 0 ! Here's the boy, gentlemen ! 
 
 Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Now, 
 boy ! — But stop a minute. Caution. This boy must be 
 put through a few preliminary paces. 
 
 Name, Jo. Nothing else that he knows on. Don't know 
 that everybody has two names. Never heerd of sich a think. 
 Don't know that Jo is short for a longer name. Thinks it 
 long enough for him. He don't find no fault wdth it. Spell 
 it ? No. He can't spell it. No father, 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'U be done to him 
 arter he's dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen here, but 
 believes it'll be something wery bad to punish him, and serve 
 him right— and so he'll tell the truth. 
 
 " This won't do, gentlemen ! " said the Coroner, with a 
 melancholy shake of the head. 
 
180 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Don't you think you can receive his evidence, sir?**^ asks 
 an attentive Juryman. ' 
 
 " Out of the question,*" says the Coroner. " You have 
 heard the boy. 'Can't exactly say' won't do, you know. 
 We can't take tliat^ 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 Swills, the Comic Vocalist. 
 
 Now, Is there any other vv^itness ? No other witness. 
 
 Very well, gentlemen ! Here's a man unknown, proved to 
 have been in the habit of taking opium in large quantities 
 for a year and a half, found dead of too much opium. If 
 you think you have any evidence to lead you to the con- 
 clusion that he committed suicide, you will come to that 
 conclusion. If you think it is a case of accidental death, 
 you will find a Verdict accordingly. 
 
 Verdict accordingly. Accidental death. No doubt. 
 Gentlemen, you are discharged. Good afternoon. 
 
 While the Coroner buttons his great-coat, Mr. Tulking- 
 horn and he give private audience to the rejected witness in 
 a corner. 
 
 That graceless creature only knows that the dead man 
 (whom he recognised 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.^ 
 
LITTLE SWILLS. 
 
 181 
 
 "He was wery good to mc,**'' says the boy, wiping his eyes 
 with his wretched sleeve. " Wen I see him a-layin** so stritched 
 out just now, I wished he could have heerd me tell him so. 
 He wos wery good to me, he wos ! '''' 
 
 As he shuffles down-stairs, Mr. Snagsby, lying in wait for 
 him, puts a half-crov/n in his hand. " If you ever see me 
 coming past your crossing with my little woman — I mean a 
 lady — says Mr. Snagsby, with his finger on his nose, 
 "don't allude to it!"*' 
 
 For some little time the Jurymen 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 parlour of the 
 SoFs Arms ; two stroll to Hampstead ; and four 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 popular, 
 commends him highly 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 would fill a cart. 
 
 Thus, gradually the Sol's Arms melts into the shadowy 
 night, and then flares out of it strong in gas. The 
 Harmonic Meeting hour arriving, the gentleman of pro- 
 fessional celebrity takes the chair; is faced (red-faced) by 
 Little Swills ; their friends rally round them, and support 
 first-rate talent. In the zenith of the evening. Little Swills 
 says. Gentlemen, if you'll permit me, I'll attempt a short 
 description of a scene of real life that came off here to-da}^ 
 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, with 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 
 
182 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 friends rally round their pillows. Then there is rest around 
 the lonely figure, now laid in its last earthly habitation ; 
 and it is watched by the gaunt eyes in the shutters through 
 some quiet hours of night. If this forlorn man could have 
 been prophetically seen lying here, by the mother at whose 
 breast he 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, Vv^hat an impossibility the 
 vision would have seemed ! O, if, in brighter days, the now- 
 extinguished fire within him ever burned for one w^oman who 
 held him in her heart, where is she, while these ashes are 
 above the ground ! 
 
 It is anything but a night of rest at Mr. Snagsby's, in 
 Cook's Court ; 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 seizure 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 
 direfuUy impressed at tea-time by Mr. Snagsby''s account of 
 the inquiry at which he had assisted, that at supper-time 
 she projected herself into the 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, drawing 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 
 
A GIIAVE^YARD AND ITS VISITOR. 183 
 
 thus crow (so men crow on various triumphant public occa- 
 sions, however) about what cannot be of any moment 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 off the body of our dear brother here 
 departed, to a hemmed-in churchyard, pestiferous and obscene, 
 whence malignant diseases are communicated to the bodies of 
 our dear brothers and sisters who have not departed ; while 
 our dear brothers and sisters who hang about official back- 
 stairs — would to Heaven they had departed ! — are very com- 
 placent and agreeable. Into a beastly scrap of ground which 
 a Turk would reject as a savage abomination, and a Caffre 
 would shudder at, they bring our dear brother here departed, 
 to receive Christian burial. 
 
 With houses looking on, on every side, save where a reek- 
 ing little tunnel 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 boastful island together. 
 
 Come night, come darkness, for you cannot come too soon, 
 or stay too long, by such a place as this ! Come, straggling 
 lights into the windows of the ugly houses ; and you who do 
 iniquity therein, do it at least Avith this dread scene shut 
 out! Come, flame of gas, burning so sullenly above the iron 
 gate, on which the poisoned air deposits its witch-ointment 
 slimy to the touch ! It is well that you 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 with its hands, and looks in between the bars ; stands 
 looking in, for a little while. 
 
184 
 
 BLiEAK HOUSE. 
 
 It then, with an old broom it carries, softly sweeps 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, well ! Though a rejected witness, 
 who "can't exactly say**' what will be done to him in greater 
 hands than menu's, thou art not quite in outer darkness. 
 There is something like a distant ray of light in thy muttered 
 reason for this : 
 
 " He wos wery good to me, he wos ! ^ 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 OiV THE WATCH. 
 
 It has left off raining down 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 fashionable intelligence has found it 
 out, and communicates the glad tidings to benighted England. 
 It has also found out, that they will entertain a brilliant 
 and distinguished circle of the elite of the beau vionde (the 
 fashionable intelligence is weak in English, but a giant 
 refreshed in French), at the ancient and hospitable family 
 seat in Lincolnshire. 
 
 For the gi-eater honour 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 gracefully, 
 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 windows, and touches the ancestral 
 portraits with bars and patches of brightness, never contem- 
 plated by the painters. Athwart the picture of my Lady, 
 over the great chimney-piece, it throws a broad bend-sinister 
 of light that strikes down crookedly into the hearth, and 
 seems to rend it. 
 
186 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Through the same cold sunshine, and the same sharp wind, 
 my Lady and Sir Leicester, in their travelHng chariot (my 
 Lady's woman, and Sir Leicester's man affectionate in the 
 rumble), start for home. With a considerable amount of 
 jingling and whip-cracking, and many plunging demonstra- 
 tions on the part of two bare-backed horses, and two Centaurs 
 with glazed hats, jack-boots, and flowing manes and tails, 
 they rattle out of the yard of the Hotel Bristol in the Place 
 Vendome, and canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered 
 colonnade of the Rue de Rivoli and the garden of the ill- 
 fated palace of a headless king and 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 w^re gay — within the walls, playing with children 
 among the clipped trees and the statues in the Palace Garden ; 
 walking, a score abreast, in the Elysian Fields, made more 
 Elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses ; between 
 whiles filtering (a few) through the gloomy Cathedral of our 
 Lady, to say a word or two at the base of a pillar, within 
 flare of a rusty little gridiron-full of gusty little tapers 
 — without the walls, encompassing Paris with 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 own 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 
 
SIR LEICESTER AND LADY DEDLOCK. 187 
 
 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 con- 
 template his own greatness. It is a considerable advantage 
 to a man, to have so inexhaustible 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 whatever.'' 
 
 " I saw one of Mr. Tulkinghorn's long effusions, I think ? " 
 
 "You see everything," says Sir Leicester, with admiration. 
 
 "Ha!*' sighs my Lady. "He is the most tiresome of 
 men ! " 
 
 " He sends — I really beg your pardon — he sends," says Sir 
 Leicester, selecting the letter, and unfolding it, "a message 
 to you. 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 I^dy looks a little 
 irritated. "He 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. Will you 
 do me the favour to mention (as it may interest her), that I 
 have something to tell her on her return, in reference to the 
 person who copied the affidavit in the Chancery 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. 
 
188 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 I should like to walk a little/*' says my Lady, still looking 
 out of her window. 
 
 " Walk ! repeats Sir Leicester, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 "I should like to walk a little,'''' says my Lady, with un- 
 mistakable 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 an impatient motion of my Lady's hand. My Lady alights 
 so quickly, and walks 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 befoi'c 
 he comes up with her. She smiles, looks very handsome, 
 takes his arm, lounges with him for a quarter of a mile, is 
 very 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-crack- 
 ing, and more or less plunging of Centaurs and bare-backed 
 horses. Their courtly politeness to each other, at the Hotels 
 where they tarry, is the theme of general admiration. Though 
 my Lord is a little aged for my Lady, says 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 of 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 whose aristocratic system it 
 effects a dismal revolution. It is the Radical of Nature to 
 him. Nevertheless, 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, 
 
ROSA. 
 
 189 
 
 — and through the same sharp wind — sharper as the sepa- 
 rate shadows of bare trees gloom together in the woods, and 
 as the Ghost's Walk, touched at the western corner by a 
 pile of fire in the sky, resigns itself to coming night, — they 
 drive into the park. The Rooks, swinging in their lofty 
 houses in the elm-tree avenue, seem to discuss the question 
 of the occupancy of the cari:iage 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 obsti- 
 nate and drowsy bird, who will persist in putting in a last 
 contradictory croak. Leaving them to swing 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. 
 
 Mrs. Rouncewell is in attendance, and receives Sir Leicester's 
 customary shake of the hand with a profound curtsey. 
 
 " How do you do, Mrs. Rouncewell ? I am glad to see 
 you." 
 
 " I hope I have the honour of welcoming you in good health. 
 Sir Leicester ? 
 
 ^^In excellent health, Mrs. Rouncewell.*" 
 
 "My Lady is looking charmingly well," says Mrs. Rounce- 
 well, with another curtsey. 
 
 My Lady signifies, without profuse expenditure of words, 
 that she is as wearily well as she can hope to be. 
 
 But Rosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper ; and 
 my Lady, who has not subdued the quickness of her observa- 
 tion, whatever else she may have conquered, asks : 
 
 "Who is that girl?" 
 
 "A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Rosa." 
 " Come here, Rosa ! " Lady Dedlock beckons her, with even 
 an appearance of interest. " Why, do you know how pretty 
 
190 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 you are, child P^** she says, touching her shoulder with her 
 two forefingers. 
 
 Rosa, 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 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 That evening, in the housekeeper's room, Rosa can do 
 nothing but murmur Lady Dedlock's praises. She is so 
 affable, so graceful, so beautiful, so elegant ; has such a sweet 
 voice and such a thrilling touch, that Rosa can feel it yet! 
 Mrs. Rouncewell confirms all this, not without personal pride, 
 reserving only the one point of affability. Mrs. Rouncewell 
 is not quite sure as to that. Heaven forbid that she should 
 say a syllable in dispraise of any member of that excellent 
 family ; above all, of my Lady, whom the whole world 
 admires ; but if my Lady would only be " a little more free," 
 not quite so cold and distant, Mrs. Rouncewell thinks she 
 would be more affable. 
 
 " Tis almost a pity," Mrs. Rouncewell adds — only " almost," 
 because it borders on impiety to suppose that anything could 
 be better than it is, in such an express dispensation as the 
 Dedlock affairs ; " that my Lady has no family. If she had 
 had a daughter now, a grown young lady, to interest her, I 
 think she would have had the only kind of excellence she 
 wants." 
 
MY LADY^S MAID. 
 
 191 
 
 Might not that have made her still more proud, grand- 
 mother ? says Watt ; who has been home and come back 
 again, he is such a good grandson. 
 
 " More and most, my dear," returns the housekeeper with 
 dignity, " are words it's not my place to use — nor so much as 
 to hear — applied to any drawback on my Lady."'' 
 
 " I beg your pai'don, grandmother. But she is proud, is 
 she not?" 
 
 "If she is, she has reason to be. The Dedlock family 
 have always reason to be." 
 
 Well ! " says Watt, " it's to be hoped they line out of 
 their Prayer-Books a certain passage for the common people 
 about pi*ide and vainglory. Forgive me, grandmother ! Only 
 a joke ! " 
 
 " Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, my dear, are not fit 
 subjects for joking." 
 
 "Sir Leicester is no joke by any means," says 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 ? " 
 
 " Surely, none in the world, child." 
 
 " I am glad of that," says Watt, " because I have an 
 inexpressible desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful 
 neighbourhood." 
 
 He happens to glance at Rosa, who looks down, and is 
 very shy, indeed. But, according to the old superstition, it 
 should be Rosa's ears 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 
 would be handsome, but for a certain feline mouth, and 
 general uncomfortable tightness of face, rendering the jaws 
 too eager, and the ski;ll too prominent. There is something 
 
19a BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Sndefinably keen and wan about her anatomy u and she has 
 a watchful way of looking out of the corn^ of her eyes 
 without turning her head, which could be pleasantly dispensed 
 with — especially when she is in an ill-humour and near 
 knives. Through all the good taste of her dress and little 
 adornments, these objections ^o express themselves, that she 
 seems to go about like a [very neat She- Wolf imperfectly 
 tamed, i Besides being accomplished in all the knowledge 
 appertaining to her post, she is almost an Englishwoman 
 in her acquaintance with the language — consequently, she 
 is in no want of words to shower upon Rosa for having 
 attracted my Lady's attention ; and she pours them out 
 with such grim ridicule as she sits at dinner, that her com- 
 panion, the affectionate 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 ! H^, ha, ha ! 
 " And do you know how pretty you are, child ? — " No, my 
 Lady.*" — You are right there ! " And how old are you, 
 child ? And take care they do not spoil you by flattery, 
 child ! O how droll ! It is the best thing altogether. 
 
 In short, it is such an admirable thing, that Mademoiselle 
 Hortense can't forget it ; but at meals for days afterwards, 
 even among her countrywomen and others attached in like 
 capacity to the troop of visitors, relapses into silent enjoy- 
 ment of the joke — an enjoyment expressed, in her own 
 convivial manner, by an additional tightness of face, thin 
 elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise look : which 
 intense appreciation of humour is frequently reflected in my 
 Lady's mirrors, when my Lady is not among them. 
 
 All the mirrors in the house are brought into action 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 
 
DANDYISM. 
 
 193 
 
 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 Court of St. James's to their 
 being run down to Death. The place in Lincolnshire is all 
 alive. By day, guns and voices are heard ringing in the 
 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 flavour of the Dedlock dust is quenched in 
 delicate perfumes. 
 
 The brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within 
 it, no contracted amount of education, sense, courage, honour, 
 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, now, 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 
 ^vho is troubled with the self-reproach of having once con- 
 sumed a pea. But is there Dandyism in the brilliant and 
 distinguished circle notwithstanding, Dandyism 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 parti- 
 cularly object? 
 
 ^'^y? y^s. It cannot be disguised. There are, at Chesney 
 
 VOL. I. 0 
 
194 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Wold this January week, some ladies and gentlemen of the 
 newest fashion, who have set up a Dandyism — in Religion, 
 for instance. Who, in mere lackadaisical want of an emotion, 
 have agreed upon a little dandy talk about the Vulgar 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 finding it out ! 
 Who would make the Vulgar very picturesque and faithful, 
 by putting back the hands upon the Clock of Time, and 
 cancelling a few hundred years of history. 
 
 There are also ladies and gentlemen of another 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. For 
 whom everything must be languid and pretty. Who have 
 found out the perpetual stoppage. Who are to rejoice at 
 nothing, and be sorry for nothing. Who are not to be 
 disturbed by ideas. On whom even the Fine Arts, attending 
 in powder and walking backward like the Lord Chamberlain, 
 must array themselves in the milliners^ and tailors'^ patterns 
 of past generations, and be particularly careful not to be in 
 earnest, or to receive any impress from the moving age. 
 
 Then there is my Lord 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 
 formerly was. He perceives with astonishment, that sup- 
 posing the present Government to be overthrown, the limited 
 choice of the Crown, in the formation of a new Ministry, 
 -would lie between Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle — 
 supposing it to be impossible for the Duke of Foodie to act 
 with Goodie, which may be assumed to be the case in con- 
 sequence of the breach arising out of that affair with Hoodie. 
 Then, giving the Home Department and the Leadership of 
 the House of Commons to Joodle, the Exchequer to Koodle^ 
 
BOODLE AND BUFFY. 
 
 195 
 
 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. Yoy 
 can't put him in the Woods and Forests ; that is hardly good 
 enough for Quoodle. What follows? That the country is 
 shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces (as is made manifest to 
 the Patriotism of Sir Leicester Dedlock), because you can't 
 provide for Noodle ! 
 
 On the other hand, the Right Honourable William Buffy, 
 M.P., contends across the table with some one else, that the 
 shipwreck of the country — about which there is no doubt ; it 
 is only the manner of it that is in question — is attributable 
 to Cuffy. If you had done with CufFy what you ought to 
 have done when he first came into Parliament, and had pre- 
 vented him from going over to Duffy, you would have got 
 him into alliance with Fuffy, 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 wealth of Huffy, 
 you would have got in for three counties JufFy, Kuffy, and 
 Luffy, 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, tha,t nobody is in question 
 but Boodle and his retinue, and BufFy and his retinue. These 
 are the great actoi^s for whom the stage is reserved. A 
 People there are, no doubt — a certain large number of super- 
 numeraries, 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 born first- 
 actors, managers, and leaders, and no othex^s can appear upon 
 the scene for ever and ever. 
 
 In this, too, there is perhaps more Dandyism at Chesney 
 
196 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Wold than the brilliant and distinguished circle will find 
 good for itself in the long run. For it is, even with the 
 stillest and politest circles, as with the circle the necromancer 
 3raws 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. 
 
 Chesney Wold is quite full, anyhow ; so full, that a burn- 
 ing sense of injury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies'- 
 maids, and is not to be extinguished. Only one room is 
 empty. It is a turret chamber of the third order of merit, 
 plainly but comfortably furnished, and having an old-fashioned 
 business air. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's room, and is never 
 bestowed on anybody else, for he may come at any time. He 
 is not come yet. It is his quiet habit to walk across the 
 park from the village, in fine 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 Sir 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 fine morning when he 
 is doAvn 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 would 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. Tulkinghorn 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. ^ 
 
MR. TULKINGHORN ARRIVES 197 
 
 Be so good as to attend,"' says my Lady then, addressing 
 the reflection of Hortense, " to your business. You can con- 
 template your beauty at another time.*" 
 
 " Pardon ! It was your Ladyship's beauty.'' 
 
 "That," says my Lady, "you needn't contemplate at all.'^ 
 
 At length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the 
 bright groups of figures, which have for the last hour or two 
 enlivened the Ghost's Walk, are all dispersed, and only 
 Sir Leicester and my Lady remain upon the terrace, Mr. 
 Tulkinghorn appears. He comes towards them at his usual 
 methodical pace, which is never quickened, never slackened, 
 ^e wears his usual expressionless mask-4-if it be a mask — 
 and carries family secrets in every lii^ 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 his own client in that 
 matter, and will never betray himself. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn ? " says Sir Leicester, 
 giving him 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. Tulkinghorn, we 
 remember your existence when you are not here to remind us 
 of it by your presence. We bestow a fragment of our minds 
 upon you, sir, you see ! " 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head, and 
 says he is much obliged. 
 ^ " I should have come down sooner," he explains, " but that 
 rj I have been much engaged with those matters in the several 
 suits between yourself and Boythorn." 
 
 "A man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes Sir 
 Leicester, with severity. "An extremely dangerous pei'son 
 
198 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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,'** pursues the lawyer, " whether you 
 will give up anything."' 
 
 " No, sir,'" replies Sir Leicester. " Nothing. / give up ? '' 
 
 " I don't mean anything of importance. That, of course, 
 I know you would not abandon. I mean any minor 
 point." 
 
 " Mr. Tulkinghorn," returns Sir Leicester, " 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 be a minor point, I speak not so much 
 in reference to myself as an individual, as in reference to 
 the family position I have it in charge to maintain." 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. " I have now my 
 instructions," he says. " Mr. Boythorn will give us a good 
 deal of trouble " 
 
 " It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn," Sir 
 Leicester interrupts 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 I^icester appears to discharge his stately breast of a 
 burden, in passing this capital sentence ; as if it were the next J 
 satisfactory thing to having the sentence executed. 1 
 
 " But night is coming on," says he, " and my Lady will take 
 cold. My dear, let us go in." 
 
 As they turn towards the hall-door, Lady Dedlock addresses * 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn for the first time. 
 
 "You sent me a message respecting the person whose ^ 
 
DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 199 
 
 writing I happened to inquire aJ30ut. It was like you to 
 remember the circumstance ; I had quite forgotten it. Your 
 message reminded me of it again. I can't imagine what 
 association I had, with a hand Hke that ; but I surely had 
 some.'' 
 
 " You had some ? " Mr, 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, through 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-corner, 
 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. 
 
 "I 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 ! Dead ? " 
 
200 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his 
 head. "Whether by his own hand 
 
 " Upon my honour ! cries Sir Leicester. " Really ! 
 
 " Do let me hear the story ! says my Lady. 
 
 "Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say ""^ 
 
 " No, you mustn'^t say ! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn."'' 
 
 Sir Leicester''s gallantry concedes the point ; though he 
 still feels that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper 
 classes is really — really 
 
 "I was about to say,'\resumes the lawyer, with undisturbed 
 calmness, " that whether he had died by his own hand or Dot, 
 it was beyond my power to tell you. I should amend that 
 phrase, however, by saying that he had unquestionably died 
 of his own act ; though whether by his own deliberate inten- 
 tion, 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 de- 
 plorable creature ? " 
 
 "Very difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his 
 head. " He had lived so wretchedly, and was so neglected, 
 with his gipsy colour, 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 ones 
 knew his name." I 
 
 " Not even any one who had attended on him ? " ] 
 
 " No one had attended on him. He was found dead. Ill 
 fact, I found him." 1 
 
 "Without any clue to anything more.^" 1 
 
 " Without any ; there was," says the lawyer meditatively! 
 "an old portmanteau; but — No, there were no papers." 1 
 
 During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, 
 Lady Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other 
 alteration in their customary deportment, have looked very 
 
A COLLECTION OF HORRORS. 201 
 
 steadily at one another — as was natural, perhaps, in the dis- 
 cussion 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, gather- 
 ing 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 succes- 
 sion. 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 repository 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, ever- 
 more mistrustful of some great reservation ; 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 XIIL 
 
 esther''s narrative. 
 
 We held many consultations about what Richard was to be;^ 
 first, without Mr. Jarndyce, as he had requested, and after- 
 wards with him ; but it was a long time before we seemed to 
 make progress, Richard said he was ready for anything. 
 When Mr. Jarndyce doubted whether he might not already 
 be too old to enter the Navy, Richard said he had thought 
 of that, and perhaps he was. When Mr. Jarndyce asked him 
 what he thought of the Army, Richard said he had thought 
 of that, too, and it wasn't a bad idea. When Mr. Jarndyce 
 advised him to try and decide within himself, whether his old 
 preference for the sea was an ordinary boyish inclination, or 
 a strong impulse, Richard answered, Well, he really had 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 
 uncertainty and procrastination on which he has been thrown 
 from his birth, I don't pretend to say; but that Chancery, 
 among its other sins, is responsible for some of it, I can 
 plainly see. It has engendered or confirmed in him a habit 
 of putting off — and trusting to this, that, and the other 
 chance, without knowing what chance — and dismissing every- 
 thing as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. The character 
 of much older and steadier people may be even changed by 
 the circumstances surrounding them. It would be too much 
 
WHAT IS RICHARD TO BE? 
 
 203 
 
 to expect that a boy's, in its formation, should be the subject 
 of such influences, and escape them."" 
 
 I felt this to be true ; though, if I may venture to mention 
 what I thought 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 learnt, I understood, to make Latin 
 Vei'ses 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 was, 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 beautiful, and very improving, and very suffi- 
 cient for a great many purposes of life, and always remembered 
 all through life, I did doubt whether Richard would not have 
 profited by some one studying him a little, instead of his 
 studying them quite so much. 
 
 To be sure, I knew nothing of the subject, and do not even 
 now know whether the young gentlemen of classic Rome or 
 Greece made verses to the same extent — or whether the young 
 gentlemen of any country ever did. 
 
 "I haven't the least idea," said Richard, 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 Richard. " I am fond of 
 boating. Articled clerks go a good deal on the water. It's 
 a capital profession ! " 
 
 "Surgeon — " suggested Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 "That's the thing, sir!" cried Richard. 
 
 I doubt if he had ever once thought of it before. 
 
204 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " That's the thing, sir ! repeated Richard, with the greatest 
 enthusiasm. " We have got it at last. M.R.C.S. ! 
 
 He was not to be laughed out of 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 dis- 
 covery, he was taken by the newest idea, and was glad to 
 get rid of the trouble of consideration, I wondered whether 
 the Latin Verses often ended in this, or whether Richard's 
 was a solitary case. 
 
 Mr. Jarndyce took great pains to talk with him, seriously, 
 and to put it to his good sense not to deceive himself in so 
 important a matter. Richard was a little grave after these 
 interviews ; but fnvariably told Ada and me " that it was all 
 right,'"' and then began to talk about something else. 
 
 " By Heaven ! " cried Mr. Boythorn, who interested himself 
 strongly in the subject — though I need not say that, for he 
 could do nothing weakly ; " I rejoice to find a young gentle- 
 man 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 task-masters and 
 low tricksters who delight in putting that illustrious art at a 
 disadvantage in the world. By all that is base and despicable,*" 
 cried Mr. Boythorn, " the treatment of Surgeons aboard ship 
 is such, that I would submit the legs — both legs — of every 
 member of the Admiralty Board to a compound fracture, and 
 render it a transportable offence in any qualified practitioner 
 to set them, if the system were not wholly changed in eight- 
 and-forty hours ! "' 
 
 "Wouldn't you give them a week asked Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 "No!" cried Mr. Boythorn, firmly. "Not on any con- 
 sideration ! Eight-and-forty hours ! As to Corporations, 
 Parishes, Vestry-Boards, and similar gatherings of jolter- 
 
RICHARD^S CHOICE OF A PROFESSION. 205 
 
 headed clods, who assemble to exchange such speeches that, 
 by Heaven ! they ought to hd worked in quicksilver mines for 
 the short remainder of their miserable existence, if it were 
 only to prevent their detestable English from contaminating 
 a language spoken in the presence of the Sun — as to those 
 fellows, who meanly take advantage of the ardour of gentle- 
 men in the pursuit of knowledge, to recompense the in- 
 estimable 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 contemplation of the whole profession — in order 
 that its younger members might understand from actual 
 measurement, in early life, hozii; thick skulls may become ! 
 
 He wound up this vehement declaration by looking round 
 upon us with a most agreeable smile, and suddenly thunder- 
 ing, Ha, ha, ha ! over and over again, until anybody else 
 might have been expected to be quite subdued by the 
 exertion. 
 
 As Richard still continued f.o say that he was fixed in his 
 choice, after repeated periods for consideration had been 
 recommended by Mr. Jarndyce, and had expired ; and he 
 still continued to assure Ada and me, in the same final manner, 
 that it was "all right;*" it became advisable to take Mr. 
 Kenge into council. Mr. Kenge, therefore, came down to 
 dinner one day, and leaned back in his chair, and turned his 
 eye-glasses over and over, and spoke in a sonorous voice, and 
 did exactly what I remembered to have seen him do when I 
 was a little girl. 
 
 "Ah!'' said Mr. Kenge. "Yes. Well! A very good 
 profession, Mr. Jarndyce ; a very good profession.'' 
 
 "The course of study and preparation requires to be dili- 
 gently pursued," observed my Guardian, with a glance at 
 Richard. 
 
 " O, no doubt," said Mr. Kenge. " Dihgently." 
 
 "But that being the case, more or less, with all pursuits. 
 
206 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 that are worth much,^'' said Mr. Jamdyce, " it is not a special 
 consideration which another choice would be likely to escape/' 
 
 "Truly,'' said Mr. Kenge. "And Mr. Richard 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 Richard, in his ofF-hand 
 manner, " that I shall go at it and do my best." 
 
 " Very well, Mr. Jarndyce ! " said Mr. Kenge, gently 
 nodding his head. "Really, when we are assured by Mr. 
 Richard that he means to go at it, and to do his best," 
 nodding feelingly and smoothly over those expressions; "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. Richard with some 
 sufficiently eminent practitioner. Is there any one in view 
 at present?" 
 
 "No one. Rick, I think?" said my Guardian. 
 
 "No one, sir," said Richard. 
 
 " Quite so ! " observed Mr. Kenge. " As to situation, now. 
 Is there any particular feeling on that head ? " 
 
 "N — no," said Richard. 
 
 " Quite so ! " observed Mr. Kenge again. 
 
 " I should like a little variety," said Richard ; " — I mean 
 a good range of experience." 
 
 " Very requisite, no doubt," returned Mr. Kenge. " I think 
 this may be easily arranged, Mr. Jarndyce ? We have only, 
 in the first place, to discover a sufficiently eligible practi- 
 tioner; and, as soon as we make our want — and, shall I add, 
 our ability to pay a premium? — knowj), our only difficulty 
 v/ill be in the selection of one from a large number. We 
 have only, in the second place, to observe those little for- 
 malities which are rendered necessary by our time of life, and 
 
UNDER THE EYE OF MR. GUPPY. 207 
 
 our being under the guardianship of the Court. We shall 
 soon be — shall I say, in Mr. Richard's own light-hearted 
 manner, ' going at it ' — to our heart's content. It is a 
 coincidence,'" said Mr. Kenge, with a tinge of melancholy in 
 his smile, "one of those coincidences which may or may not 
 require an explanation beyond our present limited faculties, 
 that I have a cousin in the medical profession. He might 
 be deemed eligible by you, and might be disposed to respond 
 to this proposal. I can answer for him as little as for you ; 
 but he might!'''' 
 
 As this was an opening in the prospect, it was arranged 
 that Mr. Kenge should see his cousin. And as Mr. Jarndyce 
 had before proposed to take us to London for a few weeks, 
 it was settled next day that we should make our visit at 
 once, and combine Richard's business with it. 
 
 Mr. Boy thorn leaving us within a week, we took up our 
 abode at a cheerful lodging near Oxford Street, over an up- 
 holsterer'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 delight, and saw all the plays that were worth 
 seeing. I mention this, because it was at the theatre that 
 I began to be made uncomfortable again, by Mr. Guppy. 
 
 I was sitting in front of the box one night with Ada ; 
 and Richard was in the place he liked best, behind Ada's 
 chair ; when, happening to look down into the pit, I saw Mr. 
 Guppy, with his hair flattened down upon his head, and woe 
 depicted in his face, looking up at me. I felt, all through 
 the performance, that he never looked at the actors, but 
 constantly looked at me, and always with a carefully pre- 
 pared expression of the deepest misery and the profoundest 
 dejection. 
 
 It quite spoiled my pleasure for that night, because it was 
 so very embarrassing and so very ridiculous. But, from that 
 time forth, we never went to the play without my seeing 
 
208 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Mr. Guppy in the pit, always with his hair straight and flat, 
 his shirt-collar turned down, and a general feebleness about 
 him. If he were not there when we went in, and I began 
 to hope he would not come, and yielded myself for a little 
 while to the interest of the scene, I was certain to encounter 
 his languishing eyes when I least expected it, and, from that 
 time, to be quite sure that they were fixed upon me all the 
 evening. 
 
 I really cannot express how uneasy this made me. If he 
 would only have brushed up his hair, or turned up his collar, 
 it would have been bad enough; but to know that that 
 absurd figure was always gazing at me, and always in that 
 demonstrative state of despondency, put such a constraint 
 upon me that I did not like to laugh at the play, or to cry 
 at it, or to move or to speak. I seemed able to do nothing 
 naturally. As to escaping Mr. Guppy by going to the back 
 of the box, I could not bear to do that ; because I knew 
 Richard and Ada relied on having me next them, and that 
 they could never have talked together so happily if anybody 
 else had been in my place. So there I sat, not knowing 
 where to look — for wherever I looked, I knew Mr. Guppy's 
 eyes were following me — and thinking of the dreadful expense 
 to which this young man was putting himself on my account. 
 
 Sometimes I thought of telling Mr. Jarndyce. Then I 
 feared that the young man would lose his situation, and 
 that I might ruin him. Sometimes, I thought of confiding 
 in Richard ; but was deterred by the possibility of his fight- 
 ing Mr. Guppy, and giving him black eyes. Sometimes, I 
 thought, should I frown at him, or shake my head. Then 
 I felt I could not do it. Sometimes, I considered whether I 
 should write to his mother, but that ended in my being con- 
 vinced that to open a correspondence would be to make the 
 matter worse. I always came to the conclusion, finally, that 
 I could do nothing. Mr. Guppy's perseverance, all this time, 
 not only produced him regularly at any theatre to which we 
 went, but caused him to appear in the crowd as we were 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSIiy of ILLINOIS. 
 
MR. BAYHAM BADGER. 
 
 S09 
 
 coming out, and even to get up behind our fly — where I am 
 sure I saw him, two or three times, struggling among the 
 most dreadful spikes. After we got home, he haunted a post 
 opposite our house. The upholsterer's where we lodged, 
 being at the corner of two streets, and my bedroom window 
 being opposite the post, I was afraid to go near the window 
 when I went up-stairs, lest I should see him (as I did one 
 moonlight night) leaning against the post, and evidently 
 catching cold. If Mr. Guppy had not been, fortunately for 
 me, engaged in the day-time, I really should have had no 
 rest from him. 
 
 While we were making this round of gaieties, in which Mr. 
 Guppy so extraordinarily participated, the business which 
 had helped to bring us to town was not neglected. Mr. 
 Kenge's cousin was a Mr. Bayham Badger, who had a good 
 practice at Chelsea, and attended a large public Institution 
 besides. He was quite willing to receive Richard into his 
 house, and to superintend his studies ; and as it seemed that 
 those could be pursued advantageously under Mr. Badger's 
 roof, and Mr. Badger liked Richard, and as Richard said he 
 liked Mr. Badger "well enough,*" an agreement was made, 
 the Lord Chancellor's consent was obtained, and it was all 
 settled. 
 
 On the day when matters were concluded between Richard 
 and Mr. Badger, we were all under engagement to dine at 
 Mr. Badger's house. We were to be " merely a family 
 party," Mrs. Badger's note said ; and we found no lady there 
 but Mrs. Badger herself. She was surrounded in the 
 drawing-room by various objects, indicative of her painting 
 a little, playing the piano a little, playing the guitar a little^ 
 playing the harp a little, singing a little, working a little, 
 reading a little, writing poetry a little, and botanising a 
 little. She was a lady of about fifty, I should think, youth- 
 fully dressed, and of a very fine complexion. If I add, to 
 the little list of her accomplishments, that she rouged a little, 
 I do not mean that there was any harm in it. 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
210 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Mr. Bayham Badger himself was a pink, fresh-faced, crisp- 
 looking gentleman^ with a weak voice, white teeth, light 
 hair, and surprised eyes : some years younger, I should say, 
 than Mrs. Bayham Badges He admired her exceedingly, 
 but principally, and to begin with, on the curious ground (as 
 it seemed to u^) of her having had three husbands. We had 
 barely taken cur seats, when he said to Mr. Jarndyce quite 
 triumphantly, 
 
 " You would hardly suppose that I am Mrs. Bayham 
 Badger's third ! 
 
 Indeed ? said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 "Her third!'' said Mr. Badger. "Mrs. Bayham Badger 
 has not the appearance. Miss Summerson, of a lady who has 
 had two former husbands ? 
 
 I said " Not at all ! " 
 
 " And most remarkable men ! " said Mr. Badger, in a tone 
 of confidence. " Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy, who 
 Mas Mrs. Badger's first husband, was a very distinguished 
 officer indeed. The name of Professor Dingo my immediate 
 predecessor, is one of European reputation." 
 
 Mrs. Badger overheard him, and smiled. 
 
 " Yes, my dear ! " Mr. Badger replied to the smile, " I 
 was observing to Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson, that 
 you had had two former husbands — both very distinguished 
 men. And they found it, as people generally do, difficult to 
 believe." 
 
 " I was barely twenty," said Mrs. Badger, " when I married 
 Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy. I was in the Mediter- 
 ranean with him ; I am quite a Sailor. On the twelfth 
 anniversary of my wedding-day, I became the wife of Pro-| 
 fessor Dingo." I 
 
 (" Of European reputation," added Mr. Badger in an 
 under- tone.) 
 
 " And when Mr. Badger and myself were married," pursued 
 Mrs. Badger, " we were married on the same day of the year. 
 I had become attached to the day," 
 
MRS. BAYHAM BADGEirS THREE. 211 
 
 So that Mrs. Badger has been married to three husbands 
 — two of them highly distinguislied men,**' said Mr. Badger, 
 summing up the facts ; " and, each time, upon the twenty- 
 first of March at Eleven in the forenoon ! 
 We all expressed our admiration. 
 
 "But for Mr. Badger's modesty,"' said Mr. Jarndyce, "I 
 would take leave to correct him, and say three distinguished 
 men.'^ 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Jarndyce! What I always tell him ! '^ 
 observed Mrs. Badger. 
 
 "And, my dear," said Mr. Badger, "what do / always tell 
 you? That without any affectation of disparaging such pro- 
 fessional distinction as I may have attained (which our friend 
 Mr. Carstone will have many opportunities of estimating), I 
 am not so weak — no, really," said Mr. Badger to us generally, 
 "so unreasonable — as to put my reputation on the same 
 footing with such first-rate men as Captain Swosser and Pro- 
 fessor Dingo. Perhaps you may be interested, Mr. Jarndyce," 
 continued Mr. Bay ha r?:: Badger, leading the way into the next 
 drawing-room, "in this portrait of Captain Swosser. It was 
 taken on his return home from the African Station, where 
 he had suffered from the fever of the country. Mrs. Badger 
 considers it too yellow. But it's a very fine head. A very 
 fine head ! " 
 
 We all echoed " A very fine head ! 
 I feel when I look at it," said Mr. Badger, " ' that's a 
 man I should like to have seen ! ' It strikingly bespeaks the 
 first-class man that Captain Swosser pre-eminently was. On 
 the other side. Professor Dingo. I knew him well — attended 
 him in his last illness — a speaking likeness ! Over the piano, 
 Mrs. Bay ham Badger when Mrs. Swosser. Over the sofa, 
 Mrs. Bayham Badger w^hen Mrs. Dingo. Of Mrs. Bayham 
 Badger in esse^ I possess the original, and have no copy." 
 
 Dinner was now announced, and we went down-stairs. It 
 v/as a very genteel entertainment, very handsomely served. 
 But the Capt ain and the Professor still ran in Mr. Badger's 
 
212 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 head, and, as Ada and I had the honour of being under liis 
 particular care, we had the full benefit of them. 
 
 " Water, Miss Summerson ? Allow me ! Not in that 
 tumbler, pray. Bring me the Professor s goblet, James ! 
 
 Ada very much admired some artificial flowers, under a glass. 
 
 " Astonishing how they keep ! '''' said Mr. Badger. " They 
 were presented to Mrs. Bayham Badger when she was in the 
 Mediterranean.*" 
 
 He invited Mr. Jarndyce to take a glass of claret. 
 
 " Not that claret ! he said. " Excuse me ! This is an 
 occasion, and on an occasion I produce some very special 
 claret I happen to have. (James, Captain Swosser's wine!) 
 Mr. Jarndyce, this is a wine that was imported by the 
 Captain, we will not say how many years ago. You will 
 find it very curious. My dear, I shall be happy to take 
 some of this wine with you. (Captain Swosser's claret to 
 your mistress, James !) My love, your health ! 
 
 After dinner, when we ladies retired, we took Mrs. Badgers 
 first and second husband with us. Mrs. Badger gave us, in 
 the drawing-room, a Biographical sketch of the life and 
 services of Captain Swosser before his marriage, and a more 
 minute account of him dating from the time when he fell in 
 love with her, at a ball on board the Crippler, given to the 
 officers of that ship when she lay in Plymouth Harbour. 
 
 "The dear old Crippler!'' said Mrs. Badger, shaking her 
 head. "She was a noble vessel. Trim, ship-shape, all a 
 taunto, as Captain Swosser used to say. You must excuse 
 me if I occasionally introduce a nautical expression; I was 
 quite a sailor once. Captain Swosser loved that craft for my 
 sake. When she was no longer in commission, he frequently 
 said that if he were rich enough to buy her old hulk, he 
 would have an inscription let into the timbers of the quarter- 
 deck where we stood as partners in the dance, to mark the 
 spot where he fell — raked fore and aft (Captain Swosser used 
 to say) by the fire from my tops. It was his naval way of 
 mentioning my eyes.'' 
 
LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY of !LLlNOiS. 
 
ADA^S GREAT SECRET. 
 
 S13 
 
 Mrs. Badger shook her head, sighed, and looked in the 
 glass. 
 
 " It was a great change from Captain Swosser to Professor 
 Dingo,*" she resumed, with a plaintive smile. "I felt it a 
 good deal at first. Such an entire revolution in my mode of 
 life ! But custom, combined with science — particularly science 
 — inured me to it. Being the Professor''s sole companion in 
 his botanical excursions, I almost forgot that I had ever been 
 afloat, and became quite learned. It is singular that the 
 Professor was the Antipodes of Captain Swosser, and that Mr. 
 Badger is not in the least like either ! '''' 
 
 We then passed into a narrative of the deaths of Captain 
 Swosser and Professor Dingo, both of whom seem to have 
 had very bad complaints. In the course of it, Mrs. Badger 
 signified to us that she had never madly loved but once ; and 
 that the object of that wild affection, never to be recalled in 
 its fresh enthusiasm, was Captain Swosser. The Professor 
 was yet dying by inches in the most dismal manner, and Mrs. 
 Badger was giving us imitations of his way of saying, with 
 great difficulty, " Where is Laura ? Let Laura give me my 
 toast and water ! when the entrance of the gentlemen con- 
 signed him to the tomb. 
 
 Now, I observed that evening, as I had observed for some 
 days past, that Ada and Richard were more than ever attached 
 to each other's society ; which was but natural, seeing that 
 they were going to be separated so soon. I was therefore 
 not very much surprised, when we got home, and Ada and I 
 retired up-stairs, to find Ada more silent than usual ; though 
 I was not quite prepared for her coming into my arms, and 
 beginning to speak to me, with her face hidden. 
 
 " My darling Esther ! " murmured Ada. " I have a great 
 secret to tell you ! 
 
 A mighty secret, my pretty one, no doubt ! 
 
 " What is it, Ada 
 
 " O Esther, you would never guess ! 
 
 " Shall I try to guess ? said I. 
 
214 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "O no! Don't! Pray don't I**' cried Ada, very much 
 startled by the idea of my doing so. 
 
 Now, I wonder who it can be about ? said I, pretending 
 to consider. 
 
 " It's about,'' said Ada, in a whisper. " It's about — my 
 cousin Richard ! " 
 
 " Well, my own ! " said I, kissing her bright hair, which 
 was all I could see. And what about him ? " 
 
 " O Esther, you would never guess ! " 
 
 It was so pretty to have her clinging to me in that way, 
 hiding her face ; and to know that she was not crying in 
 sorrow, but in a little glow of joy, and pride, and hope ; 
 that I would not help her just yet. 
 
 "He says — I know it's very foolish, we are both so young 
 — but he says," with a burst of tears, " that he loves me 
 dearly, Esther." 
 
 " Does he indeed ? " said I. " I never heard of such a 
 thing! Why, my pet of pets, I could have told you that 
 weeks and weeks ago ! " 
 
 To see Ada lift up her flushed face in joyful surprise, and 
 hold me round the neck, and laugh, and cry, and blush, and 
 laugh, was so pleasant! 
 
 " Why, my darling ! " said I, " what a goose you must take 
 me for ! Your cousin Richard has been loving you as plainly 
 as he could, for I don't know how long ! " 
 
 And yet you never said a word about it ! " cried Ada, 
 kissing me. 
 
 " No, my love," said I. " I waited to be told." 
 
 "But now I have told you, you don't think it wong 
 of me ; do you ? " returned Ada. She might have coaxed me 
 to say No, if I had been the hardest -hearted Duenna in the 
 world. Not being that yet, I said No, very freely. 
 
 " And now," said I, " I know the worst of it." 
 
 " O, that's not quite the Avorst of it, Esther dear ! " cried 
 Ada, holding me tighter, and laying down her face again 
 upon my breast. 
 
A PAIR OF LOVERS. 
 
 215 
 
 " No ? said I. " Not even that ? 
 
 " No, not even that ! said Ada, shaking her head. 
 
 " Why, you never mean to say — ! I was beginning in 
 
 But Ada, looking up, and. smiling through her tears, cried, 
 " Yes, I do ! You know, you know I do ! and then sobbed 
 out, " With all my heart I do ! With all my whole heart, 
 Esther!" 
 
 I told her, laughing, why I had known that, too, just as 
 well as I had known the other ! And we sat before the fire, 
 and I had all the talking to myself for a little while (though 
 there was not much of it); and Ada was soon quiet and 
 happy. 
 
 "Do you think my cousin John knows, dear Dame 
 Durden ? she asked. 
 
 "Unless my cousin John is blind, my pet,***^ said I, "I 
 should think my cousin John knows pretty well as much as 
 we know/' 
 
 " We want to speak to him before Richard goes,**** said 
 Ada, timidly, "and we wanted you to advise us, and to tell 
 him so. Perhaps you wouldn't mind Richard's coming in, 
 \\ Dame Durden ? 
 
 " O ! Richard is outside, is he, my dear ? " said I. 
 
 " I am not quite certain,"" returned Ada, v/ith a bashful 
 simplicity that would have won my heart, if she had not won 
 it long before ; " but I think he's waiting at the door."' 
 
 There he was, of course. They brought a chair on eithet 
 side of me, and put me between them, and really seemed to 
 have fallen in love with me, instead of one another ; they were 
 so confiding, and so trustful, and so fond of me. They went 
 on in their own wild way for a little while — / never stopped 
 them ; I enjoyed it too much myself — and then we gradually 
 fell to considering how young they were, and how there must 
 be a lapse of several yeai*s before this early love could come to 
 anything, and how it could come to happiness only if it were 
 real and lasting, and inspired them with a steady resolution 
 
216 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 to do their duty to each other, with constancy, fortitude, 
 and perseverance : each always for the other's sake. Well ! 
 Richard said that he would work his fingers to the bone for 
 Ada, and Ada said that she would work her fingers to the 
 bone for Richard, and they called me all sorts of endearing 
 and sensible names, and we sat there, advising and talking, 
 half the night. Finally, before we parted, I gave them my 
 promise to speak to their cousin John to-morrow. 
 
 So, when to-morrow came, I went to my Guardian after 
 breakfast, in- the room that was our town-substitute for the 
 Growlery, and told him that I had it in trust to tell him 
 something. 
 
 " Well, little woman,*" said he, shutting up his book, " if 
 you have accepted the trust, there can be no harm in iV 
 
 " I hope not. Guardian,^' said I. " I can guarantee that 
 there is no secrecy in it. For it only happened yesterday.^ 
 
 "Aye ? And what is it, Esther 
 
 " Guardian,"' said I, " you remember the happy night when 
 first we came down to Bleak House? When Ada was sing- 
 ing in the dark room ? 
 
 I wished to call to his remembrance the look he had given 
 me then. Unless I am much mistaken, I saw that I did so. 
 
 " Because,*" said I, with a little hesitation. 
 
 " Yes, my dear ! '' said he. " Don't hurry." 
 
 "Because," said I, "Ada and Richard have fallen in love. 
 And have told each other so." 
 
 "Already !" cried my Guardian, quite astonished. 
 
 " Yes ! " said I, " and to tell you the truth. Guardian, I 
 rather expected it." 
 
 " The deuce you did ! " said he. 
 
 He sat considering for a minute or two ; with his smile, at 
 once so handsome and so kind, upon his changing face ; and 
 then requested me to let them know that he wished to see 
 them. When they came, he encircled Ada with one arm, in 
 his fatherly way, and addressed himself to Richard with a 
 cheerful gravity, ^ 
 
MUTUAL CONFIDENCE. 
 
 217 
 
 " Rick,''' said Mr, Jarndyce, " I am glad to have won your 
 confidence. I hope to preserve it. When I contemplated 
 these relations between us four which have so brightened my 
 life, and so invested it with new interests and pleasures, I 
 certainly did contemplate, afar off, the possibility of you and 
 your pretty cousin here (don'^t be shy, Ada, don't be shy, my 
 dear !) being in a mind to go through life together. I saw, 
 and do see, many reasons to make it desirable. But that 
 was afar off, Rick, afar off! 
 
 "We look afar off, sir,'" returned Richard. 
 
 "Well!'' said Mr. Jarndyce. "That's rational. Now, 
 hear me, my dears ! I might tell you that you don't know 
 your own minds yet ; that a thousand things may happen to 
 divert you from one another; that it is well this chain of 
 flowers you have taken up is very easily broken, or it might 
 become a chain of lead. But I will not do that. Such wisdom 
 will come soon enough, I dare say, if it is to come at all. I 
 will assume that, a few years hence, you will be in your hearts 
 to one another, what you are to-day. All I say before speak- 
 ing to you according to that assumption is, if you do change 
 — if you do come to find that you are more commonplace 
 cousins to each other as man and woman, than you were as 
 boy and girl (your manhood will excuse me. Rick !) — don't 
 be ashamed still to confide in me, for there will be nothing 
 monstrous or uncommon in it. I am only your friend and 
 distant kinsman. I have no power over you whatever. But 
 I wish and hope to retain your confidence, if I do nothing to 
 forfeit it." 
 
 " I am very sure, sir," returned Richard, " that I speak 
 for Ada, too, when I say that you have the strongest power 
 over us both — rooted in respect, gratitude, and affection — 
 strengthening every day.' 
 
 " Dear cousin John," said Ada, on his shoulder, " my father s 
 place can never be empty again. All the love and duty I 
 could ever have rendered to him, is transferred to you." 
 
 " Come ! " said Mr. Jarndyce, " Now for our assumption, 
 
218 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Now we lift our eyes up, and look hopefully at the distance ! 
 Rick, the world is before you ; and it is most probable that 
 as you enter it, so it will receive you. Trust in nothing 
 but in Providence and your own efforts. Never separate the 
 two, like the heathen waggoner. Constancy in love is a 
 good thing; but it means nothing, and is nothing, without 
 constancy in every kind of effort. If you had the abiHties 
 of all the great men, past and present, you could do nothing 
 well, without sincerely meaning it, and setting about it. If 
 you entertain the supposition that any real success, in great 
 things or in small, ever was or could be, ever will or can be, 
 wrested from Fortune by fits and starts, leave that wrong 
 idea here, or leave vour cousin Ada here." 
 
 ^'I will leave it here, sir,"" replied Richard, smiling, "if I 
 brought it here just now (but I hope I did not), and will 
 work my way on to my cousin Ada in the hopeful distance.**^ 
 
 "Right!*" said Mr. Jarndyce. "If you are not to make 
 her happy, why should you pursue her ? 
 
 " I wouldn't make her unhappy — no, not even for her love," 
 retorted Richard, proudly. 
 
 " Well said ! cried Mr. Jarndyce ; " that's well said ! She 
 remains here, in her home with me. Love her. Rick, in your 
 active life, no less than in her home when you revisit it, and 
 all will go well. Otherwise, all will go ill. That's the end 
 of my preaching. I think you and Ada had better take a 
 walk." 
 
 Ada tenderly embraced him, and Richard heartily shook 
 hands with him, and then the cousins went out of the room 
 — looking back again directly, though, to say that they 
 would wait for me. 
 
 The door stood open, and we both followed them with our 
 eyes, as they passed down the adjoining room on which the 
 sun was shining, and out at its farther end. Richard with 
 his head bent, and her hand drawn through his arm, was 
 talking to her very earnestly ; and she looked up in his face, 
 listening, and seenied to see nothing else. So young, so 
 
SOME ONE ELSE. 
 
 219 
 
 beautiful, so full of hope and promise, they went on lightly 
 through the sunlight, as their own happy thoughts might 
 then be traversing the years to come, and making them all 
 years of brightness. So they passed away into the shadow, 
 and were gone. It was only a burst of light that had been 
 so radiant. The room darkened as they went out, and the 
 sun was clouded over. 
 
 "Am I right, Esther.^'" said my Guardian, when they 
 were gone. 
 
 He who was so good and wise, to ask me whether he was 
 right ! 
 
 "Rick may gain, out of this, the quality he wants. Wants, 
 at the core of so much that is good ! said Mr. Jarndyce, 
 shaking his head. " I have said nothing to Ada, Esther. 
 She has her friend and counsellor always near.'''' And he laid 
 his hand lovingly upon my head, 
 
 I could not help shov/ing that I was a little moved, though 
 I did all I could to conceal it. 
 
 " Tut, tut ! '*'' said he. " But we must take care, too, that 
 our little woman's life is not all consumed in care for others.'*'' 
 
 " Care ? My dear Guardian, I believe I am the happiest 
 creature in the world ! '*'' 
 
 " I believe so, too,'''' said he. " But some one may find out, 
 what Esther never will, — that the little woman is to be held 
 in remembrance above all other people ! ''' 
 
 I have omitted to mention in its place, that there was some 
 one else at the family dinner party. It was not a lady. It 
 was a gentleman. It was a gentleman of a dark complexion 
 — a young surgeon. He Avas rather reserved, but I thought 
 him very sensible and agreeable. At least, Ada asked me if 
 I did not, and I said yes. 
 
CHAPTER XIV, 
 
 DEPORTMENT. 
 
 Richard left us on the very next evening, to begin his new 
 career, and committed Ada to my charge with great love for 
 her, and great trust in me. It touched me then to reflect, 
 and it touches me now, more nearly, to remember (having 
 what I have to tell) how they both thought of me, even at 
 that engrossing time. I was a part of all their plans, for the 
 present and the future. I was to write to Richard once a week, 
 making my faithful report of Ada, who was to write to him 
 every alternate day. I was to be informed, under his own 
 hand, of all his labours and successes ; I w^as to observe how 
 resolute and persevering he would be ; I was to be Ada's 
 bridesmaid when they w^ere married ; I was to live with them 
 afterwards ; I w as to keep all the keys of their house ; I was 
 to be made happy for ever and a day. 
 
 "And if the suit sJioiild make us rich, Esther — which it 
 may, you know ! '''' said Richard, to crow^n all. 
 
 A shade crossed Ada's face. m 
 " My dearest Ada,'' asked Richard, " why not ? " ■ 
 " It had better declare us poor at once," said Ada. % 
 " O ! I don't know about that," returned Richard ; " but, 
 at all events, it won't declare anything at once. It hasn't 
 declared anything in Heaven know^s how many years." 
 " Too true," said Ada. 
 
 " Yes, but," urged Richard, answering w^hat her look 
 
RICHARD STARTS ON HIS NEW CAREER. 221 
 
 suggested rather than her words, "the longer it goes on, dear 
 cousin, the nearer it must be to a settlement one way or 
 other. Now, is not that reasonable?'' 
 
 " You know best, Richard. But I am afraid if we trust to 
 it, it will make us unhappy.*" 
 
 " But, my Ada, we are not going to trust to it ! cried 
 Richard. " We know it better than to trust to it. We only 
 say that if it should make us rich, we have no constitutional 
 objection to being rich. The Court is, by solemn settlement 
 of law, our grim old guardian, and we are to suppose that 
 what it gives us (when it gives us anything) is our right. It 
 is not necessary to quarrel with our right.'' 
 
 "No," said Ada, "but it may be better to forget all 
 about it." 
 
 "Well, well!" cried Richard, "then we will forget all 
 about it ! We consign the whole thing to oblivion. Dame 
 Burden puts on her approving face, and it's done ! " 
 
 "Dame Durden's approving face," said I, looking out of 
 the box in which I was packing his books, " was not very 
 visible when you called it by that name ; but it does approve, 
 and she thinks you can't do better." 
 
 So, Richard said there was an end of it, — and immediately 
 began, on no other foundation, to build as many castles in 
 the air as would man the great wall of China. He went 
 away in high spirits. Ada and I, prepared to miss him very 
 much, commenced our quieter career. 
 
 On our arrival in London, we had called with Mr. Jarndyce 
 at Mrs. Jellyby's, but had not been so fortunate as to find 
 her at home. It appeared that she had gone somewhere, 
 to a tea-drinking, and had taken Miss Jellyby with her. 
 Besides the tea-drinking, there was to be some considerable 
 speech-making and letter-writing on the general merits of 
 the cultivation of coffee, conjointly with natives, at the 
 Settlement of Borrioboola-Gha. All this involved, no doubt, 
 sufficient active exercise of pen and ink, to make her daughter's 
 part in the proceedings anything but a holiday. 
 
BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 It being, now, beyond the time appointed for Mrs. Jellyby'^s 
 return, we called again. She was in town, but not at home, 
 having gone to Mile End, directly after breakfast, on some 
 Borrioboolan business, arising out of a Society called the 
 East London Branch Aid Ramification. As I had not seen 
 Feepy on the occasion of our last call (when he was not to 
 be found anywhere, and when the cook rather thought he 
 must have strolled away with the dustman's cart), I now in- 
 quired for him again. The oyster-shells he had been building 
 a house with, were still in the passage, but he was nowhere 
 discoverable, and the cook supposed that he had '^gone after 
 the sheep."" When we repeated, with some surprise, "The 
 sheep ? she said, O yes, on market days he sometimes 
 followed them quite out of town, and came back in such a 
 state as never was ! 
 
 I was sitting at the window with my guardian, on the 
 following morning, and Ada was busy writing — of course to 
 Richard — when Miss Jellyby was announced, and entered, 
 leading the identical Peepy, whom she had made some 
 endeavours to render presentable, by wiping the dirt into 
 corners of his face and hands, and making his hair very wet 
 and then violently frizzling it with her fingers. Everything 
 the dear child wore, was either too large for him or too small. 
 Among his other contradictory decorations he had the hat of 
 a Bishop, and the little gloves of a baby. His boots were, 
 on a small scale, the boots of a ploughman : while his legs, so 
 crossed and recrossed with scratches that they looked like maps, 
 were bare, below a very short pair of plaid drawers finished oft* 
 with two frills of perfectly different patterns. The deficient 
 buttons on his plaid frock had evidently been supplied from 
 one of Mr. Jelly by 's coats, they w^ere so extremely brazen and 
 so much too large. Most extraordinary specimens of needle- 
 work appeared on several parts of his dress, where it had 
 been hastily mended; and I recognised the same hand on 
 Miss Jellyby's. She was, however, unaccountably improved 
 in her appeai'ance, and looked very pretty. She was conscious 
 
MISS JELLYBY AND PEEPY. 
 
 223 
 
 of poor little Peepy being but a failure after all her trouble, 
 and she showed it as she came in, by the way in which she 
 glanced, first at him and then at us. 
 
 " O dear me ! said my guardian. " Due East ! 
 
 Ada and I gave her a cordial welcome, and presented her 
 to Mr. Jarndyce ; to whom she said, as she sat down : 
 
 '^Ma's compliments, and she hopes you'll excuse her, 
 because she's correcting proofs of the plan. She's going to 
 put out five thousand new circulars, and she knows you'll be 
 interested to hear that. I have brought one of them with 
 me. Ma's compliments." With which she presented it 
 sulkily enough. 
 
 "Thank you," said my guardian. "I am much obliged to 
 Mrs. Jelly by. O dear me! This is a very trying wind!" 
 
 We were busy with Peepy ; taking off his clerical hat ; 
 asking him if he remembered us; and so on. Peepy retired 
 behind his elbow at first, but relented at the sight of sponge- 
 cake, and allov>^ed me to take him on my lap, where he sat 
 munching quietly. Mr. Jarndyce then withdrawing into the 
 temporary Growlery, Miss Jelly by opened a conversation with 
 her usual abruptness. 
 
 "We are going on just as bad as ever in Thavies Inn," 
 said she. "I have no peace of my life. Talk of Africa! 
 I couldn't be w orse off if I was a what's-his-name — man and 
 a brother ! " 
 
 I tried to say something soothing. 
 
 "0, it's of no use. Miss Summerson," exclaimed Miss 
 Jellyby, "though I thank you for the kind intention all the 
 same. I knov/ how I am used, and I am not to be talked 
 over. You v/ouldn't be talked over, if you w^ere used so. 
 ^^^Py? go and play at Wild Beasts under the piano ! " 
 
 "I sha'n't!" said Peepy. 
 
 "Very well, you ungrateful, naughty, hard-hearted boy!" 
 returned Miss Jellyby, with tears in her eyes. "V\\ never 
 take pains to dress you any more." 
 
 " Yes, I will go, Caddy ! " cried Peepy, who was really a 
 
224 
 
 BLEAK HOUSH. 
 
 good child, and who was so moved by his sister^s vexation 
 that he went at once. 
 
 ^'It seems a little thing to cry about,''. said poor Miss 
 Jellyby, apologetically, "but I am quite worn out. I was 
 directing the new circulars till two this morning. I detest 
 the whole thing so, that that alone makes my head ache till I 
 can't see out of my eyes. And look at that poor unfortunate 
 child ! AVas there ever such a fright as he is ! '' 
 
 Peepy, happily unconscious of the defects in his appear- 
 ance, sat on the carpet behind one of the legs of the 
 piano, looking calmly out of his den at us, while he ate 
 his cake. 
 
 " I have sent him to the other end of the room,'- observed 
 Miss Jelly by, drawing her chair nearer ours, "because I don't 
 want him to hear the conversation. Those little things are 
 so sharp ! I was going to say, we really are going on worse 
 than ever. Pa will be a bankrupt before long, and then I 
 hope Ma will be satisfied. There'll be nobody but Ma to 
 thank for it." 
 
 We said we hoped Mr. Jelly by 's affairs were not in so bad 
 a state as that. 
 
 "It's of no use hoping, though it's very kind of you," 
 returned Miss Jelly by, shaking her head. "Pa told me, only 
 yesterday morning (and dreadfully unhappy he is), that he 
 couldn't w^eather the storm. I should be surprised if he could. 
 When all our tradesmen send into our house any stuff they 
 like, and the servants do what they like with it, and I have 
 no time to improve things if I knew how, and Ma don't care 
 about anything, I should like to make out how Pa is to 
 w^eather the storm. I declare if I was Pa, I'd run away." 
 
 "My dear!" said I, smiling. "Your papa, no doubt, 
 considers his family." 
 
 " O yes, his family is all very fine. Miss Summerson," 
 replied Miss Jellyby ; " but what comfort is his family to him ? 
 His family is nothing but bills, dirt, waste, noise, tumbles 
 down-stairs, confusion, and wretchedness. His scrambling 
 
MISS JELLYBY IS ENGAGED. 
 
 225 
 
 home, from week's-end to week's-end, is like one great washing- 
 day — only nothing's washed ! 
 
 Miss Jellyby tapped her foot upon the floor, and wiped 
 her eyes. 
 
 "I am sure I pity Pa to that degree,**' she said, "and am 
 so angry with Ma, that I can't find words to express myself ! 
 However, I am not going to bear it, I am determined. I 
 won't be a slave all my life, and I won't submit to be pro- 
 posed to by Mr. Quale. A pretty thing, indeed, to marry 
 a Philanthropist. As if I hadn't had enough of that ! " said 
 poor Miss Jellyby. 
 
 I must confess that I could not help feeling rather angry 
 with Mrs. Jellyby, myself ; seeing and hearing this neglected 
 girl, and knowing how much of bitterly satirical truth there 
 was in what she said. 
 
 " If it wasn't that we had been intimate when you stopped 
 at our house," pursued Miss Jellyby, " I should have been 
 ashamed to come here to-day, for I know what a figure I 
 must seem to you two. But, as it is, I made up my mind 
 to call : especially as I am not likely to see you again, the 
 next time you come to town." 
 
 She said this with such great significance that Ada and I 
 glanced at one another, foreseeing something more. 
 
 " No ! " said Miss Jellyby, shaking her head. " Not at all 
 likely ! I know I may trust you two. I am sure you won't 
 betray me. I am engaged." 
 
 " Without their knowledge at home ? " said I. 
 
 "Why, good gracious me, Miss Summerson," she returned, 
 justifying herself in a fretful but not angry manner, "how 
 can it be otherwise ? You know what Ma is — and I needn't 
 make poor Pa more miserable by telling A/Vi." 
 
 " But would it not be adding to his unhappiness, to marry 
 without his knowledge or consent, my dear ? " said I. 
 
 " No," said Miss Jellyby, softening. " I hope not. I should 
 try to make him happy and comfortable when he came to 
 see me ; and Peepy and the others should take it in turns to 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 come and stay with me; and they should have some care 
 taken of them, then."' 
 
 There was a good deal of affection in poor Caddy. She 
 softened more and more while saying this, and cried so much 
 over the unwonted little home-picture she had raised in her 
 mind, that Peepy, in his cave under the piano, was touclied, 
 and turned himself over on his back with loud lamentations. 
 It was not until I had brought him to kiss his sister, and had 
 restored him to his place on my lap, and had shown him that 
 Caddy was laughing (she laughed expressly for the purpose), 
 that we could recall his peace of mind ; even then, it was for 
 some time conditional on his taking us in turns by the chin, 
 and smoothing our faces all over with his hand. At last, as 
 his spirits were not equal to the piano, we put him on a 
 chair to look out of window; and Miss Jellyby, holding him 
 by one leg, resumed her confidence. 
 
 " It began in your coming to our house,*^^ she said. 
 
 We naturally asked how ? 
 
 " I felt I was so awkward,"' she replied, " that I made up 
 my mind to be improved in that respect, at all events, and 
 to learn to dance. I told Ma I was ashamed of myself, and 
 I must be taught to dance. Ma looked at me in that pro- 
 voking way of hers as if I wasn't in sight; but, I was quite 
 determined to be taught to dance, and so I went to Mr. 
 Turveydrop's Academy in Newman Street.'' 
 
 " And was it there, my dear " I began. 
 
 " Yes, it was there," said Caddy, " and I am engaged to 
 Mr. Turveydrop. There are two Mr. Turveydrops, father 
 and son. My Mr. Turveydrop is the son, of course. I only 
 wish I had been better brought up, and was likely to make 
 him a better wife ; for I am very fond of him." 
 
 "I am sorry to hear this," said I, "I must confess." 
 
 "I don't know why you should be sorry," she retorted a 
 little anxiously, "but I am engaged to Mr. Turveydrop, 
 whether or no, and he is very fond of me. It's a secret as 
 yet, even on his side, because old Mr. Turveydrop has a shar 
 
TWO MR. TURVEYDROPS. 
 
 in the connexion, and it might break his heart, or give him 
 some other shock, if he was tokl of it abruptly. Old Mr. 
 Turveydrop is a very gentlemanly man indeed — very gentle- 
 manly.'" 
 
 "Does his wife know of it?**" asked Ada. 
 
 "Old Mr. Turveydrop's wife, Miss Clare?'' returned Miss 
 Jellyby, opening her eyes. " There's no such person. He 
 is a widower." 
 
 We were here interrupted by Peepy, whose leg had under- 
 gone so much on account of his sister's unconsciously jerking 
 it like a bell-rope whenever she was emphatic, that the 
 afflicted child now bemoaned his sufferings with a very low- 
 spirited noise. As he appealed to me for compassion, and 
 as I was only a listener, I undertook to hold him. Miss 
 Jellyby proceeded, after begging Peepy 's pardon with a kiss, 
 and assuring him that she hadn't meant to do it. 
 
 " That's the state of the case," said Caddy. " If I ever 
 blame myself, I still think it's Ma's fault. We are to be 
 married whenever we can, and then I shall go to Pa at the 
 office and write to Ma. It won't much agitate Ma ; I am 
 only pen and ink to her. One great comfort is," said Caddy, 
 with a sob, "that I shall never hear of Africa after I am 
 married. Young Mr. Turveydrop hates it for my sake ; and 
 if old Mr. Turveydrop knows there is such a place, it's as 
 much as he does." 
 
 " It was he who was very gentlemanly, I think ! " said I. 
 
 " Very gentlemanly, indeed," said Caddy. " He is cele- 
 brated, almost everywhere, for his Deportment." 
 
 "Does he teach?" asked Ada. 
 
 "No, he don't teach anything in particular," replied 
 Caddy. " But his Deportment is beautiful." 
 
 Caddy went on to say, with considerable hesitation and 
 reluctance, that there was one thing more she wished us 
 to know, and felt we ought to know, and which she hoped 
 would not offend us. It was, that she had improved her 
 acquaintance with Miss Flite, the little crazy old lady; and 
 
228 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 that she frequently went there early in the morning, and met 
 her lover for a few minutes before breakfast — only for a few 
 minutes. " / go there, at other times,*" said Caddy, " but 
 Prince does not come then. Young Mr. Turveydrop's name 
 is Prince ; I wish it wasn't, because it sounds like a dog, but of 
 course he didn't christen himself. Old Mr. Turveydrop had 
 him christened Prince, in remembrance of the Prince Regent. 
 Old Mr. Turveydrop adored the Prince Regent on account 
 of his Deportment. I hope you won't think the worse of me 
 for having made these little appointments at Miss Elite's, 
 where I first went with you ; because I like the poor thing 
 for her own sake, and I believe she likes me. If you could 
 see young Mr. Turveydrop, I am sure you would think well 
 of him — at least, I am sure you couldn't possibly think any 
 ill of him. I am going there now, for my lesson. I couldn't 
 ask you to go with me. Miss Summerson ; but if you would,'^ 
 said Caddy, who had said all this, earnestly and tremblingly, 
 " I should be very glad — very glad.'^ 
 
 It happened that we had arranged with my guardian to go 
 to Miss Elite's that day. We had told him of our former 
 visit, and our account had interested him ; but something 
 had always happened to prevent our going there again. As 
 I ti-usted that I might have sufficient influence with Miss 
 Jellyby to prevent her taking any very rash step, if I fully 
 accepted the confidence she was so willing to place in me, 
 poor girl, I proposed that she and I and Peepy should go 
 to the Academy, and afterwards meet my guardian and Ada 
 at Miss Elite's — whose name I now learnt for the first time. 
 This was on condition that Miss Jellyby and Peepy should 
 come back with us to dinner. The last article of the agree- 
 ment being joyfully acceded to by both, we smartened Peepy 
 up a little, with the assistance of a few pins, some soap and 
 water, and a hair-brush ; and went out : bending our steps 
 towards Newman Street, which was very near. 
 
 I found the Academy established in a sufficiently dingy 
 house at the corner of an archway, with busts in all the 
 
MR. TURVEYDROFS ACADEMY. 
 
 229 
 
 staircase windows. In the same house there were also 
 estabhshed, as I gathered from the plates on the door, a 
 drawing-master, a coal-merchant (there was, certainly, no 
 room for his coals), and a lithographic artist. On the plate 
 which, in size and situation, took precedence of all the rest, 
 I read, Mr. Turveydrop. The door was open, and the hall 
 was blocked up by a grand piano^ a harp, and several other 
 musical instruments in cases, all in progress of removal, and 
 all looking rakish in the daylight. Miss Jellyby informed 
 me that the Academy had been lent, last night, for a concert. 
 
 We went up-stairs — it had been quite a fine house once, 
 when it was anybody's business to keep it clean and fresh, 
 and nobody's business to smoke in it all day — and into Mr, 
 Turveydrop's great room, which was built out into a mews 
 at the back, and was lighted by a skylight. It was a bare, 
 resounding room, smelling of stables ; with cane forms along 
 the walls ; and the walls ornamented at regular intervals with 
 painted lyres, and little cut-glass branches for candles, which 
 seemed to be shedding their old-fashioned drops as other 
 branches might shed autumn leaves. Several young lady 
 pupils, ranging from thirteen or fourteen years of age to two 
 or three and twenty, were assembled ; and I was looking among 
 them for their instructor, when Caddy, pinching my arm, 
 repeated the ceremony of introduction. " Miss Summerson, 
 Mr. Prince Turveydrop ! 
 
 I curtseyed to a little blue-eyed fair man of youthful 
 appearance, with flaxen hair parted in the middle, and curl- 
 ing at the ends all round his head. He had a little fiddle, 
 which we used to call at school a kit, under his left arm, and 
 its little bow in the same hand. His little dancing-shoes 
 were particularly diminutive, and he had a little innocent, 
 feminine manner, which not only appealed to me in an 
 amiable way, but made this singular effect upon me : that I 
 received the impression that he was like his mother, and that 
 his mother had not been much considered or well used. 
 
 ^'I am very happy to see Miss Jellyby's friend,'' he said. 
 
230 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 bowing low to me. " I began to fear,'' with timid tenderness, 
 "as it was past the usual time, that Miss Jellyby was not 
 coming.'' 
 
 " I beg you will have the goodness to attribute that to me, 
 who have detained her, and to receive my excuses, sir," said I. 
 " O dear ! " said he. 
 
 " And pray," I entreated, " do not allow me to be the cause 
 of any more delay." 
 
 With that apology I withdrew to a seat between Peepy 
 (who, being well used to it, had already climbed into a corner 
 place) and an old lady of a^ censorious countenance, whose 
 two nieces were in the class, and who was very indignant 
 with Peepy's boots. Prince Turveydrop then tinkled the 
 strings of his kit with his fingers, and the young ladies stood 
 up to dance. Just then, there appeared from a side door, 
 old Mr. Turveydrop, in the full lustre of his Deportment. 
 
 He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion, false 
 teeth, false whiskers, and a wig. He had a fur collar, and he 
 had a padded breast to his coat, which only wanted a star or 
 a broad blue ribbon to be complete. He was pinched in, and 
 swelled out, and got up, and strapped down, as much as he 
 could possibly bear. He had such a neckcloth on (puffing his 
 very eyes out of their natural shape), and his chin and even 
 his ears so sunk into it, that it seemed as though he must 
 inevitably double up, if it were cast loose. He had, under 
 his arm, a hat of great size and weight, shelving downward 
 from the crown to the brim ; and in his hand a pair of white 
 gloves, with which he flapped it, as he stood poised on one 
 leg, in a high-shouldered, round-elbowed state of elegance not 
 to be surpassed. He had a cane, he had an eye-glass, he had 
 a snuff-box, he had rings, he had wristbands, he had every- 
 thing but any touch of nature ; he was not like youth, he w 
 not like age, he was not like anything in the world but 
 model of Deportment. 
 
 " Father ! A visitor. Miss Jellyby's friend, Miss Summer 
 son." 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 or THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY of ILLINOIS. 
 
A MODEL OF DEPORTMENT. 
 
 231 
 
 Distinguished,'** said Mr. Turveydrop, " by Miss Summer- 
 son's presence."' As he bowed to me in that tight state, I 
 almost beheve I saw creases come into the whites of his eyes, 
 
 "My father," said the son, aside, to me, with quite an 
 affecting belief in him, " is a celebrated character. My father 
 is greatly admired." 
 
 " Go on^ Prince ! Go on ! " said Mr. Turveydrop, standing 
 with his back to the fire, and waving his gloves condescend- 
 ingly. " Go on, my son ! " 
 
 At this command, or by this gracious permission, the lesson 
 went on. Prince Turveydrop sometimes played the kit, 
 dancing ; sometimes played the piano, standing ; sometimes 
 hummed the tune with what little breath he could spare, 
 while he set a pupil right ; always conscientiously moved with 
 the least proficient through every step and every part of the 
 figure ; and never rested for an instant. His distinguished 
 father did nothing whatever^ but stand before the fire, a 
 model of Deportment. 
 
 "And he never does anything else," said the old lady of 
 the censorious countenance. " Yet would you believe that it's 
 Ms name on the door-plate ? " 
 
 " His son's name is the same, you know," said I. 
 
 " He wouldn't let his son have any name, if he could take 
 it from him," returned the old lady. "Look at the son's 
 dress ! " It certainly was plain — threadbare — almost shabby. 
 "Yet the father must be garnished and tricked out," said 
 the old lady, " because of his Deportment. I'd deport him ! 
 Transport him would be better ! " 
 
 I felt curious to know more, concerning this person. I 
 asked, " Does he give lessons in Deportment, now ? " 
 
 " Now ! " returned the old lady, shortly. " Never did." 
 
 After a moment's consideration, I suggested that perhaps 
 fencing had been his accomplishment? 
 
 " I don't believe he can fence at all, ma'am," said the old 
 lady. 
 
 I looked surprised and inquisitive. The old lady, becoming 
 
233 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE, 
 
 more and more incensed against the Master of Deportment as 
 she dwelt upon the subject, gave me some particulars of his 
 career, with strong assurances that they were mildly stated* 
 
 He had married a meek little dancing-mistress, with a 
 tolerable connexion (having never in his life before done 
 anything but deport himself), and had worked her to death, 
 or had, at the best, suffered her to work herself to death, to 
 maintain him in those expenses which were indispensable to 
 his position. At once to exhibit his Deportment to the best 
 models, and to keep the best models constantly before himself, 
 he had found it necessary to frequent all public places of 
 fashionable and lounging resort; to be seen at Brighton and 
 elsewhere at fashionable times ; and to lead an idle life in the 
 very best clothes. To enable him to do this, the affectionate 
 little dancing-mistress had toiled and laboured, and would 
 have toiled and laboured to that hour, if her strength had 
 lasted so long. For, the mainspring of the story was, that, 
 in spite of .the man's absorbing selfishness, his wife (over- 
 powered by his Deportment) had, to the last, believed in him, 
 and had, on her death-bed, in the most moving terms, confided 
 him to their son as one who had an inextinguishable claim 
 upon him, and whom he could never regard with too much 
 pride and deference. The son, inheriting his mother's belief, 
 and having the Deportment always before him, had lived and 
 grown in the same faith, and now, at thirty years of age, 
 worked for his father twelve hours a-day, and looked up to 
 him with veneration on the old imaginary pinnacle. 
 
 "The airs the fellow gives himself said my informant, 
 shaking her head at old Mr. Turveydrop with speechless in- 
 dignation as he drew on his tight gloves : of course unconscious 
 of the homage she was rendering. " He fully believes he is 
 one of the aristocracy ! And he is so condescending to the 
 son he so egregiously deludes, that you might suppose him 
 the most virtuous of parents. O ! '' said the old lady, apostro- 
 phising him with infinite vehemence, " I could bite you ! 
 
 I could not help being amused, though I heard the old 
 
A DEGENERATE RACE. 
 
 233 
 
 lady out with feelings of real concern. It was difficult to 
 doubt her, with the father and son before me. What I 
 might have thought of them without the old lady's account, 
 or what I might have thought of the old lady's account with- 
 out them, I cannot say. There was a fitness of things in the 
 whole that carried conviction with it. 
 
 My eyes were yet wandering, from young Mr. Turveydrop 
 working so hard, to old Mr. Turveydrop deporting himself 
 so beautifully, when the latter came ambling up to me, and 
 entered into conversation. 
 
 He asked me, first of all, whether I conferred a charm 
 and a distinction on London by residing in it? I did not 
 think it necessary to reply that I w^as perfectly aware I 
 should not do that, in any case, but merely told him where 
 I did reside, 
 
 "A lady so graceful and accomplished," he said, kissing 
 his right glove, and afterwards extending it towards the 
 pupils, " will look leniently on the deficiencies here. We do 
 our best to polish — polish — polish ! '' 
 
 He sat down beside me; taking some pains to sit on the 
 form, I thought, in imitation of the print of his illustrious 
 model on the sofa. And really he did look very like it. 
 
 " To polish — polish — polish ! '' he repeated, taking a pinch 
 of snufF and gently fluttering his fingers. " But w^e are not — 
 if I may say so, to one formed to be graceful both by Nature 
 and Art;"' with the high-shouldered bow, which it seemed 
 impossible for him to make without lifting up his eyebrows 
 and shutting his eyes — " we are not what we used to be in 
 point of Deportment.**' 
 
 "Are we not, sir?" said I. 
 
 "We have degenerated," he returned, shaking his head, 
 which he could do, to a very limited extent, in his cravat. 
 "A levelling age is not favourable to Deportment. It de- 
 velops vulgarity. Perhaps I speak with some little partiality. 
 It may not be for me to say that I have been called, for 
 some years now, Gentleman Turveydrop ; or that His Royal 
 
234 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Highness the Prince Regent did me the honour to inquire, 
 on my removing my hat as he drove out of the Pavilion at 
 Brighton (that fine building), ^Who is he? Who the Devil 
 is he? Why don't I know him? Why hasn't he thirty 
 thousand a-year?^ But these are little matters of anecdote 
 — the general property, ma'am, — still repeated, occasionally, 
 among the upper classes.*" 
 "Indeed?'' said L 
 
 He replied with the high-shouldered bow. " Where what 
 is left among us of Deportment," he added, "still lingers. 
 England — alas, my country ! — has degenerated very much, and 
 is degenerating every day. She has not many gentlemen left. 
 We are few. I see nothing to succeed us, but a race of 
 weavers." 
 
 "One might hope that the race of gentlemen would be 
 perpetuated here," said I. 
 
 "You are very good," he smiled, with the high-shouldered 
 bow again. " You flatter me. But, no — no ! I have never 
 been able to imbue my poor boy with that part of his art. 
 Heaven forbid that I should disparage my dear child, but he 
 has — no Deportment." 
 
 " He appeal^ to be an excellent master," I observed. 
 
 "Understand me, my dear madam, he is an excellent I 
 master. All that can be acquired, he has acquired. All that 
 can be imparted, he can impart. But there ai'e things" — he 
 took another pinch of snufF and made the bow again, as if 
 to add, " this kind of thing, for instance." 
 
 I glanced towards the centre of the room, where Miss 
 Jellyby's lover, now engaged with single pupils, was under- 
 going greater drudgery than ever. 
 
 " My amiable child," murmured Mr. Turveydrop, adjusting 
 his cravat. 
 
 " Your son is indefatigable," said I. 
 
 "It is my reward," said Mr. Turveydrop, "to hear you say 
 so. In some respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted 
 mother. She was a devoted creature. But Wooman, lovely 
 
A FATHER^S BLESSING. 
 
 235 
 
 Wooman,'' said Mr. Turveydrop, with very disagreeable 
 gallantry, " what a sex you are ! 
 
 I rose and joined Miss Jelly by, who was, by this time, 
 ]}utting on her bonnet. The time allotted to a lesson having 
 fully elapsed, there was a general putting on of bonnets. 
 When Miss Jellyby and the unfortunate Prince found an oppor- 
 tunity to become betrothed I don't know, but they certainly 
 found none, on this occasion, to exchange a dozen words. 
 
 "My dear,*" said Mr. Turveydrop benignly to his son, 
 " do you know the hour ? 
 
 "No, father."' The son had no watch. The father had a 
 handsome gold one, which he pulled out, with an air that was 
 an example to mankind. 
 
 "My son,'' said he, "it's two o'clock. Recollect your 
 school at Kensington at three." 
 
 " That's time enough for me, father," said Prince. " I can 
 take a morsel of dinner, standing, and be off." 
 
 "My dear boy," returned his father, "you must be very 
 quick. You will find the cold mutton on the table." 
 
 " Thank you, father. Are you off now, father ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear. I suppose," said Mr. Turveydrop, shutting 
 his eyes and lifting up his shoulders, with modest conscious- 
 ness, "that I must show myself, as usual, about town." 
 
 "You had better dine out comfortably, somewhere," said 
 his son. 
 
 " My dear child, I intend to. I shall take my little meal, 
 I think, at the French house, in the Opera Colonnade." 
 
 "That's right. Good-bye, father!" said Prince, shaking 
 hands. 
 
 " Good-bye, my son. Bless you ! " 
 
 Mr. Turveydrop said this in quite a pious manner, and it 
 seemed to do his son good ; who, in parting from him, was 
 so pleased with him, so dutiful to him, and so proud of him, 
 that I almost felt as if it were an unkindness to the younger 
 man not to be able to believe implicitly in the elder. The 
 tew moments that were occupied by Prince in taking leave of 
 
236 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 us (and particularly of one of us, as I saw, being in the 
 secret), enhanced my favourable impression of his almost 
 childish character. I felt a liking for him, and a compassion 
 for him, as he put his little kit in his pocket — and with 
 it his desire to stay a little while with Caddy — and went 
 away good-humouredly to his cold mutton and his school at 
 Kensington, that made me scarcely less irate with his father 
 than the censorious old lady. 
 
 The father opened the room -door for us, and bowed us 
 out, in a manner, I must acknowledge, w^orthy of his shining 
 original. In the same style he presently passed us on the 
 other side of the street, on his way to the aristocratic part of 
 the town, where he was going to show himself among the few 
 other gentlemen left. For some moments, I was so lost in 
 reconsidering what I had heard and seen in Newman Street, 
 that I was quite unable to talk to Caddy, or even to fix my 
 attention on what she said to me : especially when I began 
 to inquire in my mind whether there were, or ever had been, 
 any other gentlemen, not in the dancing profession, who 
 lived and founded a reputation entirely on their Deportment. 
 This became so bewildering, and suggested the possibility, of 
 so many Mr. Turveydrops, that I said, "Esther, you must 
 make up your mind to abandon this subject altogether, and 
 attend to Caddy.*"" I accordingly did so, and we chatted all 
 the rest of the way to Lincoln^'s Inn. 
 
 Caddy told me that her lover's education had been so neg- 
 lected, that it was not always easy to read his notes. She 
 said, if he w^ere not so anxious about his spelling, and took 
 less pains to make it clear, he would do better; but he put 
 so many unnecessary letters into short words, that they some- 
 times quite lost their English appearance. " He does it with 
 the best intention,*" observed Caddy, " but it hasn't the effect 
 he means, poor fellow ! Caddy then went on to reason, how 
 could he be expected to be a scholar, when he had passed his 
 whole life in the dancing-school, and had done nothing but 
 teach and fag, fag and teach, moi'ning, noon, and night! 
 
CADDY BECOMES MORE CONFIDENTIAL, m 
 
 And what did it matter ? She could write letters enough for 
 both, as she knew to her cost, and it was far better for him 
 to be amiable than learned. " Besides, it's not as if I was an 
 accomplished girl, who had any right to give herself airs,"** 
 said Caddy. " I know little enough, I am sure, thanks to Ma ! 
 
 "There's another thing I want to tell you, now we are 
 alone,'' continued Caddy, " which I should not have liked to 
 mention unless you had seen Prince, Miss Summerson. You 
 know what a house ours is. It's of no use my trying to learn 
 anything that it would be useful for Prince's wife to know, 
 in our house. We live in such a state of muddle that it's 
 impossible, and I have only been more disheartened whenever 
 I have tried. So, I get a little practice with — who do you 
 think ? Poor Miss Flite ! Early in the morning, I help her 
 to tidy her room, and clean her birds ; and I make her cup 
 of coffee for her (of course she taught me), and I have learnt 
 to make it so well that Prince says it's the very best coffee 
 he ever tasted, and would quite delight old Mr. Turveydrop, 
 who is very particular indeed about his coffee. I can make 
 little puddings too ; and I know how to buy neck of mutton, 
 and tea, and sugar, and butter, and a good many house- 
 keeping things. I am not clever at my needle, yet," said 
 Caddy, glancing at the repairs on Peepy's frock, " but perhaps 
 I shall improve, and since I have been engaged to Prince, 
 and have been doing all this, I have felt better-tempered, I 
 hope, and more forgiving to Ma. It rather put m© out, at 
 first this morning, to see you and Miss Clare looking so neat 
 and pretty, and to feel ashamed of Peepy and myself too; 
 but, on the whole, I hope I am better-tempered than I was, 
 and more forgiving to Ma." 
 
 The poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her heart, and 
 touched mine. " Caddy, my love," I replied, " I begin to 
 have a great affection for you, and I hope we shall become 
 friends." "Oh, do you?" cried Caddy; "how happy that 
 would make me!" "My dear Caddy," said I, "let us be 
 friends from this time, and let us often have a chat about 
 
238 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 these matters, and try to find the right way through them.'" 
 Caddy was overjoyed. I said everything I could, in my old- 
 fashioned way, to comfort and encourage her; and I would 
 not have objected to old Mr. Turveydrop, that day, for any 
 smaller consideration than a settlement on his daughter-in-law. 
 
 By this time, we were come to Mr. Krook's, whose private 
 door stood open. There was a bill, pasted on the door-post, 
 announcing a room to let on the second floor. It reminded 
 Caddy to tell me as we proceeded up-stairs, that there had 
 been a sudden death there, and an inquest; and that our 
 little friend had been ill of the fright. The door and window 
 of the vacant room being open, we looked in. It was the 
 room with the dark door, to which Miss Elite had secretly 
 directed my attention when I was last in the house. A sad 
 and desolate place it was; a gloomy, sorrowful place, that 
 gave me a strange sensation of mournfulness and even dread. 
 " You look pale,*" said Caddy, when we came out, and cold ! *' 
 I felt as if the room had chilled me. 
 
 We had walked slowly, while we were talking; and my 
 guardian and Ada were here before us. We found them in 
 Miss Flite'^s garret. They were looking at the birds, while a 
 medical gentleman who was so good as to attend Miss Elite 
 with much solicitude and compassion, spoke with her cheer- 
 fully by the fire. • 
 
 "I have finished my professional visit,**' he said, coming 
 forward. ''Miss Elite is much better, and may appear in 
 Court (as her mind is set upon it) to-morrow. She has been 
 greatly missed there, I understand. 
 
 Miss Elite received the compliment with complacency, and 
 dropped a general curtsey to us. 
 
 " Honoured, indeed,'*'* said she, " by another visit from the ; 
 wards in Jarndyce ! Ve-ry happy to receive Jarndyce of j 
 Bleak House beneath my humble roof ! with a special 
 curtsey. " Eitz- Jarndyce, my dear;'' she had bestowed that 
 name on Caddy, it appeared, and always called her by it ; 
 " a double welcome ! '*'* 
 
MISS FLITE AND ^HER DOCTOR. 2S9 
 
 " Has she been very ill ? asked Mr. Jarndyce of the gentle- 
 man whom we had found in attendance on her. She answered 
 for herself directly, though he had put the question in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " O decidedly unwell ! O very unwell indeed,**' she said, con- 
 fidentially. "Not pain, you know — trouble. Not bodily so 
 much as nervous, nervous ! The truth is,"*' in a subdued voice 
 and trembling, " we have had death here. There was poison 
 in the house. I am very susceptible to such horrid things. 
 It frightened me. Only Mr. Woodcourt knows how much. 
 My physician, Mr. AVoodcourt ! with great statehness. 
 "The wards in Jarndyce — Jarndyce of Bleak House — Fitz- 
 Jarndyce ! 
 
 " Miss Flite,"' said Mr. Woodcourt, in a grave kind of voice, 
 as if he were appeahng to her while speaking to us ; and 
 laying his hand gently on her arm ; " Miss Flite describes her 
 illness with her usual accuracy. She was alarmed by an 
 occurrence in the house which might have alarmed a stronger, 
 person, and was made ill by the distress and agitation. She 
 brought me here, in the first hurry of the discovery, though 
 too late for me to be of any use to the unfortunate man. 
 I have compensated myself for that disappointment by coming 
 here since, and being of some small use to her."' 
 
 "The kindest physician in the college,^' whispered Miss 
 Flite to me. I expect a Judgment. On the day of 
 Judgment. And shall then confer estates."*' 
 
 " She will be as well, in a day or two,'' said Mr. Woodcourt, 
 looking at her with an observant smile, " as she ever will be. 
 In other words, quite well of course. Have you heard of her 
 good fortune ? " 
 
 " Most extraordinary ! " said Miss Flite, smiling brightly. 
 "You never heard of such a thing, my dear! Every 
 Saturday, Conversation Kenge, or Guppy (clerk to Conversa- 
 tion K.), places in my hand a paper of shillings. Shillings. 
 I assure you ! Always the same number in the paper. 
 Always one for every day in the week. Now you know^ 
 
240 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 really ! So well-timed, is it not ? Ye-es ! From whence do 
 these papers come, you say? That is the great question. 
 Naturally. Shall I tell you what / think ? / think,'' said 
 Miss Flite, drawing herself back with a very shrewd look, and 
 shaking her right forefinger in a most significant manner, 
 "that the Lord Chancellor, aware of the length of time 
 during which the Great Seal has been open, (for it has been 
 open a long time !) forwards them. Until the Judgment I 
 expect, is given. Now that's very creditable, you know. To 
 confess in that way that he is a little slow for human life. 
 So delicate ! Attending Court the other day — I attend it 
 regularly — with my documents — I taxed him with it, and he 
 almost confessed. That is, I smiled at him from my bench, 
 and he smiled at me from his bench. But iVs great good 
 fortune, is it not? And Fitz-Jarndyce lays the money out 
 for me to great advantage. O, I assure you to the greatest 
 advantage ! " 
 
 I congratulated her (as she addressed herself to me) upon 
 this fortunate addition to her income, and wished her a long 
 continuance of it. I did not speculate upon the source from 
 which it came, or wonder whose humanity was so considerate. 
 My guardian stood before me, contemplating the birds, and 
 I had no need to look beyond him. 
 
 "And what do you call these little fellows, ma'am?"*' said 
 he in his pleasant voice. " Have they any names ? ^ 
 
 "I can answer for Miss Flite that they have,"' said I, 
 "for she promised to tell us what they were. Ada re- 
 members ? '' 
 
 Ada remembered very well. 
 
 "Did I?'' said Miss Flite— "Who's that at my door? 
 What are you listening at my door for, Krook ? " 
 
 The old man of the house, pushing it open before him, 
 appeared there with his fur-cap in his hand, and his cat at 
 his heels. 
 
 "I warn't listening. Miss Flite,^ he said. "I was going 
 to give a rap with my knuckles, only you're so quick ! 
 
THE NOBLE AND LEARNED BROTHER. 241 
 
 " Make your cat go down. Drive her away ! the old lady 
 angrily exclaimed. 
 
 " Bah, bah ! — There ain't no danger, gentlefolks,"*' said 
 Mr. Krook, looking slowly and sharply from one to another, 
 until he had looked at all of us ; " she'd never offer at the 
 birds when I was here, unless I told her to it." 
 
 " You will excuse my landlord," said the old lady with a 
 dignified air. " M, quite M ! What do you want, Krook, 
 when I have company ? " 
 
 "Hi!" said the old man. "You know I am the Chan- 
 cellor." 
 
 " Well " returned Miss Elite. " What of that ? " 
 
 "For the Chancellor," said the old man, with a chuckle, 
 "not to be acquainted with a Jarndyce is queer, ain't it, 
 Miss Elite ? Mightn't I take the liberty ? — Your servant, 
 sir, I know Jarndyce and Jarndyce a'most as well as you 
 do, sir. I knowed old Squire Tom, sir. I never to my 
 knowledge see you afore though, not even in Court. Yet, 
 I go there a mortal sight of times in the course of the 
 year, taking one day with another." 
 
 " I never go there," said Mr. Jarndyce (which he never 
 did on any consideration). " I would sooner go — somewhere 
 else." 
 
 " W ould you though ? " returned Krook, grinning, " You're 
 bearing hard upon my noble and learned brother in your 
 meaning, sir; though, perhaps, it is but nat'ral in a 
 Jarndyce. The burnt child, sir ! What, you're looking at 
 my lodger's birds, Mr. Jarndyce ? " The old man had come 
 by httle and little into the room, until he now touched 
 my guardian with his elbow, and looked close up into his 
 face with his spectacled eyes. " It's one of her strange 
 ways, that she'll never tell the names of these birds if she 
 can help it, though she named 'em all." This was in a 
 whisper. "Shall I run 'em over, Elite?" he asked aloud, 
 winking at us and pointing at her as she turned aw^ay, 
 affecting to sweep the grate. 
 
242 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "If you like,"*^ she answered hurriedly. 
 
 The old man, looking up at the cages, after another look 
 at us, went through the list. 
 
 "Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, 
 Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, 
 Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, 
 Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach. That's the whole collection,"' 
 said the old man, " all cooped up together, by my noble 
 and learned brother." 
 
 " This is a bitter wind ! '' muttered my guardian, 
 
 " When my noble and learned brother gives his Judgment, 
 they're to be let go free," said Krook, winking at us again. 
 " And then," he added, whispering and grinning, " if that 
 ever was to happen — which it won't — the birds that hav 
 never been caged would kill 'em." 
 
 " If ever the wind was in the east," said my guardian, 
 pretending to look out of the window for a weathercock, "I 
 think it's there to-day ! " 
 
 We found it very difficult to get away from the house. It 
 was not Miss Elite who detained us; she was as reasonabl 
 a little creature in consulting the convenience of others, a 
 there possibly could be. It was Mr. Krook. He seeme 
 unable to detach himself from Mr. Jarndyce. If he h 
 been linked to him, he could hardly have attended him mo 
 closely. He proposed to show us his Court of Chancery, an 
 all the strange medley it contained ; during the whole o 
 our inspection (prolonged by himself) he kept close to Mr 
 Jarndyce, and sometimes detained him, under one pretence o 
 other, until we had passed on, as if he were tormented by a 
 inclination to enter upon some secret subject, which he coul 
 not make up his mind to approach. I cannot imagine 
 countenance and manner more singularly expressive of cautio 
 and indecision, and a perpetual impulse to do something h 
 could not resolve to venture on, than Mr. Krook's was, tha 
 day. His watchfulness of my guardian was incessant. H 
 rarely removed his eyes from his face. If he went on besid 
 
LEARNING TO READ AND WRITE. 243 
 
 him, he observed him with the slyness of an old white fox. 
 If he went before, he looked back. When we stood still, 
 he got opposite to him, and drawing his hand across and 
 across his open mouth with a curious expression of a sense 
 of power, and turning up his eyes, and lowering his grey eye- 
 brows until they appeared to be shut, seemed to scan every 
 lineament of his face. 
 
 At last, having been (always attended by the cat) all 
 over the house, and having seen the whole stock of 
 miscellaneous lumber, which was certainly curious, we came 
 into the back part of the shop. Here, on the head of 
 an empty barrel stood on end, were an ink-bottle, some old 
 stumps of pens, and some dirty playbills ; and, against the 
 wall, were pasted several large printed alphabets in several 
 plain hands. 
 
 " What are you doing here ? "^"^ asked my guardian. 
 
 " Trying to learn myself to read and write,'*'' said Krook. 
 
 " And how do you get on ? 
 
 "Slow. Bad,'^ returned the old man, impatiently. "It's 
 hard at my time of life."' 
 
 "It would be easier to be taught by some one,"" said my 
 guardian. 
 
 " Aye, but they might teach me wrong ! returned the 
 old man, with a wonderfully suspicious flash of his eye. " I 
 don't know what I may have lost, by not being learnd afore. 
 I wouldn't like to lose anything by being learnd wrong 
 now.'"* 
 
 " Wrong ? " said my guardian, with his good-humoured 
 smile. "Who do you suppose would teach you wrong ? 
 
 "I don't know, Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House!" replied 
 the old man, turning up his spectacles on his forehead, and 
 rubbing his hands. " I don't suppose as anybody would — but 
 I'd rather trust my own self than another ! " 
 
 These ansv/ers, and his manner, were strange enough to 
 cause my guardian to inquire of Mr. Woodcourt, as we all 
 walked across Lincoln's Inn together, whether Mr. Krook 
 
244 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 were really, as his lodger represented him, deranged ? The 
 young surgeon replied, no, he had seen no reason to think 
 so. He was exceedingly distrustful, as ignorance usually 
 was, and he was always more or less under the influence of 
 raw gin : of which he drank great quantities, and of which 
 he and his back-shop, as we might have observed, smelt 
 strongly ; but he did not think him mad, as yet. 
 
 On our way home, I so conciliated Peepy's affections by 
 buying him a windmill and two flour-sacks, that he would 
 suffer nobody else to take off* his hat and gloves, and would 
 sit nowhere at dinner but at my side. Caddy sat upon the 
 other side of me, next to Ada, to whom we imparted the 
 whole history of the engagement as soon as we got back. 
 We made much of Caddy, and Peepy too ; and Caddy 
 brightened exceedingly ; and my guardian was as merry as 
 we were ; and we were all very happy indeed ; until Caddy 
 went home at night in a hackney-coach, with Peepy fast 
 asleep, but holding tight to the windmill. 
 
 I have forgotten to mention — at least I have not mentioned 
 — that Mr. Woodcourt was the same dark young surgeon 
 whom Ave had met at Mr. Badger's. Or, that Mr. Jarndyce 
 invited him to dinner that day. Or, that he came. Or, 
 that when they were all gone, and I said to Ada, "Now, 
 my darling, let us have a little talk about Richard ! Ada 
 laughed and said 
 
 But, I don't think it matters what my darling said. She 
 was always merry. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 BELL YARD. 
 
 While we were in London, Mr. Jarndyce was constantly 
 beset by the crowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose 
 proceedings had so much astonished us. Mr. Quale, who pre- 
 sented himself soon after our arrival, was in all such excite- 
 ments. He seemed to project those two shining knobs of 
 temples of his into everything that went on, and to brush 
 his hair farther and farther back, until the very roots were 
 almost ready to fly out of his head in inappeasable philan- 
 thropy. All objects were alike to him, but he was always 
 particularly ready for anything in the way of a testimonial 
 to any one. His great power seemed to be his power of 
 indiscriminate admiration. He would sit, for any length of 
 || time, with the utmost enjoyment, bathing his temples in the 
 light of any order of luminary. Having first seen him 
 perfectly swallowed up in admiration of Mrs. Jellyby, I had 
 II supposed her to be the absorbing object of his devotion. I 
 soon discovered my mistake, and found him to be train-bearer 
 and organ-blower to a whole procession of people, 
 
 Mrs. Pardiggle came one day for a subscription to some- 
 thing — and with her, Mr. Quale. Whatever Mrs. Pardiggle 
 said, Mr. Quale repeated to us; and just as he had drawn 
 j Mrs. Jellyby out, he drew Mrs. Pardiggle out. Mrs. Par- 
 I diggle wrote a letter of introduction to my guardian, in 
 I behalf of her eloquent friend, Mr. Gusher. With Mr. 
 
246 BLEAK HOUSE. g 
 
 Gusher, appeared Mr. Quale again. Mr. Gusher, being a 
 flabby gentleman with a moist surface, and eyes so much too 
 small for his moon of a face that they seemed to have been 
 originally made for somebody else, was not at first sight 
 prepossessing; yet, he w^as scarcely seated, before Mr. Quale 
 asked Ada and me, not inaudibly, whether he w^as not a 
 great creature — which he certainly was, flabbily speaking ; 
 though Mr. Quale meant in intellectual beauty — and whether 
 we were not struck by his massive configuration of brow ? In 
 short, we heard of a great many Missions of various sorts, 
 among this set of people ; but, nothing respecting them was 
 half so clear to us, as that it was Mr. Quale's mission to be 
 in ecstasies with everybody else's mission, and that it w^as the 
 most popular mission of all. 
 
 Mr. Jarndyce had fallen into this company, in the tender- 
 ness of his heart and his earnest desire to do all the good in 
 his power ; but, that he felt it to be too often an unsatis- 
 factory company, where benevolence took spasmodic forms; 
 where charity was assumed, as a regular uniform, by loud 
 professors and speculators in cheap notoriety, vehement in 
 profession, restless and vain in action, servile in the last 
 degree of meanness to the great, adulatory of one another, 
 and intolerable to those who were anxious quietly to help 
 the weak from falling, rather than with a great deal of 
 bluster and self-laudation to raise them up a little way when 
 they were down; he plainly told us. When a testimonial 
 was originated to Mr. Quale, by Mr. Gusher (who had already 
 got one, originated by Mr. Quale), and when Mr. Gusher 
 spoke for an hour and a half on the subject to a meeting, 
 including two charity schools of small boys and girls, who 
 w^ere specially reminded of the widow's mite, and requested 
 to come forward wdth halfpence and be acceptable sacrifices; 
 I think the wind was in the east for three whole weeks. 
 
 I mention this, because I am coming to Mr. Skimpole 
 again. It seemed to me, that his ofF-hand professions of 
 childishness and carelessness were a great relief to my guardians 
 
MR. SKIMPOLE AGAIN. 
 
 247 
 
 by contrast with such things, and were the more readily 
 beHeved in ; since, to find one perfectly undesigning and 
 candid man, among many opposites, could not fail to give 
 him pleasure. I should be sorry to imply that Mr. Skimpole 
 divined this, and was politic : I really never understood him 
 well enough to know. What he was to my guardian, he 
 certainly was to the rest of the world. 
 
 He had not been very well ; and thus, though he lived in 
 liOndon, we had seen nothing of him until now. He appeared 
 one morning, in his usual agreeable way, and as full of 
 pleasant spirits as ever. 
 
 Well, he said, here he was ! He had been bilious, but rich 
 men were often bilious, and therefore he had been persuading 
 himself that he was a man of property. So he was, in a 
 certain point of view — in his expansive intentions. He had 
 been enriching his medical attendant in the most lavish 
 manner. He had always doubled, and sometimes quadrupled, 
 his fees. He had said to the doctor, " Now, my dear doctor, 
 it is quite a delusion on your part to suppose that you attend 
 me for nothing. I am overwhelming you with money — in 
 my expansive intentions — if you only knew it ! And really 
 (he said) he meant it to that degree, that he thought it 
 much the same as doing it. If he had had those bits of 
 metal or thin paper, to which mankind attached so much 
 importance, to put in the doctor's hand, he would have put 
 them in the doctor's hand. Not having them, he substituted 
 the will for the deed. Very well ! If he really meant it — if 
 his will were genuine and real : which it was — it appeared to 
 him that it was the same as coin, and cancelled the obligation. 
 
 " It may be, partly, because I know nothing of the value of 
 money, '' said Mr. Skimpole, " but I often feel this. It seems 
 so reasonable ! My butcher says to me, he wants that little 
 bill. It's a part of the pleasant unconscious poetry of the 
 man's nature, that he always calls it a 'little' bill — to make 
 the payment appear easy to both of us. I reply to the 
 butcher, My good friend, if you knew it you are paid. You 
 
^48 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 haven''t had the trouble of coming to ask for the httle bill. 
 You are paid. I mean it.*^ 
 
 " But, suppose,*" said my guardian, laughing, " he had 
 meant the meat in the bill, instead of providing it?**" 
 
 " My dear Jarndyce," he returned, " you surprise me. You 
 take the butcher's position. A butcher I once dealt with, 
 occupied that very ground. Says he, 'Sir, why did you eat 
 spring lamb at eighteen-pence a pound .^"^ 'AVhy did I eat 
 spring lamb at eighteen-pence a pound, my honest friend ? ' 
 said I, naturally amazed by the question. 'I like spring 
 lamb ! ' This was so far convincing. ' Well, sir,** says he, ' I 
 wish I had meant the lamb as you mean the money ! ' ' My 
 good fellow,** said I, * pray let us reason like intellectual beings. 
 How could that be ? It was impossible. You had got th 
 lamb, and I have 7iot got the money. You couldn't really 
 mean the lamb without sending it in, whereas I can, and do, 
 really mean the money without paying it ! ' He had not 
 word. There was an end of the subject."" 
 
 " Did he take no legal proceedings ? "" inquired my guardian. 
 
 "Yes, he took legal proceedings,"" said Mr. Skimpole^ 
 " But, in that, he was influenced by passion ; not by reason 
 Passion reminds me of Boythorn. He writes me that yo 
 and the ladies have promised him a short visit at his bachelor 
 house in Lincolnshire."" 
 
 "He is a great favourite with my girls,"" said Mr. Jarndyce 
 " and I have promised for them."" 
 
 " Nature forgot to shade him off, I think ? "" observed Mr 
 Skimpole to Ada and me. " A little too boisterous — lik 
 the sea.^^ A little too vehement — like a bull, who has mad 
 up his mind to consider every colour scarlet ? But, I gran 
 .^..^a^ledge-hammering sort of merit in him ! "" 
 
 I should have been surprised if those two could hav 
 thought very highly of one another; Mr. Boythorn attachin 
 'SO much importance to many things, and Mr. Skimpol 
 caring so little for anything. Besides which, I had notic 
 Mr. Boythorn more than once on the point of breaking ou 
 
AS TO BOYTHORN AND THE COAVINSES. 
 
 into some strong opinion, when Mr. Skimpole was referred 
 to. Of course I merely ioined Ada in saying that we had 
 been greatly pleased with him. 
 
 "He has invited me,"" said Mr. Skimpole; "and if a, child 
 may trust himself in such hands : which the present child is 
 encouraged to do, with the united tenderness of two angels 
 to guard him : I shall go. He proposes to frank me down 
 and back again. I suppose it will cost money? Shillings 
 perhaps ? Or pounds ? Or something of that sort ? By-the- 
 bye. Coavinses. You remember our friend Coavinses, Miss 
 Summerson ? 
 
 He asked me, as the subject arose in his mind, in his 
 graceful light-hearted manner, and without the least em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 " O yes ! said I. 
 
 "Coavinses has been arrested by the great Bailiff,'** said 
 Mr. Skimpole. " He will never do violence to the sunshine 
 any more."** 
 
 It quite shocked me to hear it ; for, I had already recalled, 
 with anything but a serious association, the image of the man 
 sitting on the sofa that night, wiping his head. 
 
 "His successor informed me of it yesterday,*^ said Mr. 
 Skimpole. " His successor is in my house now — in possession, 
 I think he calls it. He came yesterday, on my blue-eyed 
 daughter's birthday. I put it to him, 'This is unreasonable 
 and inconvenient. If you had a blue-eyed daughter you 
 wouldn't like im to come, uninvited, on her birthday ? ^ But, 
 he stayed.'' 
 
 Mr. Skimpole laughed at the pleasant absurdity, and lightly 
 touched the piano by which he was seated. 
 
 " And he told me," he said, playing little chords where I 
 shall put full stops, "That Coavinses had left. Three chil- 
 dren. No mother. And that Coavinses' profession. Being 
 unpopular. The rising Coavinses. Were at a considerable 
 disadvantage." 
 
 Mr. Jarndyce got up, rubbing his head, and began to walk 
 
950 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 about. Mr. Skimpole played the melody of one of Ada's 
 favourite songs. Ada and I both looked at Mr. Jarndyce, 
 thinking that we knew what was passing in his mind. 
 
 After walking and stopping, and several times leavmg off 
 rubbing his head, and beginning again, my guardian put his 
 hand upon the keys and stopped Mr. Skimpole's playing. 
 I don't like this, Skimpole,"' he said thoughtfully. 
 
 Mr. Skimpole, who had quite forgotten the subject, looked 
 up surprised. 
 
 "The man was necessary,'' pursued my guardian, walking 
 backward and forward in the very short space between the 
 piano and the end of the room, and rubbing his hair up 
 from the back of his head as if a high east wind had blown 
 it into that form. " If we make such men necessary by our 
 faults and follies, or by our want of worldly knowledge, or by 
 our misfortunes, we must not revenge ourselves upon them. 
 There was no harm in his trade. He maintained his children. 
 One would like to know more about this." 
 
 " O ! Coavinses ? " cried Mr. Skimpole, at length perceiving 
 what he meant. "Nothing easier. A walk to Coavinses' 
 head-quarters, and you can know what you will." 
 
 Mr. Jarndyce nodded to us, who were only waiting for the 
 signal. "Come!* We will walk that way, my dears. Why 
 not that way, as soon as another ! " We were quickly ready, 
 and went out. Mr. Skimpole went with us, and quite enjoyed 
 the expedition. It was so new and so refreshing, he said, for 
 him to want Coavinses, instead of Coavinses wanting him ! 
 
 He took us, first, to Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, where 
 there was a house with barred windows, which he called 
 Coavinses' Castle. On our going into the entry and ringing 
 a bell, a very hideous boy came out of a sort of office, and 
 looked at us over a spiked wicket. 
 
 "Who did you want?" said the boy, fitting two of the 
 spikes into his chin. 
 
 "There was a follower, or an officer, or something, here/' 
 said Mr. Jarndyce, " who is dead." 
 
NECKETTS CHILDREN. 
 
 251 
 
 « Yes ? said the boy. " Well ? " 
 
 "I want to know his name, if you please?" 
 
 " Name of Neckett," said the boy. 
 
 " And his address ? '''' 
 
 "Bell Yard," said the boy. Chandler's shop, left hand 
 side, name of Blinder." 
 
 " Was he — I don''t know how to shape the question," mur- 
 mured my guardian — " industrious ?" 
 
 " Was Neekett ? " said the boy. " Yes, wery much so. He 
 was never tired of w^atching. He'*d set upon a post at a 
 street corner, eight or ten hours at a stretch, if he undertook 
 to do it." 
 
 "He might have done worse," I heard my guardian solilo- 
 quize. " He might have undertaken to do it, and not done 
 it. Thank you. That's all I want." 
 
 We left the boy, with his head on one side, and his arms 
 on the gate, fondling and sucking the spikes ; and went back 
 to Lincoln's Inn, where Mr. Skimpole, who had not cared to 
 remain nearer Coavinses, awaited us. Then, we all went to 
 Bell Yard : a narrow alley, at a very short distance. We soon 
 found the chandler's shop. In it, was a good-natured-looking 
 old woman, with a dropsy, or an asthma, or perhaps both. 
 
 "Neckett's children?" said she, in reply to my inquiry. 
 " Yes, surely, miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right 
 opposite the stairs." And she handed me the key across the 
 counter. 
 
 I glanced at the key, and glanced at her; but she took it 
 for granted that I knew what to do with it. As it could 
 only be intended for the children's door, I came out, without 
 asking any more questions, and led the way up the dark 
 stairs. We went as quietly as we could ; but, four of us made 
 some noise on the aged boards; and, when we came to the 
 second story, we found we had disturbed a man who was 
 standing there, looking out of his room. 
 
 " Is it Gridley that's wanted ? " he said, fixing his eyes on 
 me with an angry stare. 
 
252 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 ^' No, sir,"" said I, " I am going higher up/** 
 
 He looked at Ada, and at Mr. Jarndyce, and at Mr. 
 Skimpole : fixing the same angry stare on each in succession, 
 as they passed and followed me. Mr. Jarndyce gave him 
 good day. " Good day ! he said, abruptly and fiercely. He 
 was a tall sallow man, with a careworn head, on which but 
 little hair remained, a deeply lined face, and prominent eyes. 
 He had a combative look ; and a chafing, irritable manner, 
 which, associated with his figure — still large and powerful, 
 though evidently in its decline — rather alarmed me. He 
 had a pen in his hand, and, in the gHmpse I caught of his 
 room in passing, I saw that it was covered with a litter 
 of papers. 
 
 Leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room. 
 I tapped at the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, 
 
 We are locked in. Mrs. Blinder's got the key ! 
 
 I applied the key on hearing this, and opened the door. 
 In a poor room, with a sloping ceiling, and containing very 
 little furniture, was a mite of a boy, some five or six years 
 old, nursing and hushing a heavy child of eighteen months. 
 There was no fire, though the weather was cold ; both children 
 were wrapped in some poor shawls and tippets, as a substitute. 
 Their clothing was not so warm, however, but that their noses 
 looked red and pinched, and their small figures shrunken, as 
 the boy walked up and down, nursing and hushing the child 
 with its head on his shoulder. 
 
 " Who has locked you up here alone ? " we naturally 
 asked. 
 
 Charley,"' said the boy, standing still to gaze at us. 
 " Is Charley your brother ? " 
 
 "No. She's my sister, Charlotte. Father called lier 
 Charley.'' 
 
 " Are there any more of you besides Charley ? " 
 " Me," said the boy, " and Emma," patting the limp bonnet 
 of the child he was nursing. " And Charley." 
 " Where is Charley now ? " 
 
LIITLE CHARLEY. 
 
 253 
 
 " Out a-washing,'' said the boy, beginning to walk up and 
 down again, and taking the nankeen bonnet much too near 
 the bedstead, by trying to gaze at us at the same time. 
 
 We were looking at one another, and at these two children, 
 when there came into the room a very little girl, childish in 
 figure but shrewd and older-looking in the face — pretty-faced 
 too — wearing a womanly sort of bonnet much too large for 
 her, and drying her bare arms on a womanly sort of apron. 
 Her fingers were white and wrinkled with washing, and the 
 soap-suds were yet smoking which she wiped off her arms. 
 But for this, she might have been a child, playing at washing, 
 and imitating a poor working-woman with a quick observa- 
 tion of the truth. 
 
 She had come running from some place in the neighbour- 
 hood, and had made all the haste she could. Consequently, 
 though she was very light, she was out of breath, and could 
 not speak at first, as she stood panting, and wiping her arms, 
 and looking quietly at us. 
 
 " O, here's Charley ! said the boy. 
 
 The child he was nursing, stretched forth its arms, and 
 cried out to be taken by Charley. The little girl took it, in 
 a womanly sort of manner belonging to the apron and the 
 bonnet, and stood looking at us over the burden that clung 
 to her most affectionately. 
 
 " Is it possible,'' whispered my guardian, as w^e put a chair 
 for the little creature, and got her to sit down with her load : 
 the boy keeping close to her, holding to her apron, "that 
 this child works for the rest ? I^ook at this ! For God's 
 sake look at this ! " 
 
 It was a thing to look at. The three children close 
 together, and two of them relying solely on the third, and 
 the third so young and yet with an air of age and steadiness 
 that sat so strangely on the childish figure. 
 
 " Charley, Charley ! " said my guardian. " How old are 
 you ? " 
 
 " Over thirteen, sir," replied the child. 
 
254 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " O ! What a great age ! '''' said my guardian. " What a 
 great age, Charley ! 
 
 I cannot describe the tenderness with which he spoke to 
 her; half playfully, yet all the more compassionately and 
 mournfully. 
 
 " And do you live alone here with these babies, Charley ? ^"^ 
 said my guardian. 
 
 " Yes, sir," returned the child, looking up into his face 
 with perfect confidence, "since father died."' 
 
 "And how do you live, Charley? O! Charley,"* said my 
 guardian, turning his face away for a moment, ^' how do you 
 live?" 
 
 " Since father died, sir, Fve gone out to work. Fm out 
 washing to-day." 
 
 " God help you, Charley ! " said my guardian. " You're 
 not tall enough to reach the tub ! " 
 
 "In pattens I am, sir," she said quickly. "Tve got a 
 high pair as belonged to mother." 
 
 " And when did mother die ? Poor mother ! " 
 
 "Mother died, just after Emma was born," said the child, 
 glancing at the face upon her bosom. " Then father said I 
 was to be as good a mother to her as I could. And so I 
 tried. And so I worked at home, and did cleaning and 
 nursing and washing, for a long time before I began to go 
 out. And that's how I know how ; don't you see, sir ? " 
 
 " And do you often go out ? " 
 
 " As often as I can," said Charley, opening her eyes, and 
 smiling, " because of earning sixpences and shillings ! " 
 
 " And do you always lock the babies up when you go out ? " 
 
 " To keep 'em safe, sir, don't you see ? " said Charley. 
 " Mrs. Blinder comes up now and then, and Mr. Gridley 
 comes up sometimes, and perhaps I can run in sometimes, 
 and they can play you know, and Tom an't afraid of being 
 locked up, are you, Tom ? " 
 
 " No-o ! " said Tom, stoutly. 
 
 "When it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down in 
 
MRS. BLINDER. 
 
 255 
 
 the court, and they show up here quite bright — almost quite 
 bright. Don^t they, Tom ? 
 
 " Yes, Charley,'" said Tom, " almost quite bright.'" 
 
 " Then he's as good as gold," said the little creature — 0 ! 
 in such a motherly, womanly way ! " And when Emma's 
 tired, he puts her to bed. And when he's tired he goes to 
 bed himself. And when I come home and light the candle, 
 and has a bit of supper, he sits up again and has it with me. 
 Don't you, Tom?" 
 
 " O yes, Charley ! " said Tom. " That I do ! " And either 
 in this glimpse of the great pleasure of his life, or in grati- 
 tude and love for Charley, who was all in all to him, he laid 
 his face among the scanty folds of her frock, and passed from 
 laughing into crying. 
 
 It was the first time since our entry, that a tear had been 
 shed among these children. The little orphan girl had spoken 
 of their father, and their mother, as if all that soitow were 
 subdued by the necessity of taking courage, and by her 
 childish importance in being able to work, and by her 
 bustling busy way. But, now, when Tom cried; although 
 she sat quite tranquil, looking quietly at us, and did not by 
 any movement disturb a hair of the head of either of her 
 little charges : I saw two silent tears fall down her face. 
 
 I stood at the window with Ada, pretending to look at the 
 housetops, and the blackened stack of chimneys, and the poor 
 plants, and the birds in little cages belonging to the neigh- 
 bours, when I found that Mrs. Blinder, from the shop below, 
 had come in (perhaps it had taken her all this time to get 
 up-stairs) and was talking to my guardian. 
 
 " It's not much to forgive 'em the rent, sir," she said : " who 
 could take it from them ! " 
 
 " Well, well ! " said my guardian to us two. " It is enough 
 that the time will come when this good woman will find that 
 it was much, and that forasmuch as she did it unto the least 
 of these — ! This child," he added, after a few moments, 
 " could she possibly continue this ? " 
 
256 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " Really, sir, I think she might,'' said Mrs. Blinder, getting 
 her heavy breath by painful degrees. " She's as handy as it's 
 possible to be. Bless you, sir, the way she tended them two 
 children, after the mother died, was the talk of the yard ! 
 And it was a wonder to see her with him after he was took 
 ill, it really was ! ' Mrs. Blinder,' he said to me the very 
 last he spoke — he was lying there — 'Mrs. Blinder, whatever 
 my calling may have been, I see a Angel sitting in this room 
 last night along with my child, and I trust her to Our 
 Father!'" 
 
 ^'He had no other calling?" said my guardian. 
 
 "No, sir," returned Mrs. Blinder, "he was nothing but a 
 follerer. When he first came to lodge here, I didn't know 
 what he was, and I confess that when I found out I gave him 
 notice. It wasn't liked in the yard. It wasn't approved by 
 the other lodgers. It is not a genteel calling," said Mrs. 
 Blinder, "and most people do object to it. Mr. Gridley 
 objected to it, very strong; and he is a good lodger, though 
 his temper has been hard tried." 
 
 " So you gave him notice ? " said my guardian. 
 
 "So I gave him notice," said Mrs. Blinder. "But really 
 when the time came, and I knew no other ill of him, I was 
 in doubts. He was punctual and diligent; he did what he 
 had to do, sir," said Mrs. Blinder, unconsciously fixing Mr. 
 Skimpole with her eye; "and it's something in this world, 
 even to do that." 
 
 " So you kept him after all ? " 
 
 " Why, I said that if he could arrange with Mr. Gridley, 
 I could arrange it with the other lodgers, and should not 
 so much mind its being liked or disliked in the yard. Mr. 
 Gridley gave his consent gruff — but gave it. He was always 
 gruff with him, but he has been kind to the children since. 
 A person is never known till a person is proved." 
 
 "Have many people been kind to the children?" asked 
 Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 "Upon the whole, not so bad, sir," said Mrs, Blinder; 
 
ENTRANCE OF MR. GRIDLEY. 257 
 
 "but, certainly not so many as would have been, if their 
 father's calling had been different. Mr. Coavins gave a guinea, 
 and the follerers made up a little purse. Some neighbours in 
 the yard, that had always joked and tapped their shoulders 
 when he went by, came forward with a little subscription, 
 and — in general — not so bad. Similarly with Charlotte. 
 Some people won't employ her, because she was a follerer's 
 child ; some people that do employ her, cast it at her ; some 
 make a merit of having her to work for them, with that and 
 all her drawbacks upon her : and perhaps pay her less and 
 put upon her more. But she's patienter than others would 
 be, and is clever too, and always willing, up to the full mark 
 of her strength and over. So I should say, in general, not 
 so bad, sir, but might be better." 
 
 Mrs. Blinder sat down to give herself a more favourable 
 opportunity of recovering her breath, exhausted anew by so 
 much talking before it was fully restored. Mr. Jarndyce was 
 turning to speak to us, when his attention was attracted, 
 by the abrupt entrance into the room of the Mr. Gridley 
 who had been mentioned, and whom we had seen on our 
 way up. 
 
 ^'I don't know what you may be doing here, ladies and 
 gentlemen," he said, as if he resented our presence, " but 
 you'll excuse my coming in. I don't come in to stare about 
 me. Well, Charley ! Well, Tom ! Well, little one ! How 
 is it with us all to-day ? " 
 
 He bent over the group, in a caressing way, and clearly 
 was regarded as a friend by the children, though his face 
 retained its stern character, and his manner to us was as rude 
 as it could be. My guardian noticed it, and respected it. 
 
 "No one, surely, would come here to stare about him," he 
 said mildly. 
 
 "May be so, sir, may be so," returned the other, taking 
 Tom upon his knee, and waving him off impatiently. "I 
 don't want to argue with ladies and gentlemen. I have had 
 enough of arguing, to last one man his life," 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
g58 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "You have sufficient reason, I dare say,'*'' said Mr. Jarn- 
 dyce, "for being chafed and irritated 
 
 " There again ! exclaimed the man, becoming violently 
 angry. " I am of a quarrelsome temper. I am irascible. I 
 am not polite ! 
 
 " Not very, I think.'' 
 
 " Sir,"' said Gridley, putting down the child, and going up 
 to him as if he meant to strike him. " Do you know any- 
 thing of Courts of Equity ? 
 
 "Perhaps I do, to my sorrow. 
 
 "To your sorrow?"' said the man, pausing in his wrath. 
 " If so, I beg your pardon. I am not polite, I know. I beg 
 your pardon ! Sir," with renewed violence, " I have been 
 dragged for five-and- twenty years over burning iron, and I 
 have lost the habit of treading upon velvet. Go into the 
 Court of Chancery yonder, and ask what is one of the 
 standing jokes that brighten up their business sometimes, and 
 they will tell you that the best joke they have, is the man 
 from Shropshire. I," he said, beating one hand on the other, 
 passionately, " am the man from Shropshire." 
 
 "I believe, I and my family have also had the honour of 
 furnishing some entertainment in the same grave place," said 
 my guardian, composedly. "You may have heard my name 
 — Jamdyce." 
 
 " Mr. Jarndyce," said Gridley, with a rough sort of saluta- 
 tion, "you bear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear 
 mine. More than that, I tell you — and I tell this gentleman, 
 and these young ladies, if they are friends of yours — that if 
 I took my wrongs in any other way, I should be driven mad ! 
 It is only by resenting them, and by revenging them in my 
 mind, and by angrily demanding the justice I never get, that 
 I am able to keep my wits together. It is only that ! " he 
 said, speaking in a homely, rustic way, and with great 
 vehemence. " You may tell me that I over-excite myself. I 
 answer that it's in my nature to do it, under wrong, and I 
 must do it. There's nothing between doing it, and sinking 
 
GRIDLEY'S CASE. 
 
 259 
 
 into the smiling state of the poor little mad woman that 
 haunts the Court. If I was once to sit down under it, I 
 should become imbecile." 
 
 The passion and heat in which he was, and the manner in 
 which his face worked, and the violent gestures with which he 
 accompanied what he said, were most painful to see. 
 
 "Mr. Jarndyce," he said, "consider my case. As true as 
 there is a Heaven above us, this is my case. I am one of two 
 brothers. My father (a farmer) made a will, and left his 
 farm and stock, and so forth, to my mother, for her life. 
 After my mother's death, all was to come to me, except a 
 legacy of three hundred pounds that I was then to pay my 
 brother. My mother died. My brother, some time after- 
 wards, claimed his legacy. I, and some of my relations, said 
 that he had had a part of it already, in board and lodging, 
 and some other things. Now mind ! That was the question, 
 and nothing else. No one disputed the will ; no one disputed 
 anything but whether part of that three hundred pounds 
 had been ah^eady paid or not. To settle that question, my 
 » brother filing a bill, I was obliged to go into this accursed 
 Chancery ; 1 was forced there, because the law forced me, and 
 would let me go nowhere else. Seventeen people were made 
 defendants to that simple suit ! It first came on, after two 
 years. It was then stopped for another two years, while the 
 Master (may his head rot off!) inquired whether I was my 
 fathers son — about which, there was no dispute at all with 
 any mortal creature. He then found out, that there were not 
 defendants enough — remember, there were only seventeen as 
 yet ! — but, that we must have another who had been left out ; 
 and must begin all over again. The costs at that time — 
 before the thing was begun ! — were three times the legacy. 
 My brother would have given up the legacy, and joyful, to 
 escape more costs. My whole estate, left to me in that will 
 of my father's, has gone in costs. The suit, still undecided, 
 has fallen into rack, and ruin, and despair, with everything 
 else — and here I stand, this day ! Nov/, Mr. Jarndyce, in 
 
260 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 your suit there are thousands and thousands involved where 
 in mine there are hundreds. Is mine less hard to bear, or is 
 it harder to bear, when my whole living was in it, and has 
 been thus shamefully sucked away ? '''' 
 
 Mr. Jarndyce said that he condoled with him with all his 
 heart, and that he set up no monopoly, himself, in being 
 unjustly treated by this monstrous system. 
 
 There again ! said Mr. Gridley, with no diminution of 
 his rage. " The system ! I am told, on all hands, it's the 
 system. I mustn't look to individuals. It's the system. I 
 mustn't go into Court, and say, ^My Lord, I beg to know 
 this from you — is this right or wrong? Have you the face 
 to tell me I have received justice, and therefore am dismissed ?' 
 My Lord knows nothing of it. He sits there, to administer 
 the system. I mustn't go to Mr. Tulkinghorn, the solicitor 
 in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and say to him when he makes me 
 furious, by being so cool and satisfied — as they all do ; for I 
 know they gain by it while I lose, don't I? — I mustn't say 
 to him, I will have something out of some one for my ruin, 
 by fair means or foul ! He is not responsible. It's the system. 
 But, if I do no violence to any of them, here — I may ! I 
 don't know what may happen if I am carried beyond myself 
 at last ! — I will accuse the individual workers of that system 
 against me, face to face, before the great eternal bar ! " 
 
 His passion was fearful. I could not have believed in such 
 rage without seeing it. 
 
 " I have done ! " he said, sitting down and wiping his face. 
 " Mr. Jarndyce, I have done ! I am violent, I know. I ought 
 to know it. I have been in prison for contempt of Court. I 
 have been in prison for threatening the solicitor. I have been 
 in this trouble, and that trouble, and shall be again. I am the 
 man from Shropshire, and I sometimes go beyond amusing them 
 — though they have found it amusing, too, to see me committed 
 into custody, and brought up in custody, and all that. It 
 would be better for me, they tell me, if I restrained myself. 
 I tell them, that if I did restrain myself, I should become 
 
THE MAN FROM SHROPSHIRE. 961 
 
 imbecile. I was a good-enough-tempered man once, I believe. 
 People in my parf of the country, say, they remember me so ; 
 but, now, I must have this vent under my sense of injury, or 
 nothing could hold my wits together. ' It would be far better 
 for you, Mr. Gridley,** the Lord Chancellor told me last week, 
 ^ not to waste your time here, and to stay, usefully employed, 
 down in Shropshire.** ' My Lord, my Lord, I know it would,** 
 said I to him, ' and it would have been far better for me never 
 to have heard the name of your high office; but, unhappily 
 for me, I can't undo the past, and the past drives me here ! ' 
 — Besides,''' he added, breaking fiercely out, " Fll shame them. 
 To the last, Fll show myself in that Court to its shame. If 
 I knew when I was going to die, and could be carried there, 
 and had a voice to speak with, I would die there, saying, 
 ^You have brought me here, and sent me from here, many 
 and many a time. Now send me out, feet foremost ! ' '' 
 
 His countenance had, perhaps for years, become so set in 
 its contentious expression that it did not soften, even now 
 when he was quiet. 
 
 " I came to take these babies down to my room for an 
 hour,'' he said, going to them again, " and let them play 
 about. I didn't mean to say all this, but it don't much 
 signify. You're not afraid of me, Tom ; are you ? " 
 
 " No ! " said Tom. " You ain't angry with rne''' 
 
 " You are right, my child. You're going back, Charley ? 
 Aye ? Come then, little one ! " He took the youngest child 
 on his arm, where she was willing enough to be carried. " I 
 shouldn't wonder if we found a ginger-bread soldier down- 
 stairs. Let's go and look for him ! " 
 
 He made his former rough salutation, which was not 
 deficient in a certain respect, to Mr. Jarndyce ; and bowing 
 slightly to us, went down-stairs to his room. 
 
 Upon that, Mr. Skimpole began to talk, for the first time 
 since our arrival, in his usual gay strain. He said. Well, it 
 was really very pleasant to see how things lazily adapted 
 themselves to purposes. Here was this Mr. Gridley, a man 
 
262 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 of a robust will, and surprising energy — intellectually speak- 
 ing, a sort of inharmonious blacksmith — and he could easily 
 imagine that there Gridley was, years ago, wandering about 
 in life for something to expend his superfluous combativeness 
 a upon — a sort of Young Love among the thorns — when the 
 Court of Chancery came in his way, anJ accommodated him 
 with the exact thing he wanted. There they were, matched, 
 ever afterwards ! Otherwise he might have been a great 
 general, blowing up all sorts of towns, or he might have been a 
 great politician, dealing in all sorts of parliamentary rhetoric ; 
 but, as it was, he and the Court of Chancery had fallen upon 
 each other in the pleasantest way, and nobody was much the 
 worse, and Gridley was, so to speak, from that hour provided 
 for. Then look at Coavinses ! How delightfully poor Coavinses 
 (father of these charming children) illustrated the same prin- 
 ciple ! He, Mr. Skimpole, himself, had sometimes repined 
 at the existence of Coavinses. He had found Coavinses in 
 his way. He could have dispensed with Coavinses. There 
 had been times when, if he had been a Sultan, and his Grand 
 Vizier had said one morning, " What does the Commander of 
 the Faithful require at the hands of his slave ? he might 
 have even gone so far as to reply, " The head of Coavinses ! 
 But what turned out to be the case ? That, all that time, he 
 had been giving employment to'<a most deserving man; that 
 he had been a benefactor to Coavinses ; that he had actually 
 been enabling Coavinses to bring up these charming children 
 in this agreeable way, developing these social virtues ! Inso- 
 much that his heart had just now swelled, and the tears had 
 come into his eyes, when he had looked round the room, and 
 thought, " I was the great patron of Coavinses, and his little 
 comforts were my work ! 
 
 There was something so captivating in his light way of 
 touching these fantastic strings, and he was such a mirthful 
 child by the side of the graver childhood we had seen, that 
 he made my guardian smile even as he turned towards us 
 from a little private talk with Mrs. Blinder. We kissed 
 
CHARLEY RUNS BACK TO WORK. 263 
 
 Charley, and took her down-stairs with us, and stopped out- 
 side the house to see her run away to her work. I don't 
 know where she was going, but we saw her run, such a little, 
 little creature, in her womanly bonnet and apron, through a 
 covered way at the bottom of the court; and melt into the 
 city'^s strife and sound, like a dewdrop in an ocean. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 tom-all-alone'^s. 
 
 My Lady Dedlock is restless, very restless. The astonished 
 fashionable intelligence hardly knows where to have her. To- 
 day, she is at Chesney Wold ; yesterday she was at her house 
 in town ; to-morrow, she may be abroad, for anything the 
 fashionable intelligence can with confidence predict. Even 
 Sir Leicester'^s gallantry has some trouble to keep pace with 
 her. It would have more, but that his other faithful ally, for 
 better and for worse — the gout — darts into the old oak bed- 
 chamber at Chesney Wold, and grips him by both legs. 
 
 Sir Leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demon, but 
 still a demon of the patrician order. All the Dedlocks, in 
 the direct male line, through a course of time during and 
 beyond which the memory of man goeth not to the contrary, 
 have had the gout. It can be proved, sir. Other men's 
 fathers may have died of the rheumatism, or may have taken 
 base contagion from the tainted blood of the sick vulgar, but 
 the Dedlock family have communicated something exclusive, 
 even to the levelling process of dying, by dying of their own 
 family gout. It has come down, through the illustrious line, 
 like the plate, or the pictures, or the place in Lincolnshire. 
 It is among their dignities. Sir Leicester is, perhaps, not 
 wholly without an impression, though he has never resolved 
 it into words, that the angel of death in the discharge of his 
 necessary duties may observe to the shades of the aristocracy? 
 
THE FAMILY GOUT. 
 
 265 
 
 "My lords and gentlemen, I have the honour to present to 
 you another Dedlock certified to have arrived per the family 
 gout;' 
 
 Hence, Sir Leicester yields up his family legs to the family 
 disorder, as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal 
 tenure. He feels, that for a Dedlock to be laid upon his 
 back and spasmodically twitched and stabbed in his extremi- 
 ties, is a liberty taken somewhere ; but, he thinks, " We have 
 all yielded to this ; it belongs to us ; it has, for some hundreds 
 of years, been understood that we are not to make the 
 vaults in the park interesting on more ignoble terms ; and I 
 submit myself to the compromise.**' 
 
 And a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson 
 and gold, in the midst of the great drawing-room, before his 
 favourite picture of my Lady, with broad strips of sunlight 
 shining in, down the long perspective, through the long line 
 of windows, and alternating with soft reliefs of shadow. Gut- 
 side, the stately oaks, rooted for ages in the green ground 
 which has never known ploughshare, but was still a Chase 
 when kings rode to battle with sword and shield, and rode 
 a-hunting with bow and arrow ; bear witness to his greatness. 
 Inside, his forefathers, looking on him from the walls, say, 
 "Each of us was a passing reality here, and left this coloured 
 shadow of himself, and melted into remembrance as dreamy 
 as the distant voices of the rooks now lulling you to rest ; 
 and bear their testimony to his gi^eatness, too. And he 
 is very great, this day. And woe to Boythorn, or other 
 daring wight, who shall presumptuously contest an inch 
 with him ! 
 
 My Lady is at present represented, near Sir Leicester, by 
 her portrait. She has flitted away to town, with no intention 
 of remaining there, and will soon flit hither again, to the 
 confusion of the fashionable intelligence. The house in town 
 is not prepared for her reception. It is muffled and dreary. 
 Only one Mercury in powder, gapes disconsolate at the hall- 
 window ;^ and he mentioned last night to another Mercury of 
 
Q66 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 his acquaintance, also accustomed to good society, that if 
 that sort of thing was to last — which it couldn't, for a man 
 of his spirits couldn't bear it, and a man of his figure couldn't 
 be expected to bear it — there would be no resource for him, 
 upon his honour, but to cut his throat ! 
 
 What connexion can there be, between the place in Lincoln- 
 shire, the house in town, the Mercury in powder. a.nd the 
 whereabout of Jo the outlaw with the broom, who had that 
 distant ray of light upon him when he swept the churchyard- 
 step? What connexion can there have been between many 
 people in the innumerable histories of this world, who, from 
 opposite sides of great gulfs, have, nevertheless, been very 
 curiously brought together! 
 
 Jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, 
 if any link there be. He sums up his mental condition, when 
 asked a question, by replying that he "don't know nothink.'"* 
 He knows that it's hard to keep the mud off the crossing in 
 dirty weather, and harder still to live by doing it. Nobody 
 taught him, even that much ; he found it out. 
 
 Jo lives — that is to say, Jo has not yet died — in a ruinous 
 place, known to the like of him by the name of Tom-all- 
 Alone's. It is a black, dilapidated street, avoided by all 
 decent people ; where the crazy houses were seized upon, when 
 their decay was far advanced, by some bold vagrants, who, 
 after establishing their own possession, took to letting them 
 out in lodgings. Now, these tumbling tenements contain, by 
 night, a swarm of misery. As, on the ruined human wretch, 
 vermin parasites appear, so, these ruined shelters have bred a 
 crowd of foul existence that crawls in and out of gaps in walls 
 and boards ; and coils itself to sleep, in maggot numbers, 
 where the rain drips in; and comes and goes, fetching and 
 carrying fever, and sowing more evil in its every footprint 
 than Lord Coodle, and Sir Thomas Doodle, and the Duke of 
 Foodie, and all the fine gentlemen in office, down to Zoodle, 
 shall set right in five hundred years — though born expressly 
 to do it. 
 
JO. 
 
 267 
 
 Twice, lately, there has been a crash and a cloud of dust, 
 like the springing of a mine, in Tom-all-Al one's ; and, each 
 time, a house has fallen. These accidents have made a 
 paragraph in the newspapers, and have filled a bed or two in 
 the nearest hospital. The gaps remain, and there are not 
 unpopular lodgings among the rubbish. As several more 
 houses are nearly ready to go, the next crash in Tom-all- 
 Alone's may be expected to be a good one. 
 
 This desirable property is in Chancery, of course. It would 
 be an insult to the discernment of any man with half an eye, 
 to' tell him so. Whether " Tom is the popular representative 
 of the original plaintiff* or defendant in Jarndyce and Jarn- 
 dyce ; or, whether Tom lived here when the suit had laid the 
 street waste, all alone, until other settlers came to join him ; 
 or, whether the traditional title is a comprehensive name for 
 a retreat cut off from honest company and put out of the 
 pale of hope; perhaps nobody knows. Certainly, Jo don't 
 knov/. 
 
 " For / don't,'' says Jo, " / don't know nothink." 
 
 It must be a strange state to be like Jo ! To shuffle 
 through the streets, unfamiliar with the shapes, and in utter 
 darkness as to the meaning, of those mysterious symbols, so 
 abundant over the shops, and at the cornei's of streets, and 
 on the doors, and in the windows ! To see people read, and 
 to see people write, and to see the postmen deliver letters, 
 and not to have the least idea of all that language — to be, 
 to every scrap of it, stone blind and dumb ! It must be very 
 puzzling to see the good company going to the churches on 
 Sundays, with their books in their hands, and to think (for 
 perhaps Jo does think, at odd times) what does it all mean, 
 and if it means anything to anybody, how comes it that it 
 means nothing to me ? To be hustled, and jostled, and 
 moved on; and really to feel that it would appear to be 
 perfectly true that I have no business, here, or there, or any- 
 where; and yet to be perplexed by the consideration that I 
 am here somehow, too, and everybody overlooked me until I 
 
268 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 became the creature that I am ! It must be a strange state, 
 not merely to be told that I am scarcely human (as in the 
 case of my offering myself for a witness), but to feel it of my 
 own knowledge all my life ! To see the horses, dogs, and 
 cattle, go by me, and to know that in ignorance I belong to 
 them, and not to the superior beings in my shape, whose 
 delicacy I offend ! Jo''s ideas of a Criminal Trial, or a Judge, 
 or a Bishop, or a Government, or that inestimable jewel to 
 him (if he only knew it) the Constitution, should be strange ! 
 His whole material and immaterial life is wonderfully strange ; 
 his death, the strangest thing of all. 
 
 Jo comes out of Tom-all- Alone's, meeting the tardy morn- 
 ing which is always late in getting down there, and munches 
 his dirty bit of bread as he comes along. His way lying 
 through many streets, and the houses not yet being open, he 
 sits down to breakfast on the door-step of the Society for the 
 Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, and gives it a 
 brush when he has finished, as an acknowledgment of the 
 accommodation. He admires the size of the edifice, and 
 wonders what iVs all about. He has no idea, poor wretch, of 
 the spiritual destitution of a coral reef in the Pacific, or what 
 it costs to look up the precious souls among the cocoa-nuts 
 and bread-fruit. 
 
 He goes to his crossing, and begins to lay it out for the 
 day. The town awakes ; the great tee-totum is set up for its 
 daily spin and whirl ; all that unaccountable reading and 
 writing, which has been suspended for a few hours, re- 
 commences. Jo, and the other lower animals, get on in the 
 unintelligible mess as they can. It is market-day. The 
 blinded oxen, oVer-goaded, over-driven, never guided, run into 
 wrong places and are beaten out; and plunge, red-eyed and 
 foaming, at stone walls ; and often sorely hurt the innocent, 
 and often sorely hurt themselves. Very like Jo and his order ; 
 very, very like ! 
 
 A band of music comes and plays. Jo listens to it. So 
 does a dog — a drover's dog, waiting for his master outside a 
 
MR. TULKINGHORN IN HIS CHAMBERS. 269 
 
 butcher's shop, and evidently thinking about those sheep he 
 has had upon his mind for some hours, and is happily rid of. 
 He seems perplexed respecting three or four ; can't remember 
 where he left them ; looks up and down the street, as half 
 expecting to see them astray ; suddenly pricks up his ears 
 and remembers all about it. A thoroughly vagabond dog, 
 accustomed to low company and public-houses; a terrific dog 
 to sheep ; ready at a whistle to scamper over their backs, and 
 tear out mouthfuls of their wool ; but an educated, improved, 
 developed dog, who has been taught his duties and knows 
 how to discharge them. He and Jo listen to the music, 
 probably with much the same amount of animal satisfaction ; 
 likewise, as to awakened association, aspiration or regret, 
 melancholy or joyful reference to things beyond the senses, 
 they are probably upon a par. But, otherwise, how far above 
 the human listener is the brute ! 
 
 Turn that dog's descendants wild, like Jo, and in a very 
 few years they will so degenerate that they will lose even 
 their bark — but not their bite. 
 
 The day changes as it wears itself away, and becomes dark 
 and drizzly. Jo fights it out, at his crossing, among the mud 
 and wheels, the horses, whips, and umbrellas, and gets but 
 a scanty sum to pay for the unsavoury shelter of Tom-all- 
 Alone's. Twilight comes on ; gas begins to start up in the 
 shops; the lamplighter, with his ladder, runs along the 
 margin of the pavement. A wretched evening is beginning 
 to close in. 
 
 In his chambers, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits meditating an appli- 
 cation to the nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a 
 warrant. Gridley, a disappointed suitor, has been here to-day, 
 and has been alarming. We are not to be put in bodily fear, 
 and that ill-conditioned fellow shall be held to bail again. 
 From the ceiling, foreshortened Allegory, in the person of 
 one impossible Roman upside down, points with the arm of 
 Samson (out of joint, and an odd one) obtrusively towards 
 the window, Why should Mr. Tulkinghorn, for such no 
 
270 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 reason, look out of window ? Is the hand not always pointing 
 there? So he does not look out of window. 
 
 And if he did, what would it be to see a woman going 
 by ? There are women enough in the world, Mr. Tulking- 
 horn thinks — too many ; they are at the bottom of all 
 that goes wrong in it, though, for the matter of that, 
 they create business for lawyers. What would it be to see 
 a woman going by, even though she were going secretly ? 
 They are all secret. Mr. Tulkinghorn knows that, very 
 well. 
 
 But they are not all like the woman who now leaves him 
 and his house behind; between w^hose plain dress, and her 
 refined manner, there is something exceedingly inconsistent. 
 She should be an upper servant by her attire, yet, in her 
 air and step, though both are hurried and assumed — as far 
 as she can assume in the muddy streets, which she treads 
 with an unaccustomed foot — she is a lady. Her face is veiled, 
 and still she sufficiently betrays herself to make more than 
 one of those who pass her look round sharply. 
 
 She never turns her head. Lady or servant, she has a 
 purpose in her, and can follow it. She never turns her head, 
 until she comes to the crossing where Jo plies with his broom. 
 He crosses with her, and begs. Still, she does not turn her 
 head until she has landed on the other side. Then, she 
 slightly beckons to him, and says " Come here ! 
 
 Jo follows her, a pace or two, into a quiet court. 
 
 " Are you the boy I've read of in the papers ? she asked 
 behind her veil. 
 
 "I don't know,'' says Jo, staring moodily at the veil, 
 "nothink about no papers. I don't know nothink about 
 nothink at all." 
 
 " Were you examined at an Inquest ? " 
 
 " I don't know nothink about no — where I was took by the 
 beadle, do you mean?" says Jo. "Was the boy's name at 
 the Inkwhich, Jo ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
JO AND THE JOLLY SERVANT. 
 
 271 
 
 " That's me ! says Jo. 
 " Come farther up.'" 
 
 "You mean about the man.^'' says Jo, following. "Him 
 as wos dead ? '''' 
 
 " Hush ! Speak in a whisper ! Yes. Did he look, when 
 he was living, so very ill and poor.^'*^ 
 "O jist!'' says Jo. 
 
 " Did he look Hke — not like you ? vsays the woman with 
 abhorrence. 
 
 " O not so bad as me,'' says Jo. " I'm a reg'lar one / am ! 
 You didn't know him, did you ?" 
 
 " How dare you ask me if I knew him ? " 
 
 " No offence, my lady," says Jo, with much humihty ; for 
 even he has got at the suspicion of her being a lady. 
 
 " I am not a lady. I am a servant." 
 
 "You are a jolly servant!" says Jo; without the least 
 idea of saying anything offensive ; merely as a tribute of 
 admiration. 
 
 " Listen and be silent. Don't talk to me, and stand farther 
 from me ! Can you show me all those places that were 
 spoken of in the account I read ? The place he wrote for, 
 the place he died at, the place where you Avere taken to, and 
 the place where he was buried ? Do you know the place 
 where he was buried ? " 
 
 Jo answers with a nod ; having also nodded as each other 
 place was mentioned. 
 
 "Go before me, and show me all those dreadful places. 
 Stop opposite to each, and don't speak to me unless I speak 
 to you. Don't look back. Do what I want, and I will pay 
 you well." 
 
 Jo attends closely while the words are being spoken ; tells 
 them off on his broom-handle, finding them rather hard ; 
 pauses to consider their meaning; considers it satisfactory, 
 and nods his ragged head. 
 
 " I'm fly," says Jo. " But fen larks, you know ! Stow 
 hooking it ! " 
 
272 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " What does the horrible creature mean ? exclaims the 
 servant, recoiling from him. 
 
 " Stow cutting away, you know ! " says Jo. 
 
 " I don't understand you. Go on before ! I will give you 
 more money than you ever had in your life."" 
 
 Jo screws up his mouth into a whistle, gives his ragged 
 head a rub, takes his broom under his arm, and leads the 
 way ; passing deftly, with his bare feet, over the hard stones, 
 and through the mud and mire. 
 
 Cooky's Court. Jo stops. A pause. 
 
 " Who lives here ? 
 
 ^' Him wot give him his writing, and give me half a bull,*" 
 says Jo, in a whisper, without looking over his shoulder. 
 "Go on to the next.**' 
 
 Krook's house. Jo stops again. A longer pause. 
 
 " Who lives here ? '" 
 
 "He lived here,*" Jo answers as before. 
 
 After a silence he is asked " In which room ? *''' 
 
 "In the back room up there. You can see the winder 
 from this corner. Up there ! That's where I see him stritched 
 out. This is the public ouse where I was took to.**' 
 
 "Go on to the next!'' 
 
 It is a longer walk to the next; but Jo, relieved of hi 
 first suspicions, sticks to the forms imposed upon him, an 
 does not look round. By many devious ways, reeking wit 
 offence of many kinds, they come to the little tunnel o 
 a court, and to the gas-lamp (lighted now), and to th 
 iron gate. 
 
 " He was put there," says Jo, holding to the bars an 
 looking in. 
 
 " Where ? O, what a scene of horror ! " 
 
 " There ! " says Jo, pointing. " Over yinder. Among the 
 piles of bones, and close to that there kitchin winder I 
 They put him wery nigh the top. They was obHged to 
 stamp upon it to git it in. I could unkiver it for you with 
 my broom, if the gate was open. That's why they locks it 
 
LIBHAtiY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY of iLLINOiS. 
 
GRAVEYARD VISITORS. 
 
 m 
 
 I s^'pose,'*'' giving it a shake. It's always locked. Look at 
 the rat!"'' cries Jo, excited. "Hi! Look! There he goes! 
 Ho ! Into the ground ! 
 
 The servant shrinks into a corner — into a corner of that 
 hideous archway, with its deadly stains contaminating her 
 dress ; and putting out her two hands, and passionately telling 
 him to keep away from her, for he is loathsome to her, so 
 remains for some moments. Jo stands staring, and is still 
 staring when she recovers herself. 
 
 " Is this place of abomination, consecrated ground ? " 
 
 "I don't know nothink of consequential ground,'" says Jo, 
 still staring. 
 
 "Is it blessed.?'' 
 
 " Which ? " says Jo, in the last degree amazed. 
 "Is it blessed.?" 
 
 "I'm blest if I know," says Jo, staring more than ever; 
 " but I shouldn't think it warn't. Blest ? " repeats Jo, some- 
 thing troubled in his mind. "It an't done it much good if 
 it is. Blest.? I should think it was t'othered myself. But 
 I don't know nothink ! " 
 
 The servant takes as little heed of what he says, as she 
 seems to take of what she has said herself. She draws off her 
 glove, to get some money from her purse. Jo silently notices 
 how white and small her hand is, and what a jolly servant 
 she must be to wear such sparkling rings. 
 
 She drops a piece of money in his hand, without touching 
 it, and shuddering as their hands approach. " Now," she 
 adds, " show me the spot again ! " 
 
 Jo thrusts the handle of his broom between the bars of 
 the gate, and, with his utmost power of elaboration, points 
 it out. At length, looking aside to see if he has made 
 himself intelligible, he finds that he is alone. 
 
 His first proceeding, is, to hold the piece of money to 
 the gas-light, and to be overpowered at finding that it is 
 yellow — gold. His next, is, to give it a one-sided bite at the 
 edge, as a test of its quality. His next, to put it in his 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
274 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 mouth for safety, and to sweep the step and passage with 
 great care. His job done, he sets off for Tom-all-x\lone's; 
 stopping in the light of innumerable gas-lamps to produce 
 the piece of gold, and give it another one-sided bite, as a re- 
 assurance of its being genuine. 
 
 The Mercury in powder is in no w^ant of society to-night, 
 for my Lady goes to a grand dinner, and three or four balls. 
 Sir Leicester is fidgety, down at Chesney Wold, with no 
 better company than the gout ; he complains to Mrs. Rounce- 
 well that the rain makes such a monotonous pattering on 
 the terrace, that he can't read the paper, even by the fireside 
 in his own snug dressing-room. 
 
 "Sir Leicester would have done better to try the other 
 side of the house, my dear,"* says Mrs. Rouncewell to Rosa. 
 "His dressing-room is on my Lady's side. And in all these 
 years I never heard the step upon the Ghosfs Walk, more 
 distinct than it is to-night ! '' 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Esther's narrative. 
 
 Richard very often came to see us while we remained in 
 London (tliough he soon failed in his letter-writing), and 
 with his quick abilities, his good spirits, his good temper, 
 his gaiety and freshness, was always delightful. But, though 
 I liked him more and more, the better I knew him, I still 
 felt more and more, how much it was to be regretted that 
 he had been educated in no habits of application and concen- 
 tration. The system which had addressed him in exactly 
 the same manner as it had addressed hundreds of other boys, 
 all varying in chai'acter and capacity, had enabled him to 
 dash through his tasks, ahvays with fair credit, and often 
 with distinction ; but in a fitful, dazzling way that had con- 
 firmed his reliance on those very qualities in himself, v/hich 
 it had been most desirable to direct and train. They were 
 good qualities, without which no high place can be meri- 
 toriously won; but, like fire and water, though excellent 
 servants, they were very bad masters. If they had been 
 under Richard^'s direction, they would have been his friends ; 
 but Richard being under their direction, they became his 
 enemies. 
 
 I write down these opinions, not because I believe that this 
 or any other thing was so, because I thought so ; but only 
 because I did think so, and I want to be quite candid about 
 all I thought and did. These were my thoughts about 
 
276 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Richard. I thought I often observed besides, how right my 
 guardian Avas in what he had said; and that the uncertain- 
 ties and delays of the Chancery suit had imparted to his 
 nature something of the careless spirit of a gamester, who 
 felt that he was part of a great gaming system. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bayham Badger coming one afternoon, when 
 my guardian was not at home, in the course of conversation 
 I naturally inquired after Richard. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Carstone,'" said Mrs. Badger, "is very well, 
 and is, I assure you, a great acquisition to our society. 
 Captain Swosser used to say of me that I was always better 
 than land a-head and a breeze a-starn to the midshipmen's 
 mess when the purser's junk had become as tough as the 
 fore-topsel weather earrings. It was his naval way of mention- 
 ing generally that I was an acquisition to any society. I 
 may render the same tribute, I am sure, to Mr. Carstone. 
 But I — you won't think me premature if I mention it?'' 
 
 I said no, as Mrs. Badger's insinuating tone seemed to 
 require such an answer. 
 
 "Nor Miss Clare?" said Mrs. Bayham Badger, sweetly. 
 
 Ada said no, too, and looked uneasy. 
 
 "Why, you see, my dears," said Mrs. Badger — "you'll 
 excuse me calling you my dears ? " 
 
 We entreated Mrs. Badger not to mention it. 
 
 " Because you really are, if I may take the liberty of saying 
 so," pursued Mrs. Badger, "so perfectly charming. You see, 
 my dears, that although I am still young — or Mr. Bayham 
 Badger pays me the compliment of saying so — " 
 
 "No," Mr. Badger called out, like some one contradicting 
 at a public meeting. "Not at all!" 
 
 " Very well," smiled Mrs. Badger, " we will say still young." 
 
 (" Undoubtedly," said Mr. Badger.) 
 
 "My dears, though still young, I have had many oppor- 
 tunities of observing young men. There were many such on 
 board the dear old Crippler, I assure you. After that, when 
 I was with Captain Swosser in the Mediterranean, I embraced 
 
EXPERIENCES OF MRS. BAYHAM BADGER. 277 
 
 every opportunity of knowing and befriending the midship- 
 men under Captain Swosser's command. Vou never heard 
 them called the young gentlemen, my dears, and probably 
 would not understand allusions to their pipe-claying their 
 weekly accounts ; but it is otherwise with me, for blue water 
 has been a second home to me, and I have been quite a 
 sailor. Again, with Professor Dingo.*" 
 
 ("A man of European reputation,**' murmured Mr. Badger.) 
 
 " When I lost my dear first,*" and became the wife of my 
 dear second," said Mrs. Badger, speaking of her former 
 husbands as if they were parts of a charade, " I still enjoyed 
 opportunities of observing youth. The class attendant on 
 Professor Dingo'^s lectures was a large one, and it became 
 my pride, as the wife of an eminent scientific man seeking 
 herself in science the utmost consolation it could impart, to 
 throw our house open to the students, as a kind of Scientific 
 Exchange. Every Tuesday evening there was lemonade and 
 a mixed biscuit, for all who chose to partake of those 
 refreshments. And there was science to an unlimited extent.'*'' 
 
 ("Remarkable assemblies those. Miss Summerson,*" said 
 Mr. Badger, reverentially. There must have been great 
 intellectual friction going on there, under the auspices of such 
 a man ! 
 
 "And now,*" pursued Mrs. Badger, "now that I am the 
 wife of my dear third, Mr. Badger, I still pursue those habits 
 of observation which were formed during the lifetime of 
 Captain Swosser, and adapted to new and unexpected purposes 
 during the lifetime of Professor Dingo. I therefore have 
 not come to the consideration of Mr. Carstone as a Neophyte. 
 And yet I am very much of the opinion, my dears, that he 
 has not chosen his profession advisedly.*''' 
 
 Ada looked so very anxious now, that I asked Mrs. Badger 
 on what she founded her supposition ? 
 
 " My dear Miss Summerson,*'*' she replied, " on Mr. Carstone's 
 character and conduct. He is of such a very easy disposition, 
 that probably he would never think it worth while to mention 
 
278 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 how he really feels ; but, he feels languid about the profession. 
 He has not that positive interest in it which makes it his 
 vocation. If he has any decided impression in reference to 
 it, I should say it was that it is a tiresome pursuit. Now, 
 this is not promisiHg. Young men, like Mr. Allan Wood- 
 court, who take it from a strong interest in all that it can 
 do, will find some reward in it through a great deal of work 
 for a very little money, and through years of considerable 
 endurance and disappointment. But I am quite convinced 
 that this would never be the case with Mr. Carstone.'*'* 
 
 ''Does Mr. Badger think so too?'' asked Ada, timidly. 
 
 "Why,'' said Mr. Badger, "to tell the truth, Miss Clare, 
 this view of the matter had not occurred to me until Mrs. 
 Badger mentioned it. But, when Mrs. Badger put it in that 
 light, I naturally gave great consideration to it; knowing 
 that Mrs. Badger's mind, in addition to its natural advan- 
 tages, has had the rare advantage of being formed by two 
 such very distinguished (I will even say illustrious) public men 
 as Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy and Professor Dingo. 
 The conclusion at which I have arrived is — in short, is Mrs. 
 Badger's conclusion." 
 
 " It was a maxim of Captain Swosser's," said Mrs. Badger, 
 "speaking in his figurative naval manner, that when you 
 make pitch hot, you cannot make it too hot ; and that if you 
 only have to swab a plank, you should swab it as if Davy 
 Jones were after you. It appears to me that this maxim is 
 applicable to the medical, as well as to the nautical profession." 
 
 "To all professions," observed Mr. Badger. "It was 
 admirably said by Captain Swosser. Beautifully said." 
 
 "People objected to Professor Dingo, Avhen we were staying 
 in the North of Devon, after our marriage," said Mrs. Badger,, 
 "that he disfigured some of the houses and other buildings, 
 by chipping off fragments of those edifices with his little 
 geological hammer. But the Professor replied, that he knew 
 of no building, save the Temple of Science, The principle 
 is the same, I think ? " 
 
A SERIOUS TALK WITH RICHARD. 
 
 279 
 
 " Precisely the same,'" said Mr. Badger. " Finely expressed ! 
 The Professor made the same remark. Miss Sammerson, in 
 his last illness; when (his mind wandering) he insisted on 
 keeping his little hammer under the pillow, and chipping at 
 the countenances of the attendants. The ruling passion ! 
 
 Although we could have dispensed v/ith the length at 
 which Mr. and Mrs. Badger pursued the conversation, we both 
 felt that it was disinterested in them to express the opinion 
 they had communicated to us, and that there was a great 
 probability of its being sound. We agreed to say nothing 
 to Mr. Jarndyce mitil we had spoken to Richard ; and, as 
 he was coming next evening, we resolved to have a very 
 serious talk with him. 
 
 So, after he had been a little v/hile with Ada, I went in 
 and found my darling (as I knew she would be) prepared to 
 consider him thoroughly right in whatever he said. 
 
 "And how do you get on, Richard?"'' said I. I always sat 
 down on the other side of him. He made quite a sister of me. 
 
 " O ! well enough ! ''^ said Richard. 
 
 "He can't say better than that, Esther, can he?'^ cried 
 my pet, triumphantly. 
 
 I tried to look at my pet in the wisest manner, but of 
 course I couldn't. 
 
 " Well enough ? I repeated. 
 
 "Yes,*" said Richard, "well enough. It's rather jog- trotty 
 and humdrum. But it'll do as well as anything else ! 
 " O ! my dear Richard ! "^^ I remonstrated. 
 "What's the matter?" said Richard. 
 " Do as well as anything else ! " 
 
 "I don't think there's any harm in that. Dame Durden,'" 
 said Ada, looking so confidingly at me across him ; " because 
 if it will do as well as anything else, it will do very well, 
 I hope." 
 
 "O yes, I hope so," returned Richard, carelessly tossing 
 his hair from his forehead. "After all, it may be only a 
 kind of probation till our suit is — I forgot though. I am 
 
280 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 not to mention the suit. Forbidden ground ! O yes, it's all 
 right enough. Let us talk about something else.'^ 
 
 Ada would have done so, willingly, and with a full per- 
 suasion that we had brought the question to a most satis- 
 factory state. But I thought it would be useless to stop 
 there, so I began again. 
 
 " No, but, Richard,*" said I, " and my dear Ada ! Con- 
 sider how important it is to you both, and what a point of 
 honour it is towards your cousin, that you, Richard, should 
 be quite in earnest without any reservation. I think we had 
 better talk about this, really, Ada. It will be too late, 
 very soon."'* 
 
 "O yes! We must talk about it!'' said Ada. "But I 
 think Richard is right." 
 
 What was the use of my trying to look wise, when she was 
 so pretty, and so engaging, and so fond of him ! 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Badger were here yesterday, Richard," said 
 I, "and they seemed disposed to think that you had no 
 great liking for the profession." 
 
 "Did they though.?" said Richard. "O! Well, that 
 rather alters the case, because I had no idea that they thought 
 so, and I should not have liked to disappoint or inconvenience 
 them. The fact is, I don't care much about it. But O, it 
 don't matter ! It'll do as well as anything else ! " 
 
 " You hear him, Ada ! " said I. 
 
 ''The fact is," Richard proceeded, half thoughtfully and 
 half jocosely, "it is not quite in my way. I don't take to 
 it. And I get too much of Mrs. Bayham Badger's first and 
 second." 
 
 " I am sure thafs very natural ! " cried Ada, quite delighted. 
 " The very thing we both said yesterday, Esther ! " 
 
 "Then," pursued Richard, "it's monotonous, and to-day is 
 too like yesterday, and to-morrow is too like to-day." 
 
 "But I am afraid," said I, "this is an objection to all 
 kinds of application — to life itself, except under some very 
 uncommon circumstances." 
 
 • 
 
AN ANCHOR WANTED. 
 
 281 
 
 *^Do you think so?'' returned Richard, still considering. 
 " Perhaps ! Ha ! Why, then, you know,'' he added, suddenly 
 becoming gay again, " we travel outside a circle, to what I 
 said just now. It'll do as well as anything else. O, it's all 
 right enough ! Let us talk about something else." 
 
 But, even Ada, with her loving face — and if it had seemed 
 innocent and trusting, when I first saw it in that memorable 
 November fog, how much more did it seem now, when I knew 
 her innocent and trusting heart — even Ada shook her head 
 at this, and looked serious. So I thought it a good oppor- 
 tunity to hint to Richard, that if he were sometimes a little 
 careless of himself, I was very sure he never meant to be 
 careless of Ada ; and that it was a part of his affectionate 
 consideration for her, not to slight the importance of a step 
 that might influence both their lives. This made him almost 
 grave. 
 
 "My dear Mother Hubbard," he said, "that's the very 
 thing ! I have thought of that, several times ; and have been 
 quite angry with myself for meaning to be so much in earnest, 
 and — somehow — not exactly being so. I don't know how it 
 is; I seem to want something or other to stand by. Even 
 you have no idea how fond I am of Ada (my darling cousin, 
 I love you, so much !), but I don't settle down to constancy 
 in other things. It's such uphill work, and it takes such a 
 time ! " said Richard, with an air of vexation. 
 
 " That may be," I suggested, " because you don't like what 
 you have chosen." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " said Ada. " I am sure I don't wonder 
 at it!" 
 
 No. It was not of the least use my trying to look wise. 
 I tried again ; but how could I do it, or how could it have 
 any effect if I could, while Ada rested her clasped hands upon 
 his shoulder, and while he looked at her tender blue eyes, 
 and while they looked at him ! 
 
 "You see, my precious girl," said Richard, passing her 
 golden curls through and through his hand, "I was a little 
 
282 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 hasty, perhaps ; or I misunderstood my own inclinations, per- 
 haps. They don't seem to He in that direction. I couldn't 
 tell, till I tried. Now the question is, whether it's worth 
 while to undo all that has been done. It seems like making 
 a great disturbance about nothing particular.'' 
 
 "My dear Richard," said I, "how can you say about 
 nothing particular ? " 
 
 " I don't mean absolutely that," he returned. " I mean 
 that it may be nothing particular, because I may never 
 want it." 
 
 Both Ada and I urged, in reply, not only that it was de- 
 cidedly worth while to undo wliat had been done, but that 
 it must be undone. I then a.sked Richard whether he had 
 thought of any more congenial pursuit 
 
 "There, my dear Mrs. Shipton," said Richard, "you touch 
 me home. Yes, I have. I have been thinking that the law 
 is the boy for me." 
 
 " The law ! " repeated Ada, as if she w^ere afraid of the name. 
 
 " If I went into Kenge's olRce," said Richard, " and if I 
 were placed under articles to Kenge, I should have my eye 
 on the — hum ! — the forbidden ground — and should be able 
 to study it, and master it, and to satisfy myself that it was 
 not neglected, and w^as being properly conducted. I should 
 be able to look after Ada's interests, and my own interests 
 (the same thing !) ; and I should peg away a,t Blackstone 
 and all those fellows with the most tremendous ardour." 
 
 I V. as not by any means so sure of that ; and I saw how 
 his hankering after the vague things yet to come of those 
 long-deferred hopes, cast a shade on Ada's face. But I thought 
 it best to encourage him in any project of continuous exer- 
 tion, and only advised him to be quite sure that his mind 
 was made up now\ 
 
 " My dear Minerva," said Richard, " I am as steady as you 
 are. I made a mistake ; we are all liable to mistakes ; I 
 won't do so any more, and I'll become such a lawyer as is 
 not often seen. That is, you know," said Richard, relapsing 
 
RICHARD^S ENTHUSIASM FOR THE LAW. 283 
 
 into doubt, " if it really is worth while, after all, to make 
 such a disturbance about nothing particular ! 
 
 This led to our saying again, with a great deal of gravity, 
 all that we had said already, and to our coming to much 
 the same conclusion afterwards. But, we so strongly advised 
 Richard to be frank and open with Mr. Jarndyce, without a 
 moment's delay ; and his disposition was naturally so opposed 
 to concealment ; that he sought him out at once (taking us 
 with him), and made a full avov/al. " Rick,"' said my guardian, 
 after hearing him attentively, " we can retreat with honour, 
 and we will. But we must be careful — for our cousin's 
 sake. Rick, for our cousin's sake — that we make no more such 
 mistakes. Therefore, in the matter of the law, v/e will have 
 a good trial before we decide. We will look before we leap, 
 and take plenty of time about it." 
 
 Richard's energy was of such an impatient and fitful kind, 
 that he would have liked nothing better than to have gone to 
 Mr. Kenge's office in that hour, and to have entered into 
 articles with him on the spot. Submitting, however, with a 
 good grace to the caution that we had shown to be so 
 necessary, he contented himself with sitting down among us 
 in his lightest spirits, and talking as if his one unva,rying 
 purpose in life from childhood had been that one which now 
 held possession of him. My guardian was very kind and 
 cordial with him, but rather grave ; enough so to cause Ada, 
 when he had departed and Ave were going up-stairs to bed, 
 to say : 
 
 " Cousin John, I hope you don't think the worse of Richard ? " 
 " No, my love," said he. 
 
 " Because it was very natui'al that Richard should be mis- 
 taken in such a difficult case. It is not uncommon." 
 
 " No, no, my love," said he. " Don't look unhappy." 
 
 " 0, I am not unhappy, cousin John ! " said Ada, smiling 
 cheerfully, with her hand upon his shoulder, where she had 
 put it in bidding him good night. But I should be a little 
 so, if you thought at all the worse of Richard." 
 
284 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "My dear,'' said Mr. Jarndyce. "I should think the worse 
 of him only if you were ever in the least unhappy through 
 his means. I should be more disposed to quarrel with myself, 
 even then, than with poor Rick, for I brought you together. 
 But, tut, all this is nothing ! He has time before him, and 
 the race to run. / think the worse of him ? Not I, my 
 loving cousin ! And not you, I swear ! '' 
 
 " No, indeed, cousin John,"' said Ada, " I am sure I could 
 not — I am sure I would not — think any ill of Richard, if the 
 whole world did. I could, and I would, think better of him 
 then, than at any other time ! '' 
 
 So quietly and honestly she said it, with her hands upon 
 his shoulders — both hands now — and looking up into his face, 
 like the picture of Truth ! 
 
 "I think,'" said my guardian, thoughtfully regarding her 
 "I think it must be somewhere written that the virtues o 
 the mothers shall, occasionally, be visited on the children, a 
 well as the sins of the fathers. Good night, my rosebud,. 
 Good night, little woman. Pleasant slumbers ! Happ 
 dreams ! " 
 
 This was the first time I ever saw him follow Ada wit" 
 his eyes, with something of a shadow on their benevolen 
 expression. I well remembered the look with which he h 
 contemplated her and Richard, when she was singing in th 
 fire-light ; it was but a very little while since he had watch 
 them passing down the room in which the sun was shining 
 and away into the shade ; but his glance was changed, an ' 
 even the silent look of confidence in me which now followe: 
 it once more, was not quite so hopeful and untroubled as i 
 had originally been. 
 
 Ada praised Richard more to me, that night, than eve 
 she had praised him yet. She went to sleep with a littl 
 bracelet he had given her clasped upon her arm. I fancied 
 she was dreaming of him when I kissed her cheek after sh 
 had slept an hour, and saw how tranquil and happy sh 
 looked. 
 
ESTHER AND HER GUARDIAN. 
 
 S85 
 
 For I Wcas so little inclined to sleep, myself, that night, 
 that I sat up woi-king. It would not be worth mentioning 
 for its own sake, but I was wakeful and rather low-spirited. 
 I don't know why. At least I don't think I know why. At 
 least, perhaps I do, but I don't think it matters. 
 
 At any rate, I made up my mind to be so dreadfully 
 industrious that I would leave myself not a moment's leisure 
 to be low-spirited. For I naturally said, " Esther ! You to 
 be low-spirited. You!'''* And it really was time to say so, 
 for I — yes, I really did see myself in the glass, almost crying. 
 " As if you had anything to make you unhappy, instead of 
 everything to make you happy, you ungrateful heart ! '** said I. 
 
 If I could have made myself go to sleep, I would have 
 done it directly ; but, not being able to do that, I took out 
 of my basket some ornamental work for our house (I mean 
 Bleak House) that I was busy with at that time, and sat 
 down to it with great determination. It was necessary to 
 count all the stitches in that work, and I resolved to go on 
 with it until I couldn't keep my eyes open,* and then to go 
 to bed. 
 
 I soon found myself very busy. But I had left some silk 
 down-stairs in a work-table drawer in the temporary Growlery ; 
 and coming to a stop for want of it, I took my candle and 
 went softly down to get it. To my great surprise, on 
 going in, I found my guardian still there, and sitting looking 
 at the ashes. He was lost in thought, his book lay unheeded 
 by his side, his silvered iron-grey hair was scattered confusedly 
 upon his forehead as though his hand had been wandering 
 among it while his thoughts were elsewhere, and his face 
 looked worn. Almost frightened . by coming upon him so 
 unexpectedly, I stood still for a moment; and should have 
 retired without speaking, had he not, in again passing his 
 hand abstractedly through his hair, seen me and started. 
 
 "Esther!'^ 
 
 I told him what I had come for. 
 "At work so late, my dear?'*^ 
 
286 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " I am working late to-night,'' said I, " because I couldn't 
 sleep, and wished to tire myself. But, dear Guardian, you 
 are late too, and look weary. You have no trouble, I hope, 
 to keep you waking.^" 
 
 "None, little woman, that you would readily understand," 
 said he. 
 
 He spoke in a regretful tone so new to me, that I inwardly 
 repeated, as if that woukl help me to his meaning, That / 
 could readily understand ! " 
 
 "Remain a moment, Esther," said he. "You were in my 
 thoughts." 
 
 " I hope I was not the trouble. Guardian " 
 
 He slightly waved his hand, and fell into his usual manner. 
 The change was so remarkable, and he appeared to make it 
 by dint of so much self-command, that I found myself again 
 inwardly repeating, " None that / could understand ! " 
 
 "Little woman," said my guardian, "I was thinking — that 
 is, I have been thinking since I have been sitting here — that 
 you ought to know, of your own history, all I know. It is 
 very little. Next to nothing.^ 
 
 "Dear Guardian," I replied, "when you spoke to me 
 before on that subject " 
 
 "But since then," he gravely interposed, anticipating what 
 I meant to say, " I have reflected that your having anything 
 to ask me, and my having anything to tell you, are different 
 considerations, Esther. It is perhaps my duty to impart to 
 you the little I know." 
 
 "If you think so, Guardian, it is right." 
 
 "I think so," he returned, very gently, and kindly, and 
 very distinctly. "My dear, I think so now. If any real 
 disadvantage can attach to your position, in the mind of any 
 man or woman worth a thought, it is right that you, at 
 least, of all the world should not magnify it to yourself, by 
 having vague impressions of its nature." 
 
 I sat down ; and said, after a little effort to be as calm as 
 I ought to be, " One of my earliest remembrances, Guardian, 
 
ESTHEirS HISTORY. 
 
 287 
 
 is of these words: ^Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, 
 and you were hers. The time will come, and soon enough, 
 when you will understand this better, and will feel it too, as 
 no one save a woman can." I had covered my face with my 
 hands, in repeating the words; but I took them away now 
 v/ith a better kind of shame, I hope, and told him, that to 
 him I owed the blessing that I had from my childhood to 
 that hour never, never, never felt it. He put up his hand as 
 if to stop me. I well knew that he was never to be thanked, 
 and said no more. 
 
 "Nine years, my dear,^'' he said, after thinking for a little 
 while, "have passed since I received a letter from a lady 
 living in seclusion, written with a stern passion and powder 
 that rendered it unlike all other letters I have ever read. It 
 Wcis written to me (as it told me in so many v/ords), perhaps, 
 because it v/as the writer's idiosyncrasy to put that trust in 
 me : perhaps, because it was mine to justify it. It told m.e 
 of a child, an orphan girl then twelve years old, in some such 
 cruel words as those which live in your remembrance. It told 
 me tliat the writer had bred her in secrecy from her birth, 
 had blotted out all trace of her existence, and that if the 
 writer were to die before the child became a woman, she 
 would be left entirely friendless, nameless, and unknown. It 
 asked me, to consider if I would, in that case, finish what 
 the writer had begun 
 
 I listened in silence, and looked attentively at him. 
 
 "Your early recollection, my dear, will supply the gloomy 
 medium through which all this was seen and expressed by the 
 writer, and the distorted religion which clouded her mind 
 with impressions of the need there was for the child to expiate 
 an offence of which she was quite innocent. I felt concerned 
 for the little creature, in her darkened life; and replied to 
 the letter.'' 
 
 I took his hand and kissed it. 
 
 "It laid the injunction on me that I should never propose 
 to see the writer, who had long been estranged from all 
 
288 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 intercourse with the world, but who would see a confidential 
 agent if I would appoint one. I accredited Mr. Kenge, 
 The lady said, of her own accord, and not of his seeking, 
 that her name was an assumed one. That she was, if there 
 were any ties of blood in such a case, the child's aunt. That 
 more than this she would never (and he was well persuaded 
 of the steadfastness of her resolution), for any human 
 consideration, disclose. My dear, I have told you all." 
 
 I held his hand for a little while in mine. 
 
 "I saw my ward oftener than she saw me,*^ he added, 
 cheerily making light of it, "and I always knew she was 
 beloved, useful, and happy. She repays me tw^enty-thousand- 
 fold, and twenty more to that, every hour in every day ! " 
 
 And oftener still,**' said I, " she blesses the Guardian who 
 is a Father to her ! 
 
 At the word Father, I saw his former trouble come into 
 his face. He subdued it as before, and it was gone in an 
 instant; but, it had been there, and it had come so swiftly 
 upon my words that I felt as if they had given him a shock. 
 I again inwardly repeated, w^ondering, " That / could readily 
 understand. None that / could readily understand ! No, 
 it was true. I did not understand it. Not for many and 
 many a day. 
 
 "Take a fatherly good night, my dear,**' said he, kissing 
 me on the forehead, "and so to rest. These are late hours 
 for working and thinking. You do that for all of us, all 
 day long, little housekeeper ! 
 
 I neither worked nor thought, any more, that night. I 
 opened my grateful heart to Heaven in thankfulness for its 
 Providence to me and its care of me, and fell asleep. 
 
 We had a visitor next day. Mr. Allan Woodcourt came. 
 He came to take leave of us; he had settled to do so 
 beforehand. He w^as going to China, and to India, as a 
 surgeon on board ship. He was to be away a long, long 
 time. 
 
 I believe — at least I know — that he was not rich. All his 
 
MR. WOODCOURT AND HIS MOTHER. 289 
 
 widowed mother could spare had been spent in qualifying 
 him for his profession. It was not lucrative to a young 
 practitioner, with very little influence in London; and 
 although he was, night and day, at the service of numbers 
 of poor people, and did wonders of gentleness and skill for 
 them, he gained very little by it in money. He was seven 
 years older than I. Not that I need mention it, for it 
 hardly seems to belong to anything. 
 
 I think — I mean, he told us — that he had been in practice 
 three or four years, and that if he could have hoped to 
 contend through three or four more, he would not have 
 made the voyage on which he was bound. But he had no 
 fortune or private means, and so he was going away. He 
 had been to see us several times altogether. We thought 
 it a pity he should go away. Because he was distinguished 
 in his art among those who knew it best, and some of the 
 greatest men belonging to it had a high opinion of him. 
 
 When he came to bid us good-bye, he brought his mother 
 with him for the first time. She was a pretty old lady, with 
 bright black eyes, but she seemed proud. She came from 
 Wales; and had had, a long time ago, an eminent person 
 for an ancestor, of the name of Morgan ap-Kerrig — of some 
 place that sounded like Gimlet — who was the most illustrious 
 •person that ever was known, and all of whose relations were 
 a sort of Royal Family. He appeared to have passed his 
 life in always getting up into mountains, and fighting some- 
 body ; and a Bard whose name sounded like Crumlinwallinwer 
 had sung his praises, in a piece which was called, as nearly 
 as I could catch it, Mewlinnwillinwodd. 
 
 Mrs. Woodcourt, after expatiating to us on the fame of her 
 great kinsman, said that, no doubt, wherever her son Allan 
 went, he would remember his pedigree, and would on no 
 account form an alliance below it. She told him that there 
 were many handsome English ladies in India who went out 
 on speculation, and that there were some to be picked up 
 M'ith property; but, that neither charms nor wealth would 
 VOL. I. i; 
 
290 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 suffice for the descendant from such a line, without birth : 
 which must ever be the first consideration. She talked so 
 much about birth, that, for a moment, I half fancied, and 
 with pain — but, what an idle fancy to suppose that she could 
 think or care what mine was ! 
 
 Mr. Woodcourt seemed a little distressed by her prolixity, 
 but he w^as too considerate to let her see it, and contrived 
 delicately to bring the conversation round to making his 
 acknowledgments to my guardian for his hospitality, and 
 for the very happy hours — he called them the very happy 
 hours — she had passed with us. The recollection of them, he 
 said, would go with him wherever he went, and would be 
 always treasured. And so we gave him our hands, one after 
 another — at least, they did — and I did ; and so he put his 
 lips to Ada's hand — and to mine; and so he went away 
 upon his long, long voyage ! 
 
 I was very busy indeed, all day, and wrote directions home 
 to the servants, and wrote notes for my guardian, and dusted 
 his books and papers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a 
 good deal, one way and another. I was still busy between 
 the lights, singing and working by the window, when who 
 should come in but Caddy, whom I had no expectation of 
 seeing ! 
 
 " Why, Caddy, my dear,**** said I, " what beautiful flowers ! " 
 
 She had such an exquisite little nosegay in her hand. 
 
 ''Indeed, I think so, Esther,'' replied Caddy. "They are 
 the loveliest I ever saw.*" 
 
 " Prince, my dear ? " said I, in a whisper. 
 
 "No," answered Caddy, shaking her head, and holding 
 them to me to smell. "Not Prince.'^ 
 
 " Well, to be sure, Caddy ! " said I. " You must have 
 two lovers ! *" I 
 
 "What.^^ Do they look like that sort of thing?'' saidj 
 Caddy. i 
 
 "Do they look like that sort of thing?" I repeated,! 
 pinching her cheek. 1 
 
UNIVERSITY of ILLINOIS. 
 
A NOSEGAY FROM SOMEBODY. S91 
 
 Caddy only laughed in return ; and telling me that she 
 had come for half-an-hour, at the expiration of which time 
 Prince would be waiting for her at the corner, sat chatting 
 with me and Ada in the window : every now and then, hand- 
 ing me the flowers again, or trying how they looked against 
 my hair. At last, when she was going, she took me into 
 my room, and put them in my dress. 
 
 " For me ? said I, surprised. 
 
 ^•For you,**** said Caddy, with a kiss. "They were left 
 behind by Somebody.**** 
 "Left^behind?^' 
 
 " At poor Miss Flite's,'" said Caddy. " Somebody who has 
 been very good to her, was hurrying away an hour ago, to 
 join a ship, and left these flowers behind. No, no ! Don't 
 take them out. Let the pretty little things lie here ! said 
 Caddy, adjusting them with a careful hand, "because I w^as 
 present myself, and I shouldn'^t wonder if Somebody left 
 them on purpose ! 
 
 " Do they look like that sort of thing ? said Ada, coming 
 laughingly behind me, and clasping me merrily round the 
 waist. " O, yes, indeed they do. Dame Durden ! They look 
 very, very like that sort of thing. O, very like it indeed^ 
 my dear!'* 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 LADY DEBLOCK. 
 
 It was not so easy as it had appeared at first, to arrange 
 for Richard's making a trial of Mr. Kenge's office. Richard 
 himself was the chief impediment. As soon as he had it in 
 his power to leave Mr. Badger at any moment, he began to 
 doubt whether he wanted to leave him at all. He didn't 
 know, he said, really. It wasn't a bad profession ; 
 couldn't assert that he disliked it; perhaps he liked it as 
 well as he liked any other — suppose he gave it one more 
 chance ! Upon that, he shut himself up, for a few weeks, 
 with some books and some bones, and seemed to acquire 
 a considerable fund of information with great rapidity. 
 His fervour, after lasting about a month, began to cool ; 
 and when it was quite cooled, began to grow warm again. 
 His vacillations between law and medicine lasted so long, 
 that Midsummer arrived before he finally separated from 
 Mr. Badger, and entered on an experimental course of 
 Messrs. Kenge and Carboy. For all his waywardness, he 
 took great credit to himself as being determined to be in 
 earnest "this time.'*^ And he was so good-natured through- 
 out, and in such high spirits, and so fond of Ada, that it 
 was very difficult indeed to be otherwise than pleased with 
 him. 
 
 "As to Mr. Jarndyce,'' who, I may mention, found the 
 wind much given, during this period, to stick in the east ; 
 
RICHARD^S WAY OF MAKLNG MONEY. 293 
 
 **As to Mr. Jarndyce,'" Richard would say to me, "he is the 
 finest fellow in the world, Esther! I must be particularly 
 careful, if it were only for his satisfaction, to take myself 
 well to task, and have a regular wind-up of this business 
 now.''' 
 
 The idea of his taking himself well to task, with that 
 laughing face and heedless manner, and with a fancy that 
 everything could catch and nothing could hold, was ludicrously 
 anomalous. However, he told us between-whiles, that he was 
 doing it to such an extent, that he wondered his hair didn''t 
 turn grey. His regular wind-up of the business was (as I 
 have said), that he went to Mr. Kenge's about Midsummer, 
 to try how he liked it. 
 
 All this time he was, in money affairs, what I have 
 described him in a former illustration : generous, profuse, 
 wildly careless, but fully persuaded that he was rather 
 calculating and prudent. I happened to say to Ada, in his 
 presence, half-jestingly, half-seriously, about the time of his 
 going to Mr. Kenge's, that he needed to have Fortunatus's 
 purse, he made so light of money, which he answered in this 
 way: 
 
 " My jewel of a dear cousin, you hear this old woman ! 
 Why does she say that? Because I gave eight pounds odd 
 (or whatever it was) for a certain neat waistcoat and buttons 
 a few days ago. Now, if I had stayed at Badger's I should 
 have been obliged to spend twelve pounds at a blow, for 
 some heart-breaking lecture-fees. So I make four pounds — in 
 a lump — by the transaction ! "' 
 
 It Avas a question much discussed between him and my 
 guardian what arrangements should be made for his living in 
 London, while he experimented on the law ; for, we had long 
 since gone back to Bleak House, and it was too far off to 
 admit of his coming there oftener than once a week. My 
 guardian told me that if Richard were to settle down at Mr. 
 , Kenge's he would take some apartments or chambers, where 
 we, too, could occasionally stay for a few days at a time; 
 
294 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " but, little woman/' he added, rubbing his head very signifi- 
 cantly, " he hasn't settled down there yet ! '' The discussions 
 ended in our hiring for him, by the month, a neat little 
 furnished lodging in a quiet old house near Queen Square. 
 He immediately began to spend all the money he had, in 
 buying the oddest little ornaments and luxuries for this 
 lodging; and so often as Ada and I dissuaded him from 
 making any purchase that he had in contemplation which was 
 particularly unnecessary and expensive, he took credit for what 
 it would have cost, and made out that to spend anything less 
 on something else was to save the difference. 
 
 AVhile these affairs were in abeyance, our visit to Mr. 
 Boythorn's was postponed. At length, Richard having taken 
 possession of his lodging, there was nothing to prevent our 
 departure. He could have gone with us at that time of the 
 year, very well ; but he was in the full novelty of his new 
 position, and was making most energetic attempts to unravel 
 the mysteries of the fatal suit. Consequently Ave w^nt with- 
 out him ; and my darling was delighted to praise him for 
 being so busy. 
 
 We made a pleasant journey down into Lincolnshire by 
 the coach, and had an entertaining companion in Mr. Skim- 
 pole. His furniture had been all cleared off, it appeared, 
 by the person who took possession of it on his blue-eyed 
 daughter's birthday; but, he seemed quite relieved to think 
 that it was gone. Chairs and tables, he said, were wearisome 
 objects; they were monotonous ideas, they had no variety of 
 expression, they looked you out of countenance, and you 
 looked them out of countenance. How pleasant, then, to be 
 bound to no particular chairs and tables, but to sport like a 
 butterfly among all the furniture on hire, and to flit from 
 rosewood to mahogany, and from mahogany to walnut, and 
 from this shape to that, as the humour took one ! 
 
 " The oddity of the thing is,'' said Mr. Skimpole, with a 
 quickened sense of the ludicrous, " that my chairs and tables 
 were not paid for, and yet my landlord walks off* with them 
 
DEFECTIVE REASONING! 
 
 295 
 
 as composedly as possible. Now. that seems droll ! There is 
 something grotesque in it. The chair and table merchant 
 never engaged to pay my landlord my rent. Why should my 
 landlord quarrel with him ? If I have a pimple on my nose 
 which is disagreeable to my landlord's peculiar ideas of beauty, 
 my landlord has no business to scratch my chair and table 
 merchant's nose, which has no pimple on it. His reasoning 
 seems defective ! '''' 
 
 "Well,'' said my guardian, good-humoured ly, "it's pretty 
 clear that whoever became security for those chairs and tables 
 will have to pay for them." 
 
 " Exactly ! " returned Mr. Skimpole. " That's the crowning 
 point of unreason in the business ! I said to my landlord, 
 ^My good man, you are not aware that my excellent friend 
 Jarndyce will have to pay for those things that you are 
 sweeping off in that indelicate manner. Have you no con- 
 sideration for his property ? ' He hadn't the least." 
 
 " And refused all proposals," said my guardian. 
 
 "Refused all proposals," returned Mr. Skimpole. "I made 
 him business proposals. I had him into my room. I said, 
 * You are a man of business, I believe ? ' He replied, * I am.' 
 'Very well,' said I, 'now let us be business-like. Here is an 
 inkstand, here are pens and paper, here are wafers. What do 
 you want? I have occupied your house for a considerable 
 period, I believe to our mutual satisfaction until this un- 
 pleasant misunderstanding arose ; let us be at once friendly 
 and business-like. What do you want.'^' In reply to this, 
 he made use of the figurative expression — which has something 
 Eastern about it — that he had never seen the colour of my 
 money. 'My amiable friend,' said I, 'I never have any 
 money. I never know anything about money.' 'Well, sir,' 
 said he, ' what do you offer if I give you time ? ' ' My good 
 fellow,' said I, ' I have no idea of time ; but, you say you are 
 a man of business, and whatever you can suggest to be done in 
 a business-like way with pen, and ink, and paper — and wafers 
 — I am ready to do. Don't pay yourself at another man's 
 
296 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 expense (which is foolish), but be business-like ! ' However, 
 he wouldn't be, and there was an end of it.'*'* 
 
 If these were some of the inconveniences of Mr. Skimpole's 
 childhood, it assuredly possessed its advantages too. On the 
 journey he had a very good appetite for such refreshment as 
 came in our way (including a basket of choice hot-house 
 peaches), but never thought of paying for anything. So 
 when the coachman came round for his fee, he pleasantly 
 asked him what he considered a very good fee indeed, now — 
 a liberal one — and, on his replying, half-a-crown for a single 
 passenger, said it was little enough too, all things considered; 
 and left Mr. Jarndyce to give it him. 
 
 It was delightful weather. The green corn waved so 
 beautifully, the larks sang so joyfully, the hedges were so full 
 of wild flowers, the trees were so thickly out in leaf, the 
 bean-fields, with a light wind blowing over them, filled the 
 air with such a delicious fragrance ! Late in the afternoon we 
 came to the market-town where we were to alight from the 
 coach — a dull little town, with a church-spire, and a market- 
 place, and a market-cross, and one intensely sunny street, and 
 a pond with an old horse cooling his legs in it, and a very 
 few men sleepily lying and standing about in narrow little 
 bits of shade. After the rustling of the leaves and the 
 waving of the corn all along the road, it looked as still, as 
 hot, as motionless a little town as England could produce. 
 
 At the inn, we found Mr. Boy thorn on horseback, waiting 
 with an open carriage, to take us to his house, which was a 
 few miles off. He was overjoyed to see us, and dismounted 
 with great alacrity. 
 
 "By Heaven said he, after giving us a courteous greet- 
 ing, "this is a most infamous coach. It is the most flagrant 
 example of an abominable public vehicle that ever encumbered 
 the face of the earth. It is twenty-five minutes after its time, 
 this afternoon. The coachman ought to be put to death ! 
 
 " Is he after his time ? said Mr. Skimpole, to whom he 
 happened to address himself. "You know my infirmity.'' 
 
CONCERNING SIR ARROGANT NUMSKULL. 297 
 
 " Twenty-five minutes ! Twenty-six minutes ! replied Mr. 
 Boythorn, referring to his watch. "With two ladies in the 
 coach, this scoundrel has deliberately delayed his arrival six- 
 and-twenty minutes. Deliberately ! It is impossible that it 
 can be accidental ! But his father — and his uncle — were the 
 most profligate coachmen that ever sat upon, a box.'''* 
 
 While he said 1;his ip tones of the greatest indignation, he 
 handed us into the little phaeton with the utmost gentleness, 
 and was all smiles and pleasure. 
 
 " I am sorry, ladies,'*'* he said, standing bare-headed at the 
 carriage-door, when all was ready, "that I am obliged to 
 conduct you nearly two miles out of the way. But, our 
 direct road lies through Sir Leicester Dedlock'^s park ; and, 
 in that fellow's property, I have sworn never to set foot of 
 mine, or horse'^s foot of mine, pending the present relations 
 between us, while I breathe the breath of life ! And here, 
 catching my guardian's eye, he broke into one of his 
 tremendous laughs, which seemed to shake even the motion- 
 less little market-town. 
 
 " Are the Dedlocks down here, Lawrence ? '''* said my 
 guardian as we drove along, and Mr. Boythorn trotted on 
 the green turf by the roadside. 
 
 "Sir Arrogant Numskull is here,'*'' replied Mr. Boythorn. 
 " Ha ha ha ! Sir Arrogant is here, and I am glad to say, 
 has been laid by tiie heels here. My Lady,'*'* in naming whom 
 he always made a courtly gesture as if particularly to exclude 
 her from any part in the quarrel, " is expected, I believe, 
 daily. I am not in the least surprised that she postpones her 
 appearance as long as possible. Whatever can have induced 
 that transcendent woman to marry that effigy and figure-head 
 of a baronet, is one of the most impenetrable mysteries that 
 ever baffled human inquiry. Ha ha ha ha ! '*'* 
 
 " I suppose,'*'* said my guardian laughing, " zee may set foot 
 in the park while we are here.'^ The prohibition does not 
 extend to us, does it ? 
 
 "I can lay no prohibition on my guests,'" he said, bending 
 
298 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 his head to Ada and me, with the smiling politeness which 
 sat so gracefully upon him, "except in the matter of their 
 departure. I am only sorry that I cannot have the happiness 
 of being their escort about Chesney Wold, which is a very 
 fine place ! But, by the light of this summer day, Jarndyce, 
 if you call upon the owner, while you stay with me, you are 
 likely to have but a cool reception. He carries himself like 
 an eight-day clock at all times; like one of a race of eight- 
 day clocks in gorgeous cases that never go and never went 
 — Ha ha ha ! — but he will have some extra stiffness, I 
 can promise you, for the friends of his friend and neighbour, 
 Boythom!" 
 
 "I shall not put him to the proof,"** said my guardian. 
 "He is as indifferent to the honour of knowing me, I dare 
 say, as I am to the honour of knowing him. The air of the 
 grounds, and perhaps such a view of the house as any other 
 sight-seer might get, are quite enough for me.'** 
 
 "Welir' said Mr. Boythorn, "I am glad of it on the 
 whole. It's in better keeping. I am looked upon, about 
 here, as a second Ajax defying the lightning. Ha ha ha ha ! 
 When I go into our little church on a Sunday, a considerable 
 part of the inconsiderable congregation expect to see me drop, 
 scorched and withered, on the pavement under the Dedlock 
 displeasure. Ha ha ha ha ! I have no doubt he is surprised 
 that I don't. For he is, by Heaven ! the most self-satisfied, 
 and the shallowest, and the most coxcombical and utterly 
 brainless ass ! 
 
 Our coming to the ridge of a hill we had been ascending, 
 enabled our friend to point out Chesney Wold itself to us, 
 and diverted his attention from its master. 
 
 It was a picturesque old house, in a fine park richly 
 wooded. Among the trees, and not far from the residence, 
 he pointed out the spire of the little church of which he had 
 spoken. O, the solemn woods over which the light and 
 shadow travelled swiftly, as if Heavenly wings were sweeping 
 on benignant errands through the summer air; the smooth 
 
THE DEBLOCK ARMS. 
 
 299 
 
 green slopes, the glittering water, the garden where the 
 flowers were so symmetrically arranged in clusters of the 
 richest colours, how beautiful they looked ! The house, with 
 gable and chimney, and towei', and turret, and dark doorway, 
 and broad terrace-walk, twining among the balustrades of 
 which, and lying heaped upon the vases, there was one great 
 flush of roses, seemed scarcely real in its light solidity, and 
 in the serene and peaceful hush that rested on all around it. 
 To Ada and to me, that, above all, appeared the pervading 
 influence. On everything, house, garden, terrace, green slopes, 
 water, old oaks, fern, moss, woods again, and far away across 
 the openings in the prospect, to the distance lying wide before 
 us with a purple bloom upon it, there seemed to be such 
 undisturbed repose. 
 
 When we came into the little village, and passed a small 
 inn with the sign of the Dedlock Arms swinging over the 
 road in front, Mr. Boythorn interchanged greetings with a 
 young gentleman sitting on a bench outside the inn-door, 
 who had some fishing-tackle lying beside him. 
 
 " That's the housekeeper's grandson, Mr. Rouncewell by 
 name,'' said he; "and he is in love with a pretty girl up at 
 the House. Lady Dedlock has taken a fancy to the pretty 
 girl, and is going to keep her about her own fair person — 
 an honour which my young friend himself does not at all 
 appreciate. However, he can't marry just yet, even if his 
 Rosebud were willing; so he is fain to make the best of it. 
 In the meanwhile, he comes here pretty often, for a day or 
 two at a time, to — fish. Ha ha ha ha ! " 
 
 "Are he and the pretty girl engaged, Mr. Boythorn?" 
 asked Ada. 
 
 " Why, my dear Miss Clare," he returned, " I think they 
 may perhaps understand each other; but you will see them 
 soon, I dare say, and I must learn from you on such a point 
 —not you from me." 
 
 Ada blushed; and Mr. Boythorn, trotting forward on his 
 comely grey horse, dismounted at his own door, and stood 
 
300 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 ready, with extended arm and uncovered head, to welcome 
 us when we arrived. 
 
 He lived in a pretty house, formerly the Parsonage-house, 
 with a lawn in front, a bright flower-garden at the side, and 
 a well-stocked orchard and kitchen-garden in the rear, enclosed 
 with a venerable wall that had of itself a ripened ruddy look. 
 But, indeed, everything about the place wore an aspect of 
 maturity and abundance. The old lime-tree walk was like 
 green cloisters, the very shadows of the cherry-trees and apple- 
 trees were heavy with fruit, the gooseberry-bushes were so 
 laden that their branches arched and rested on the earth, 
 the strawberries and raspberries grew in like profusion, and 
 the peaches basked by the hundred on the wall. Tumbled 
 about among the spread nets and the glass frames sparkling 
 and winking in the sun, there were such heaps of drooping 
 pods, and marrows, and cucumbers, that every foot of ground 
 appeared a vegetable treasury, while the smell of sweet herR 
 and all kinds of wholesome growth (to say nothing of th 
 neighbouring meadows where the hay was carrying) made th 
 whole air a great nosegay. Such stillness and composur 
 reigned within the orderly precincts of the old red wall, tha 
 even the feathers hung in garlands to scare the birds hardl 
 stirred ; and the wall had such a ripening influence that where 
 here and there high up, a disused nail and scrap of list stil 
 clung to it, it was easy to fancy that they had mellowed with 
 the changing seasons, and that they had rusted and decayed 
 according to the common fate. 
 
 The house, though a little disorderly in comparison with th 
 garden, was a real old house, with settles in the chimney o 
 the brick-floored kitchen, and great beams across the ceilings; 
 I On one side of it was the terrible piece of ground in dispute, 
 I where Mr. Boythorn maintained a sentry in a smock-frock, 
 I day and night, whose duty was supposed to be, in cases o 
 aggression, immediately to ring a large bell hung up there 
 for the purpose, to unchain a great bull-dog established in a 
 kennel as his ally, and generally to deal destruction on the 
 
MR. BOYTHOUN^S EARNESTNESS. 301 
 
 enemy. Not content with these precautions, Mr. Boythorn 
 had himself composed and posted there, on painted boards 
 to which his name was attached in large letters, the following 
 solemn warnings : " Beware of the Bull-dog. He is most 
 ferocious. Lawrence Boythorn.*" The blunderbuss is loaded 
 with slugs. Lawrence Boythorn.'' " Man-traps and spring- 
 guns are set here at all times of the day and night. Lawrence 
 Boythorn.'" "Take notice. That any person or persons 
 audaciously presuming to trespass on this property, will be 
 punished with the utmost severity of private chastisement, 
 and prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law. Lawrence 
 Bovthorn." These he showed us, from the drawing-room 
 windows w hile his bird w as hopping about his head ; and he 
 laughed, " Ha ha ha ha ! Ha ha ha ha ! " to that extent as 
 he pointed them out, that I really thought he would have 
 hurt himself. 
 
 ''But this is taking a good deal of trouble,*' said Mr. 
 Skimpole in his light way, "when you are not in earnest 
 after all?" 
 
 " Not in earnest ! " returned Mr. Boythorn, with unspeakable 
 warmth. " Not in earnest ! If I could haA^e hoped to train 
 him, I w^ould have bought a Lion instead of that dog, and 
 would have turned him loose upon the first intolerable robber 
 who should dare to make an encroachment on my rights. 
 Let Sir Leicester Dedlock consent to come out and decide 
 this question by single combat, and I will meet him with 
 any weapon known to mankind in any age or country. I 
 am that much in earnest. Not more ! " 
 
 We arrived at his house on a Saturday. On the Sunday 
 morning we all set forth to walk to the little church in the 
 park. Entering the park, almost immediately by the disputed 
 ground, we pursued a pleasant footpath winding among the 
 verdant turf and the beautiful trees, until it broug-ht us to 
 the church-porch. 
 
 The congregation w^as extremely small and quite a rustic 
 one, with the exception of a large muster of servants from 
 
302 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 the House, some of whom were already in their seats, while 
 others were yet dropping in. There were some stately 
 footmen ; and there was a perfect picture of an old coachman, 
 who looked as if he were the official representative of all the 
 pomps and vanities that had ever been put into his coach. 
 There w as a very pretty show of young women ; and above 
 them, the handsome old face and fine responsible portly 
 figure of the housekeeper, towered pre-eminent. The pretty 
 girl, of whom Mr. Boythorn had told us, was close by her. 
 She was so very pretty, that I might have known her by her 
 beauty, even if I had not seen how blushingly conscious she 
 was of the eyes of the young fisherman, whom I discovered 
 not far off. One face, and not an agi-eeable one, though it 
 was handsome, seemed maliciously watchful of this pretty girl, 
 and indeed of every one and everything there. It was a 
 French woman''s. 
 
 As the bell was yet ringing and the great people were not 
 yet come, I had leisure to glance over the church, which 
 smelt as earthy as a grave, and to think what a shady, 
 ancient, solemn little church it was. The windows, heavily 
 shaded by trees, admitted a subdued light that made the 
 faces around me pale, and darkened the old brasses in the 
 pavement, and the time and damp-worn monuments, and 
 rendered the sunshine in the little porch, where a monotonous 
 ringer was working at the bell, inestimably bright. But a 
 stir in that direction, a gathering of reverential awe in the 
 rustic faces, and a blandly-ferocious assumption on the part 
 of Mr. Boythorn of being resolutely unconscious of somebody's 
 existence, forewarned me that the great people were come, and 
 that the service was going to begin. 
 
 ' Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord, for 
 in thy sight 
 
 Shall I ever forget the rapid beating at my heart, occasioned 
 by the look I met, as I stood up ! Shall I ever forget the 
 manner in which those handsome proud eyes seemed to spring 
 out of their languor, and to hold mine! It was only a 
 
LIBRARY 
 Of THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY ot ILLINOIS. 
 
STRANGE ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 S03 
 
 moment before I cast mine down — released again, if I may 
 say so — on my book ; but, I knew the beautiful face quite 
 well in that short space of time. 
 
 And, very strangely, there was something quickened within 
 me, associated with the lonely days at my godmother's ; yes, 
 away even to the days when I had stood on tiptoe to dress 
 myself at my little glass, after dressing my doll. And this, 
 although I had never seen this lady's face before in all my 
 life — I was quite sure of it — absolutely certain. 
 
 It w^as easy to know that the ceremonious, gouty, grey- 
 haired gentleman, the only other occupant of the great pew, 
 was Sir Leicester Dedlock ; and that the lady was Lady 
 Dedlock. But why her face should be, in a confused way, 
 like a broken glass to me, in which I saw scraps of old 
 remembrcinces ; and why I should be so fluttered and troubled 
 (for I w^as still), by having casually met her eyes ; I could not 
 think. 
 
 I felt it to be an uiuiieaning weakness in me, and tried to 
 overcome it by attending to the words I heard. Then, 
 very strangely, I seemed to hear them, not in the reader's 
 voice, but in the well-remembered voice of my godmother. 
 This made me think, did Lady Dedlock's face accidentally 
 resemble my godmother's ? It might be that it did, a little ; 
 \ but, the expression was so different, and the stern decision 
 which had worn into my godmother's face, like weather into 
 rocks, was so completely wanting in the face before me, that 
 it could not be that resemblance which had struck me. 
 Neither did I know the loftiness and haughtiness of Lady 
 Dedlock's face, at all, in any one. And yet / — /, little 
 Esther Summerson, the child who lived a life apart, and on 
 whose birthday there was no rejoicing — seemed to arise before 
 my own eyes, evoked out of the past by some power in this 
 fashionable lady, whom I not only entertained no fancy that 
 I had ever seen, but whom I perfectly well knew I had never 
 seen until that hour. 
 
 It made me tremble so, to be thrown into this unaccountable 
 
BLEAK HOUSK. 
 
 agitation, that I was conscious of being distressed even by 
 the observation of the French maid, though I knew she had 
 been looking watchfully here, and there, and everywhere, 
 from the moment of her coming into the church. By 
 degrees, though very slowly, I at last overcame my Strang 
 emotion. After a long time, I looked towards Lady Dedlock 
 again. It was while they were preparing to sing, before the 
 sermon. She took no heed of me, and the beating at my 
 heart was gone. Neither did it revive for more than a 
 few moments, when she once or twice afterwards glanced at 
 Ada or at me throuph her «:la.ss. 
 
 The service being concluded, Sir Leicester gave his ar 
 with much taste and gallantry to I^dy Dedlock — though h 
 was obliged to walk by the help of a thick stick — and escorte 
 her out of church to the pony carriage in which they hac 
 come. The servants then dispersed, and so did the c(mgi'e 
 gation ; whom Sir Leicester had contemplated all along (Mr 
 Skimpole said to Mr. Boythorn^s infinite delight), as if h 
 were a considerable landed proprietor in Heaven. 
 
 " He believes he is ! said Mr. Boythorn. " He firmly 
 believes it. So did his father, and his grandfather, and hi 
 great-grandfather ! 
 
 "Do you know,"** pursued Mr. Skimpole, very unexpectedly 
 to Mr. Boythorn, "it's agreeable to me to see a man of tha 
 sort." 
 
 "Is it!'' sacid Mr. Boythorn. 
 
 " Say that he wants to patronise me,'' pursued Mr. Skimpole 
 "Very well ! I don't object." 
 
 " / do," said Mr. Boythorn, with great vigour. 
 
 " Do you really ? " returned Mr. Skimpole, in his easy ligh 
 vein. "But, that's taking trouble, surely. And why shoul 
 you take trouble.^ Here am I, content to receive thin 
 childishly, as they fall out : and I never take trouble ! 
 come down here, for instance, and I find a mighty potentate 
 exacting homage. Very well ! I say, * Mighty potentate, here 
 is my homage ! It's easier to give it, than to withhold it. 
 
AS THE POLES ASUNDER. 
 
 305 
 
 Here it is. If you have anything of an agreeable nature 
 to show me, I shall be ha})py to see it; if you have any- 
 thing of an agreeable nature to give me, I shall be happy 
 to accept it." Mighty potentate replies in effect, 'This is a 
 sensible fellow. I find him accord with my digestion and my 
 bilious system. He doesn't impose upon me the necessity of 
 rolling myself up like a hedgehog with my points outward. 
 I expand, I open, I turn my silver lining outward like Milton's 
 cloud, and it's more agreeable to both of us.' That's my 
 view of such things: speaking as a child !" 
 
 "But suppose you went down somewhere else to-morrow," 
 said Mr. Boy thorn, " where there was the opposite of that 
 fellow — or of this fellow— How then ? " 
 
 " How then ? " said Mr. Skimpole, with an appearance of 
 the utmost simplicity and candour. " Just the same then ! I 
 should say, 'My esteemed Boythorn' — to make you the 
 personification of our imaginary friend — 'my esteemed Boy- 
 thorn, you object to the mighty potentate ? Very good. So 
 do I. I take it that my business in the social system is to be 
 agreeable ; I take it that everybody's business in the social 
 system is to be agreeable. It's a system of harmony, in 
 short. Therefore if you object, I object. Now, excellent 
 Boythorn, let us go to dinner!'" 
 
 "But excellent Boythorn might say," returned our host, 
 swelling and growing very red, " I'll be '" 
 
 "I understand," said Mr. Skimpole. "Very likely he 
 would." 
 
 " if I zcill go to dinner ! " cried Mr. Boythorn, in a 
 
 violent burst, and stopping to strike his stick upon the 
 ground. " And he would probably add, ' Is there such a 
 ! thing as principle, Mr. Harold Skimpole ? ' " 
 
 " To which Harold Skimpole would reply, you know," he 
 returned in his gayest manner, and with his most ingenious 
 smile, " ' Upon my life I have not the least idea ! I don't 
 know what it is you call by that name, or where it is, or 
 f who possesses it. If you possess it, and find it comfortable, 
 
 VOL. I. X 
 
306 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 I am quite delighted, and congratulate you heartily. But I 
 know nothing about it, I assure you ; for I am a mere child, 
 and I lay no claim to it, and I don't want it ! So, you see, 
 excellent Boythorn and I would go to dinner after all ! '''' 
 
 This was one of many little dialogues between them, which 
 I always expected to end, and which I dare say would have 
 ended under other circumstances, in some violent explosion 
 on the part of our host. But he had so high a sense of his 
 hospitable and responsible position as our entertainer, and my 
 guardian laughed so sincerely at and with Mr. Skimpole, as 
 a child who blew bubbles and broke them all day long, that 
 matters never went beyond this point. Mr. Skimpole, who 
 always seemed quite unconscious of having been on delicate 
 ground, then betook himself to beginning some sketch in the 
 park which he never finished, or to playing fragments of airs 
 on the piano, or to singing scraps of songs, or to lying down 
 on his back under a tree, and looking at the sky — which he 
 couldn't help thinking, he said, was what he was meant for; 
 it suited him so exactly. * 
 
 "Enterprise and effort,'' he would say to us (on his back), 
 "are delightful to me. I believe I am truly cosmopolitan. 
 I have the deepest sympathy with them. I lie in a shady 
 place like this, and think of adventurous spirits going to the 
 North Pole, or penetrating to the heart of the Torrid Zone, 
 with admiration. Mercenary creatures ask, ' What is the use 
 of a man's going to the North Pole ! What good does it 
 do ? ' I can't say ; but, for anything I can say, he may go 
 for the purpose — though he don't know it — of employing my 
 thoughts as I lie here. Take an extreme case. Take the 
 case of the Slaves on American plantations. I dare say they 
 are worked hard, I dare say they don't altogether like it, I 
 dare say theirs is an unpleasant experience on the whole; 
 but, they people the landscape for me, they give it a poetry 
 for me, and perhaps that is one of the pleasanter objects of 
 their existence. I am very sensible of it, if it be, and I 
 shouldn't wonder if it were ! " 
 
A SUDDEN STORM. 
 
 307 
 
 I always wondered on these occasions whether he ever thought 
 of Mrs. Skimpole and the children, and in what point of view 
 they presented themselves to his cosmopolitan mind. So far 
 as I could understand, they rarely presented themselves at all. 
 
 The week had gone round to the Saturday following that 
 beating of my heart in the church ; and every day had been 
 so bright and blue, that to ramble in the woods, and to see 
 the light striking down among the transparent leaves, and 
 sparkling in the beautiful interfacings of the shadows of the 
 trees, while the birds poured out their songs, and the air was 
 drowsy with the hum of insects, had been most delightful. We 
 had one favourite spot, deep in moss and last year's leaves, 
 where there were some felled trees from which the bark was all 
 stripped off. Seated among these, we looked through a green 
 vista supported by thousands of natural columns, the whitened 
 stems of trees, upon a distant prospect made so radiant by 
 its contrast with the shade in which we sat, and made so 
 precious by the arched perspective through which we saw it, 
 that it was like a glimpse of the better land. Upon the 
 Saturday we sat here, Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and I, until we 
 heard thunder muttering in the distance, and felt the large 
 rain-drops rattle through the leaves. 
 
 The weather had been all the week extremely sultry ; but, 
 the storm broke so suddenly — upon us, at least, in that 
 sheltered spot — that before we reached the outskirts of the 
 wood, the thunder and lightning were frequent, and the rain 
 came plunging through the leaves, as if every drop were a 
 great leaden bead. As it was not a time for standing among 
 trees, we ran out of the wood, and up and down the moss- 
 grown steps which crossed the plantation-fence like two broad- 
 staved ladders placed back to back, and made for a keeper's 
 lodge which was close at hand. We had often noticed the 
 dark beauty of this lodge standing in a deep twilight of trees, 
 and how the ivy clustered over it, and how there was a steep 
 hollow near, where we had once seen the keeper's dog dive 
 down into the fern as if it were water. 
 
308 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 The lodge was so dark within, now the sky was over- 
 cast, that we only clearly saw the man who came to the door 
 when we took shelter there, and put two chairs for Ada and 
 me. The lattice-windows were all thrown open, and we sat, 
 just within the doorway, watching the storm. It was grand 
 to see how the wind awoke, and bent the trees, and drove 
 the rain before it like a cloud of smoke ; and to hear the 
 solemn thunder, and to see the lightning ; and while thinking 
 with awe of the tremendous powers by which our little lives 
 are encompassed, to consider how beneficent they are, and 
 how upon the smallest flower and leaf there was already a 
 freshness poured from all this seeming rage, which seemed to 
 make creation new again. 
 
 " Is it not dangerous to sit in so exposed a place ? 
 O no, Esther dear ! said Ada, quietly! 
 
 Ada said it to me ; but, / had not spoken. 
 
 The beating of my heart came back again. I had never 
 heard the voice, as I had never seen the face, but it affected 
 me in the same strange way. Again, in a moment, there 
 arose before my mind innumerable pictures of myself. 
 
 Lady Dedlock had taken shelter in the lodge, before ou 
 arrival there, and had come out of the gloom within. Sh 
 stood behind my chair, with her hand upon it. I saw he 
 with her hand close to my shoulder, when I turned my head 
 
 "I have frightened you?*" she said. 
 
 No. It was not fright. Why should I be frightened ! 
 
 " I believe,'' said Lady Dedlock to my guardian, " I hav 
 the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Jarndyce.'" 
 
 '^Your remembrance does me more honour than I h 
 supposed it would. Lady Dedlock,**' he returned. 
 
 *'I recognised you in church on Sunday. I am sorry tha 
 any local disputes of Sir Leicester's — they are not of hi 
 seeking, however, I believe — should render it a matter of som 
 absurd difficulty to show you any attention here." 
 
 " I am aware of the circumstances," returned my guardia 
 with a smile, "and am sufficiently obliged." 
 
INTRODUCED TO LADY DEDLOCK. m 
 
 She had given him her hand, in an indifferent way that 
 seemed habitual to her, and spoke in a correspondingly in- 
 different manner, though in a very pleasant voice. She was 
 as graceful as she was beautiful ; perfectly self-possessed ; and 
 had the air, I thought, of being able to attract and interest 
 any one, if she had thought it worth her while. The keeper 
 had brought her a chair, on which she sat, in the middle of 
 the porch between us. 
 
 "Is the young gentleman disposed of, whom you wrote to 
 Sir Leicester about, and whose wishes Sir Leicester was sorry 
 not to have it in his power to advance in any w^ay ? she 
 said, over her shoulder, to my guardian. 
 
 " I hope so,'** said he. 
 
 She seemed to respect him, and even to wish to conciliate him. 
 There was something very winning in her haughty manner; 
 and it became more familiar — I was going to say more easy, 
 but that could hardly be — as she spoke to him over her 
 shoulder. 
 
 " I presume this is your other ward. Miss Clare ? 
 He presented Ada, in form. 
 
 "You will lose the disinterested part of your Don Quixote 
 character,'^ said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndyce, over her 
 shoulder again, " if you only redress the wrongs of beauty 
 like this. But present me,'' and she turned full upon me, 
 " to this young lady too ! 
 
 " Miss Summerson really is my ward,'' said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 " I am responsible to no Lord Chancellor in her case." 
 
 " Has Miss Summerson lost both her parents ? " said my Ladv. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " She is very fortunate in her guardian." 
 
 Lady Dedlock looked at me, and I looked at her, and said 
 I was indeed. All at once she turned from me with a hasty 
 air, almost expressive of displeasure or dislike, and spoke to 
 him over her shoulder again. 
 
 " Ages have passed since we were in the habit of meeting, 
 Mr. Jarndyce." 
 
310 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "A long time. At least I thought it was a long time, 
 until I saw you last Sunday,*^' he returned. 
 
 " What ! Even you are a courtier, or think it necessary to 
 become one to me ! she said, with some disdain. " I have 
 achieved that reputation, I suppose."' 
 
 " You have achieved so much, Lady Dedlock,**" said my 
 guardian, "that you pay some little penalty, I dare say. 
 But none to me.*" 
 
 " So much ! **' she repeated, slightly laughing. " Yes ! 
 
 With her air of superiority, and power, and fascination 
 and I know not v»'hat, she seemed to regard Ada and me as 
 little more than children. So, as she slightly laughed, and 
 afterwards sat looking at the rain, she was as self-possessed 
 and as free to occupy herself with her own thoughts, as 
 she had been alone. 
 
 "I think you knew^ my sister, when we were abroad to 
 gether, better than you knew me ? she said, looking at hi 
 again. 
 
 " Yes, we happened to meet oftener,*" he returned. 
 
 "We went our several ways,"' said Lady Dedlock, "an 
 had little in common even before we agreed to differ. It 
 to be regretted, I suppose, but it could not be helped.'" 
 
 Lady Dedlock again sat looking at the rain. The stori 
 soon began to pass upon its way. The shower greatly abated 
 the lightning ceased, the thunder rolled among the distan 
 hills, and the sun began to glisten on the wet leaves and th 
 falling rain. As w^e sat there, silently, we saw a little pon 
 phaeton coming towards us at a merry pace. 
 
 " The messenger is coming back, my Lady,'" said the keepe 
 "with the carriage." 
 
 As it drove up, we saw that there were two people inside 
 There alighted from it, with some cloaks and wrappers 
 first the Frenchwoman whom I had seen in church, an 
 secondly the pretty girl ; the Frenchwoman, with a defian 
 confidence; the pretty girl confused and hesitating. 
 
 " What now ? " said Lady Dedlock. " Two ! '" 
 
AN ENRAGED WOMAN. 
 
 311 
 
 I "I am your maid, my Lady, at the present,'' said the 
 I Frenchwoman. "The message was for the attendant.'' 
 
 "I was afraid you might mean me, my Lady," said the 
 pretty girl. 
 
 " I did mean you, child," replied her mistress, calmly. " Put 
 that shawl on me." 
 j She slightly stooped her shoulders to receive it, and the 
 pretty girl lightly dropped it in its place. The French- 
 woman stood unnoticed, looking on with her lips very 
 tightly set. 
 
 " I am sorry," said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jamdyce, " that 
 we are not likely to renew our former acquaintance. You 
 will allow me to send the carriage back for your two wards. 
 It shall be here directly." 
 
 But, as he would on no account accept this offer, she took 
 a graceful leave of Ada — none of me — and put her hand 
 upon his proffered arm, and got into the carriage ; which was 
 a little, low, park carriage, with a hood, 
 
 " Come in, child," she said to the pretty girl, " I shall 
 ; want you. Go on ! " 
 
 The carriage rolled away; and the Frenchwoman, with the 
 wrappers she had brought hanging over her arm, remained 
 1 standing where she had alighted. 
 
 I suppose there is nothing Pride can so little bear with as 
 Pride itself, and that she was punished for her imperious 
 manner. Her retaliation was the most singular I could have 
 imagined. She remained perfectly still until the carriage had 
 turned into the drive, and then, without the least discomposure 
 I of countenance, slipped off her shoes, left them on the ground, 
 and walked deliberately in the same direction, through the 
 J wettest of the wet grass. 
 
 || "Is that young woman mad ?" said my guardian. 
 
 " O no, sir ! " said the keeper, who, with his wife, was 
 looking after her. "Hortense is not one of that sort. She 
 has as good a head-piece as the best. But she's mortal high 
 and passionate — powerful high and passionate ; and what with 
 
BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 having notice to leave, and having others put above her, she 
 don't take kindly to iV 
 
 " But why should she walk shoeless, through all that water r 
 said my guardian. 
 
 " Why, indeed, sir, unless it is to cool her down ! ***' said 
 the man. 
 
 " Or unless she fancies ifs blood,"^ said the woman. She"^ 
 as soon walk through that as anything else, I think, whe 
 her own''s up ! 
 
 We passed not far from the House, a few minutes after 
 wards. Peaceful as it had looked when we first saw it, it 
 looked even more so now, with a diamond spray glittering all 
 about it, a light wind blowing, the birds no longer hushed 
 but singing strongly, everything refreshed by the late rain 
 and the little carriage shining at the doorway like a fair 
 carriage made of silver. Still, very steadfastly and quietl 
 walking towards it, a peaceful figure too in the landscape 
 went Mademoiselle Hortense, shoeless, through the wet grass 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MOVING ON. 
 
 It is the long vacation in the regions of Chancery Lane. 
 The good ships Law and Equity, those teak-built, copper- 
 bottomed, iron-fastened, brazen-faced, and not by any means 
 fast-sailing Clippers, are laid up in ordinary. The Flying 
 Dutchman, with a crew of ghostly clients imploring all whom 
 they may encounter to peruse their papers, has drifted, for 
 the time being. Heaven knows where. The Courts are all 
 shut up ; the public offices lie in a hot sleep ; Westminster 
 Hall itself is a shady solitude where nightingales might sing, 
 and a tenderer class of suitors than is usually found there, 
 walk. 
 
 The Temple, Chancery Lane, Serjeants'' Inn, and Lincoln's 
 Inn even unto the Fields, are like tidal harbours at low water ; 
 where stranded proceedings, offices at anchor, idle clerks 
 lounging on lop-sided stools that will not recover their per- 
 pendicular until the current of Term sets in, lie high and dry 
 upon the ooze of the long vacation. Outer dooi^ of chambers 
 are shut up by the score, messages and parcels are to be left 
 at the Porter's Lodge by the bushel. A crop of grass would 
 grow in the chinks of the stone pavement outside Lincoln's 
 Inn Hall, but that the ticket-porters, who have nothing to 
 do beyond sitting in the shade there, with their white aprons 
 over their heads to keep the flies off*, grub it up and eat it 
 thoughtfully. 
 
314 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 There is only one Judge in town. Even he only comes 
 twice a-week to sit in chambers. If the country folks of 
 those assize towns on his circuit could see him now ! No full- 
 bottomed wig, no red petticoats, no fur, no javelin-men, no 
 white w^ands. Merely a close-shaved gentleman in white 
 trousers and a white hat, with sea-bronze on the judicial 
 countenance, and a strip of bark peeled by the solar rays from 
 the judicial nose, who calls in at the shell-fish shop as he 
 comes along, and drinks iced ginger-beer! 
 
 The bar of England is scattered over the face of the earth. 
 How England can get on through four long summer months 
 without its bar — which is its acknowledged refuge in adversity, 
 and its only legitimate triumph in prosperity — is beside the 
 question ; assuredly that shield and buckler of Britannia are 
 not in present wear. The learned gentleman who is always 
 so tremendously indignant at the unprecedented outrage 
 committed on the feelings of his client by the opposite party, 
 that he never seems likely to recover it, is doing infinitely 
 better than might be expected, in Switzerland. The learned 
 gentleman who does the withering business, and who blights 
 all opponents with his gloomy sarcasm, is as merry as a grig 
 at a French watering-place. The learned gentleman who 
 weeps by the pint on the smallest provocation, has not shed 
 a tear these six weeks. The very learned gentleman who has 
 cooled the natural heat of his gingery complexion in pools 
 and fountains of law, until he has become great in knotty 
 arguments for term-time, when he poses the drowsy Bench 
 with legal " chaff,'^ inexplicable to the uninitiated and to most 
 of the initiated too, is roaming, with a characteristic delight 
 in aridity and dust, about Constantinople. Other dispersed 
 fragments of the same great Palladium are to be found^j^ 
 the canals of Venice, at the second cataract of the Nile, in the 
 baths of Germany, and sprinkled on the sea-sand all over 
 the English coast. Scarcely one is to be encountered in the 
 deserted region of Chancery Lane. If such a lonely member 
 of the bar do flit across the waste, and come upon a prowling 
 
THE LONG VACATION. 
 
 315 
 
 suitor who is unable to leave off haunting the scenes of his 
 anxiety, they frighten one another, and retreat into opposite 
 shades. 
 
 It is the hottest long vacation known for many years. All 
 the young clerks are madly in love, and, according to their 
 various degrees, pine for bliss with the beloved object, at 
 Margate, llamsgate, or Gravesend. All the middle-aged 
 clerks think their families too large. All the unowned dogs 
 who stray into the Inns of Court, and pant about staircases 
 and other dry places, seeking water, give short howls of 
 aggravation. All the blind men's dogs in the streets draw 
 their masters against pumps, or trip them over buckets. A 
 shop with a sun-blind, and a watered pavement, and a bowl 
 of gold and silver fish in the window, is a sanctuary. Temple 
 Bar gets so hot, that it is, to the adjacent Strand and Fleet 
 Street, what a heater is in an urn, and keeps them simmering 
 all night. 
 
 There are offices about the Inns of Court in which a man 
 might be cool, if any coolness were worth purchasing at such 
 a price in dulness ; but, the Httle thoroughfares immediately 
 outside those retirements seem to blaze. In Mr. Krook's court, 
 it is so hot that the people turn their houses inside out, and 
 sit in chairs upon the pavement — Mr. Krook included, who 
 there pursues his studies, with his cat (who never is too hot) 
 by his side. The Sol's Arms has discontinued the harmonic 
 meetings for the season, and Little Swills is engaged at the 
 Pastoral Gardens down the river, where he comes out in 
 quite an innocent manner, and sings comic ditties of a juvenile 
 complexion, calculated (as the bill says) not to wound the 
 feelings of the most fastidious mind. 
 
 j^jA^er all the legal neighbourhood, there hangs, like some 
 great veil of rust, or gigantic cobweb, the idleness and 
 pensiveness of the long vacation. Mr. Snagsby, law-stationer 
 of Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, is sensible of the influence ; 
 not only in his mind as a sympathetic and contemplative 
 
 iman, but also in his business as a law-stationer aforesaid. He 
 
BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 has more leisure for musing in Staple Inn and in the Rolls Yard, 
 daring the long vacation, than at other seasons ; and he says 
 to the two ""prentices, what a thing it is in such hot weather 
 to think that you live in an island, with the sea a-rolling and 
 a-bowling right round you. 
 
 Guster is busy in the little drawing-room, on this present 
 afternoon in the long vacation, when Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby 
 have it in contemplation to receive company. The expected 
 guests are rather select than numerous, being Mr. and Mrs. 
 Chadband, and no more. From Mr. Chadband's being much 
 given to describe himself, both verbally and in writing, as a 
 vessel, he is occasionally mistaken by strangers for a gentleman 
 connected with navigation ; but, he is, as he expresses it, " in 
 the ministry.'' Mr. Chadband is attached to no particular 
 denomination ; and is considered by his pei\secutors to have 
 nothing so very remarkable to say on the greatest of subjects 
 as to render his volunteering, on his ow^n account, at all in- 
 cumbent on his conscience ; but, he has his followers, and Mrs. 
 Snagsby is of the number. Mrs. Snagsby has but recently 
 taken a passage upward by the vessel, Chadband ; and her 
 attention was attracted to that Bark A 1, when she was 
 something flushed by the hot weather. 
 
 "My little woman,'' says Mr. Snagsby to the sparrows in 
 Staple Inn, " likes to have her religion rather sharp, you 
 see ! " 
 
 So, Guster, much impressed by regarding herself for the 
 time as the handmaid of Chadband, whom she knows to be 
 endowed with the gift of holding forth for four hours at a 
 stretch, prepares the little drawing-room for tea. All the 
 furniture is shaken and dusted, the portraits of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Snagsby are touched up with a wet cloth, the best tea-service 
 is set forth, and there is excellent provision made of dainty 
 new bread, crusty twists, cool fresh butter, thin slices of ham, 
 tongue and German sausage, and delicate little rows of 
 anchovies nestling in parsley ; not to mention new-laid eggs, 
 to be brought up warm in a napkin, and hot buttered toast. 
 
MR. AND MRS. CHADBAND. 
 
 317 
 
 For, Chadband is rather a consuming vessel — the persecutors 
 say a gorging vessel ; and can wield such weapons of the 
 flesh as a knife and fork, remarkably well. 
 
 Mr. Snagsby in his best coat, looking at all the prepara- 
 tions when they are completed, and coughing his cough of 
 deference behind his hand, says to Mrs. Snagsby, '^At what 
 time did you expect Mr. and Mrs. Chadband, my love ? 
 
 "At six,*" says Mrs. Snagsby. 
 
 Mr. Snagsby observes in a mild and casual way, that " it's 
 gone that.*" 
 
 "Perhaps you'd like to begin without them,'** is Mrs. 
 Snagsby's reproachful remark. 
 
 Mr. Snagsby does look as if he would like it very much, 
 but he says, with his cough of mildness, " No, my dear, no. 
 I merely named the time."' 
 
 " What's time,'' says Mrs. Snagsby, " to eternity ? '' 
 
 " Very true, my dear,'' says Mr. Snagsby. " Only when a 
 person lays in victuals for tea, a person does it with a view — 
 perhaps — more to time. And when a time is named for 
 having tea, it's better to come up to it." 
 
 " To come up to it ! " Mrs. Snagsby repeats with severity. 
 "Up to it! As if Mr. Chadband was a fighter!*' 
 
 " Not at all, my dear," says Mr. Snagsby. 
 
 Here, Guster, who had been looking out of the bedroom 
 window, comes rustling and scratching down the little stair- 
 case like a popular ghost, and, falling flushed into the drawing- 
 room, announces that Mr. and Mrs. Chadband have appeared 
 in the court. The bell at the inner door in the passage 
 immediately thereafter tinkling, she is admonished by Mrs. 
 Snagsby, on pain of instant reconsignment to her patron 
 saint, not to omit the ceremony of announcement. Much 
 discomposed in her nerves (which were previously in the best 
 order) by this threat, she so fearfully mutilates that point of 
 state as to announce " Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseming, least which, 
 Imeantersay, whatsername ! " and retires conscience-stricken 
 from the presence. 
 
318 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Mr. Chadband is a large yellow man, with a fat smile, and 
 a general appearance of having a good deal of train oil in 
 his system. Mrs. Chadband is a stern, severe-looking, silent 
 woman. Mr. Chadband moves softly and cumbrously, not 
 unlike a bear who has been taught to walk upright. He is 
 very much embarrassed about the arms, as if they were 
 inconvenient to him, and he wanted to grovel ; is very much 
 in a perspiration about the head ; and never speaks without 
 first putting up his great hand, as delivering a token to his 
 hearers that he is going to edify them. 
 
 " My friends,'' says Mr. Chadband, " Peace be on this house ! 
 On the master thereof, on the mistress thereof, on the young 
 maidens, and on the young men ! My friends, why do I wish 
 for peace ? What is peace ? Is it war ? No. Is it strife ? 
 No. Is it lovely, and gentle, and beautiful, a^d pleasant, and 
 serene, and joyful ? O yes ! Therefore, my friends, I wish for 
 peace, upon you and upon yours.'' 
 
 In consequence of Mrs. Snagsby looking deeply edified, Mr, 
 Snagsby thinks it expedient on the whole to say Amen, which 
 is well received. 
 
 " Now, my friends," proceeds Mr. Chadband, " since I am 
 upon this theme " 
 
 Guster presents herself. Mrs. Snagsby, in a spectral bass 
 voice, and without removing her eyes from Chadband, says, 
 with dread distinctness, " Go away ! " 
 
 " Now, my friends," says Chadband, " since I am upon this 
 theme, and in my lowly path improving it " 
 
 Guster is heard unaccountably to murmur "one thousing 
 seven hundred and eighty-two." The spectral voice repeats 
 more solemnly, " Go away ! " 
 
 " Now, my friends," says Mr. Chadband, " we will inquire 
 in a spirit of love " 4 
 
 Still Guster reiterates "one thousing seven hundred andl 
 eighty-two." % 
 
 Mr. Chadband, pausing with the resignation of a man 
 accustomed to be persecuted, and languidly folding up his chin 
 
MR. CHADBAND^S HUMILITY. 319 
 
 into his fat smile, says, " Let us hear the maiden ! Speak, 
 maiden ! "'^ 
 
 " One thousing seven hundred and eighty-two, if you please, 
 sir. Which he wish to know what the shilling ware for,'** says 
 Guster, breathless. 
 
 "For?'' returns Mrs. Chadband. " For his fare ! '' 
 
 Guster replies that "he insistes on one and eightpence, or 
 on summonsizzing the party.*" Mrs. Snagsby and Mrs. Chad- 
 band are proceeding to grow shrill in indig.^ation, when Mr. 
 Ghadband quiets the tumult by lifting up his hand. 
 
 "My friends,'' says he, "I remember a duty unfulfilled 
 yesterday. It is right that I should be chastened in some 
 penalty. I ought not to murmur. Rachael, pay the eight- 
 pence ! " 
 
 While Mrs. Snagsby, drawing her breath, looks hard at 
 Mr. Snagsby, as who should say, " You hear this Apostle ! " 
 and while Mr. Chadband glov/s with humility and train oil, 
 Mrs. Chadband pays the money. It is Mr. Chadband's habit 
 — it is the head and front of his pretensions indeed — to keep 
 this sort of debtor and creditor account in the smallest items, 
 and to post it publicly on the most trivial occasions. 
 
 " My friends," says Chadband, " eightpence is not much ; it 
 might justly have been one and fourpence; it might justly 
 have been half-a-crown. O let us be joyful, joyful ! O let us 
 be joyful!" 
 
 With which remark, which appears from its sound to be an 
 extract in verse, Mr. Chadband stalks to the table, and, before 
 taking a chair, lifts up his admonitory hand. 
 
 "My friends,'' says he, "what is this which we now behold 
 as being spread before us ? Refreshment. Do we need refresh- 
 ment then, my friends ? We do. And why do we need re- 
 freshment, my friends ? Because we are but mortal, because 
 we are but sinful, because we are but of the earth, because 
 we are not of the air. Can we fly, my friends ? We cannot. 
 Why can we not fly, my friends ? " 
 
 Mr. Snagsby, presuming on the success of his last point. 
 
320 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 ventures to observe in a cheerful and rather knowing tone, 
 " No wings." But, is immediately frowned down by Mrs. 
 Snagsby. 
 
 "I say, my friends,**" pursues Mr. Chadband, utterly reject- 
 ing and obliterating Mr. Snagsby's suggestion, why can Ave 
 not fly ? Is it because we are calculated to walk ? It is. 
 Could we walk, my friends, without strength ? We could 
 not. What should we do without strength, my friends? 
 Our legs would refuse to bear us, our knees would double 
 up, our ankles would turn over, and we should come to the 
 ground. Then from whence, my friends, in a human point 
 of view, do we derive the strength that is necessary to our 
 limbs? Is it,'"* says Chadband, glancing over the table, 
 
 from bread in various forms, from butter which is churned 
 from the milk which is yielded untoe us by the cow, from the 
 eggs which are laid by the fowl, from ham, from tongue, 
 from sausage, and from such like ? It is. Then let us partake 
 of the good things which are set before us ! ""^ 
 
 The persecutors denied that there was any particular gift 
 in Mr. Chadband's piling verbose flights of stairs, one upon 
 another, after this fashion. But this can only be received as 
 a proof of their determination to persecute, since it must be 
 within everybody's experience, that the Chadband style of 
 oratory- is widely received and much admired. 
 
 Mr. Chadband, however, having concluded for the present, 
 sits down at Mr. Snagsby 's table, and lays about him pro- 
 digiously. The conversion of nutriment of any sort into oil 
 of the quality already mentioned, appears to be a process so 
 inseparable from the constitution of this exemplary vessel, that 
 in beginning to eat and drink, he may be described as always 
 becoming a kind of considerable Oil Mills, or other large 
 factory for the production of that article on a wholesale scale. 
 On the present evening of the long vacation, in Cook's Court, 
 Cursitor Street, he does such a powerful stroke of business, 
 that the warehouse appears to be quite full w^ien the works 
 cease. 
 
 V 
 
THIS BOY. 
 
 321 
 
 At this period of the entertainment, Guster, who has never 
 recovered her first failure, but has neglected no possible or 
 impossible means of bringing the establishment and herself 
 into contempt — among which may be briefly enumerated her 
 unexpectedly performing clashing military music on Mr. 
 Chadband's head with plates, and afterwards crowning that 
 gentleman with muffins — at which period of the entertainment, 
 Guster whispers Mr. Snagsby that he is wanted. 
 
 "And being wanted in the — not to put too fine a point 
 upon it — in the shop ! '''' says Mr. Snagsby rising, " perhaps 
 this good company will excuse me for half a minute.'*'' 
 
 Mr. Snagsby descends, and finds the two ''prentices in- 
 tently contemplating a police constable, who holds a ragged 
 boy by the arm. 
 
 " Why, bless my heart,"''' says Mr. Snagsby, " whafs the 
 matter ! 
 
 "This boy,^' says the constable, "although he's repeatedly 
 told to, won't move on '''* 
 
 "Fm always a-moving on, sir,'*'' cries the boy, wiping away 
 his grimy tears with his arm. "Fve always been a-moving 
 and a-moving on, ever since I was born. Where can I pos- 
 sible move to, sir, more nor I do move ! *''' 
 
 "He won't move on,'''' says the constable, calmly, with a 
 slight professional hitch of his neck involving its better settle- 
 ment in his stiff stock, "although he has been repeatedly 
 cautioned, and therefore I am obliged to take him into 
 custody. He''s as obstinate a young gonoph as I know. He 
 woN**T move on."" 
 
 " O my eye ! Where can I move to ! '" cries the boy, 
 clutching quite desperately at his hair, and beating his bare 
 feet upon the floor of Mr. Snagsby''s passage. 
 
 " Don't you come none of that, or I shall make blessed 
 short work of you ! " says the constable, giving him a pas.- 
 sionless shake. "My instructions are, that you are to move 
 on. I have told you so five hundred times." 
 
 " But where ? " cries the boy. 
 
 VOL. I. Y 
 
322 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " Well ! Really, constable, you know/' says Mr. Snagsby 
 wistfully, and coughing behind his hand his cough of great 
 perplexity and doubt; "really that does seem a question. 
 Where, you know ? 
 
 " My instructions don't go to that,*" replies the constable. 
 "My instructions are that this boy is to move on.'' 
 
 Do you hear, Jo? It is nothing to you or to any one 
 else, that the great lights of the parliamentary sky have failed 
 for some few years, in this business, to set you the example 
 of moving on. The one grand recipe remains for you — the 
 profound philosophical prescription — the be-all and the end- 
 all of your strange existence upon earth. Move on ! You 
 are by no means to move off*, Jo, for the great lights can't 
 at all agree about that. Move on ! 
 
 Mr. Snagsby says nothing to this effect; says nothing at 
 all, indeed ; but coughs his forlornest cough, expressive of no 
 thoroughfare in any direction. By this time Mr. and Mrs. 
 Chadband, and Mrs. Snagsby, hearing the altercation, have 
 appeared upon the stairs. Guster having never left the end 
 of the passage, the whole household are assembled. 
 
 " The simple question is, sir," says the constable, " whether 
 you know this boy. He says you do." 
 
 Mrs. Snagsby, from her elevation, instantly cries out, " No 
 he don't!" 
 
 "My lit-tle woman!" says Mr. Snagsby, looking up the 
 staircase. " My love, permit me ! Pray have a moment's 
 patience, my dear. I do know something of this lad, and in 
 what I know of him, I can't say that there's any harm ; per- 
 haps on the contrary, constable." To whom the law-stationer 
 relates his Joful and woful experience, suppressing the half- 
 crown fact. 
 
 " W ell ! " says the constable, " so far, it seems, he had 
 grounds for what he said. When I took him into custody 
 up in Holborn, he said you knew him. Upon that, a young 
 man who was in the crowd said he was acquainted with you, 
 and you were a respectable housekeeper, and if I'd call and 
 
THE LADY AND THE SOVEREIGN. 323 
 
 make the inquiry, he'd appear. The young man don't seem 
 inclined to keep his word, but — Oh ! Here is the young 
 man ! 
 
 Enter Mr. Guppy, who nods to Mr. Snagsby, and touches 
 his hat with the chivalry of clerkship to the ladies on the 
 stairs. 
 
 "I was strolling away from the office just now, when I 
 found this row going on,*" says Mr. Guppy to the law- 
 stationer ; " and as your name was mentioned, I thought it 
 was right the thing should be looked into.'' 
 
 " It was very good-natured of you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, 
 " and I am obliged to you." And Mr. Snagsby again relates 
 his experience, again suppressing the half-crown fact. 
 
 " Now, I know where you live," says the constable, then, to 
 Jo. " You live down in Tom-all- Alone's. That's a nice 
 innocent place to live in, ain't it ? " 
 
 " I can't go and live in no nicer place, sir," replies Jo. 
 " They wouldn't have nothink to say to me if I wos to go to 
 a nice innocent place fur to live. Who ud go and let a nice 
 innocent lodging to such a reg'lar one as me ! " 
 
 " You are very poor, ain't you ? " says the constable. 
 
 " Yes, I am indeed, sir, wery poor in gin'ral," replies Jo. 
 
 " I leave you to judge now ! I shook these two half-crowns 
 out of him," says the constable, producing them to the com- 
 pany, " in only putting my hand upon him ! " 
 
 "They're wot's left, Mr. Snagsby," says Jo, "out of a 
 sov'ring as wos give me by a lady in a wale as sed she wos a 
 servant and as come to my crossin one night and asked to be 
 showd this 'ere ouse and the ouse wot him as you giv the 
 writin to died at, and the berrin-ground wot he's berrid in. 
 She ses to me she ses ' are you the boy at the Inkwhich ? ' 
 she ses. I ses ^yes' I ses. She ses to me she ses 'can you 
 show me all them places ? ' I ses ' yes I can ' I ses. And 
 she ses to me / do it ' and I dun it and she giv me a sov'ring 
 and hooked it. And I an't had much of the sov'ring neither," 
 says Jo, with dirty tears, "fur I had to pay five bob, down 
 
324 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 in Tom-all-Alone's, afore they'd square it fur to give me 
 change, and then a young man he thieved another five while 
 I was asleep and another boy he thieved ninepence and the 
 landlord he stood drains round with a lot more on iV 
 
 " You don't expect anybody to believe this, about the lady 
 and the sovereign, do you?" says the constable, eyeing him 
 aside with ineffable disdain. 
 
 "I don't know as I do, sir," replies Jo. "I don't expect 
 nothink at all, sir, much, but that's the true hist'ry on it." 
 
 " You see what he is ! " the constable observes to the 
 audience. " Well, Mr. Snagsby, if I don't lock him up this 
 time, will you engage for his moving on ? " 
 
 " No ! " cries Mrs. Snagsby from the stairs. 
 
 " My little woman ! " pleads her husband. " Constable, I 
 have no doubt he'll move on. You know you really must 
 do it," says Mr. Snagsby. 
 
 I'm everyways agreeable, sir," says the hapless Jo. 
 
 " Do it, then," observes the constable. " You know what 
 you have got to do. Do it ! And recollect you won't get 
 off so easy next time. Catch hold of your money. Now, the 
 sooner you're five mile off*, the better for all parties." 
 
 With this farewell hint, and pointing generally to the 
 setting sun, as a likely place to move on to, the constable 
 bids his auditors good afternoon ; and makes the echoes of 
 Cook's Court perform slow music for him as he walks away 
 on the shady side, carrying his iron-bound hat in his hand 
 for a little ventilation. 
 
 Now, Jo's improbable story concerning the lady and the 
 sovereign has awakened more or less the curiosity of all the 
 company. Mr. Guppy, who has an inquiring mind in matters 
 of evidence, and who has been suffering severely from the 
 lassitude of the long vacation, takes that interest in the case, 
 that he enters on a regular cross-examination of the witness, 
 which is found so interesting by the ladies that Mrs. Snagsby 
 politely invites him to step up-stairs, and drink a cup of tea, 
 if he will excuse the disarranged state of the tea-table, 
 
MRS. CHADBAND CROSS-EXAMINED. 325 
 
 consequent on their previous exertions. Mr. Guppy yielding 
 his assent to this proposal, Jo is requested to follow into the 
 drawing-room doorway, where Mr. Guppy takes him in hand 
 as a witness, patting him into this shape, that shape, and the 
 other shape, like a butterman dealing with so much butter, 
 and worrying him according 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 Chad- 
 band, being merely engaged in the oil trade, gets aground, 
 and waits to be floated off. 
 
 Well ! says Mr. Guppy, " either this boy sticks to it 
 like cobbler''s-wax, or there is something out of the common 
 here that beats anything that ever came into my way at 
 Kenge and Carboy's."''' 
 
 Mrs. Chadband whispers Mrs. Snagsby, who exclaims, 
 " You don't say so ! " 
 
 " For years ! " replies Mrs. Chadband. 
 
 "Has known Kenge and Carboy's office for years," Mrs. 
 Snagsby triumphantly explains to Mr. Guppy. " Mrs. 
 Chadband — this gentleman's wife — Reverend Mr. Chadband." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! " says Mr. Guppy. 
 
 "Before I married my present husband," says Mrs. 
 Chadband. 
 
 " Was you a party in anything, ma'am ? " says Mr. Guppy, 
 transferring 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. 
 
326 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " Not exactly that, either,'''* replies Mrs. Chadbaud, humour- 
 ing the joke with a hard-favoured smile. 
 
 " Not exactly that, either ! '*'* repeats Mr. Guppy. " Very 
 good. Pray, ma'am, was it a lady of your acquaintance 
 who had some transactions (we will not at present say what 
 transactions) with Kenge and Cai'boy''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 thrown on British jurymen. ^^Now, ma'am, perhaps 
 you'll have the kindness to tell us what child." 
 
 "You have got it at last, sir," says Mrs. Chadband, with 
 another hard-favoured smile. "Well, 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 Summei-son, ma'am ! " cries Mr. Guppy, excited. 
 
 " / call her Esther Summerson," says Mrs. Chadband, with 
 austerity. "There was no Miss-ing of the girl in my time. 
 It was Esther. ' Esther, do this ! Esther, do that ! ' and she 
 was made to do it." 
 
 "My dear ma'am," returns Mr. Guppy, moving across the 
 small apartment, " the humble individual who now addresses 
 you received that young lady in London, when she first came 
 here from the establishment to which you have alluded. 
 Allow me to have the pleasure of taking you by the hand." 
 
 Mr. Chadband, at last seeing his opportunity, makes his 
 accustomed signal, and rises with a smoking head, which he 
 dabs with his pocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Snagsby whispers 
 " Hush ! " 
 
 " My friends," says Chadband, ^' we have partaken in modera- 
 tion" (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 
 
MR. CHADBAND IMPROVES THE OCCASION. 327 
 
 corn and wine be plentiful therein ; may it grow, may it 
 thrive, may it prosper, may it advance, may it proceed, may 
 it press forward ! But, my friends, have we partaken of 
 anything else? We have. My friends, of what else have 
 we partaken ? Of spiritual profit ? Yes. From 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 Joe. "I don't know nothink.'' 
 "My young friend," says Chadband, "it is because you 
 know nothing that you are to us a gem and jewel. For 
 what are you, my young friend? Are you a beast of the 
 field ? No. A bird of the air ? No. A fish of the sea or 
 river? No. You are a human boy, my young friend. 
 A human boy. O glorious to be a human boy ! And why 
 glorious, my young friend? Because you are capable of 
 receiving the lessons of wisdom, because you are capable of 
 profiting by this discourse which I now deliver for your good, 
 because you are not a stick, or a staff, or a stock, or a stone, 
 or a post, or a pillar. 
 
 O running stream of sparkling joy 
 To be a soaring human boy ! 
 
 And do you cool yourself in that stream now, m)'^ 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 sinful- 
 ness, 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 
 
828 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 favourably balanced : my creditor has 
 accepted a composition. O let us be joyful, joyful ! O let 
 us be joyful 
 
 Great sensation on the part of Mrs. Snagsby. 
 
 "My friends,"' says Chadband, looking round him in con- 
 clusion, " I will not proceed with my young friend now. 
 Will you come to-morrow, my young friend, and inquire 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 dis- 
 courses?*" (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 utter- 
 ing such abominable nonsense, but that the wonder rather 
 is that he should ever leave oft* 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 corner, wherein to settle to his repast. 
 
ANOTHER ^'MOVE ON:' 
 
 329 
 
 And there he sits, munching and gnawing, and looking 
 up at the great Cross on the summit of St. PauPs 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, con- 
 fused 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. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A NEW LODGER. 
 
 The long vacation saunters on towards term-time, like an 
 idle river very leisurely strolling down a flat country to the 
 sea. Mr. Guppy saunters along with it congenially. He 
 has blunted the blade of his penknife, and broken the point 
 off, by sticking that instrument into his desk in every direc- 
 tion. Not that he bears the desk any ill-will, but he must 
 do something, and it must be something of an unexciting 
 nature, which will lay neither his physical nor his intellectual 
 energies under too heavy contribution. He finds that 
 nothing agrees with him so well, as to make little gyrations 
 on one leg of his stool, and stab his desk, and gape. 
 
 Kenge and Carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk 
 has taken out a shooting licence, and gone down to his 
 father^s, and Mr. Guppy's two fellovz-stipendiaries are away 
 on leave. Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Richard Carstone, divide the 
 dignity of the office. But Mr. Carstone is for the time being 
 established in Kenge's room, whereat Mr. Guppy chafes. So 
 exceedingly, that he with biting sarcasm informs his mother, 
 in the confidential 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 occupa- 
 tion of a stool in Kenge and Carboy's office, of entertaining, 
 
YOUNG SMALLWEED. 
 
 331 
 
 as a matter of course, 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 counterplot, 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, there- 
 fore, to find the new-comer constantly poring over the 
 papers in Jarndyce and Jarndyce; for he well knows that 
 nothing but confusion and failure can come of that. His 
 satisfaction communicates itself to a third saunterer through 
 the long vacation in Kenge and Carboy''s office ; to wit, 
 Young Smallweed. 
 
 Whether Young Smallweed (metaphorically called Small 
 and eke Chick Weed, as it were jocularly to express a 
 fledgling,) was ever a boy, is much doubted in Lincoln's Inn. 
 He is now something under fifteen, and an old limb of the 
 law. He is facetiously understood to entertain a passion for 
 a lady at a cigar-shop, in the neighbourhood of Chancery 
 Lane, and for her sake to have broken off a contract with 
 another lady, to whom 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 
 oi>ject 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 honoured with Mr. Guppy's 
 particular confidence, and occasionally advises him, from the 
 deep wells of his experience, on difficult points in private 
 life. 
 
 Mr. Guppy has been lolling out of window all the morn- 
 ing, 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. Small- 
 weed has been twice despatched for effervescent drinks, and 
 
332 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 has twice mixed them in the two official tumblers and stirred 
 them up with the ruler. Mr. Guppy propounds, for Mr. 
 Smallweed's consideration, the paradox that the more you 
 drink the thirstier you are ; and reclines his head upon the 
 window-sill in a state of hopeless languor. 
 
 While thus looking out into the shade of Old Square, 
 Lincoln's Inn, surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, 
 Mr. Guppy becomes conscious of a manly whisker emerging 
 from the cloistered walk below, and turning itself up in the 
 direction of his face. At the same 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 ? '^ inquires Mr. Guppy. 
 
 "From the market-gardens down by Ueptford. I can't 
 stand it any longer. I must enlist. I say ! I wish you'd 
 lend me half-a-crown. Upon my soul I'm hungry." 
 
 Jobling looks hungry, and also has the appearance of 
 having run to seed in the market-gardens down by Dept- 
 ford. 
 
 " 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, which Mr. Jobling catches neatly. 
 
 " How long should I have to hold out ? " says Jobling. 
 
 "Not half an hour. I am only waiting here till the 
 enemy goes," returns Mr. Guppy, butting inward with his 
 head. 
 
 "What enemy.?" 
 
 " A new one. Going to be articled. Will you wait ? '^ 
 " Can you give a fellow anything to read in the meantime ? " 
 says Mr. Jobling. 
 
 Smallweed suggests the Law List. But Mr. Jobling de- 
 clares, with much earnestness, that he " can't stand it." 
 
MR. JOBLING. 
 
 333 
 
 " You shaH have the paper,*^** says Mr. Guppy. " He shall 
 bring it down. But you had better not be seen about here. 
 Sit on our staircase and read. It's a quiet place.*''' 
 
 Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. The sagacious 
 Smallweed supplies him with the newspaper, and occasionally 
 drops his eye upon him from the landing as a precaution 
 against his becoming disgusted with waiting, and making an 
 untimely departure. At last the enemy retreats, and then 
 Smallweed fetches Mr. Jobling up. 
 
 " Well, and how are you ? says Mr. Guppy, shaking hands 
 with him. 
 
 " So, so. How are you ? 
 
 Mr. Guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, Mr. 
 Jobling ventures on the question, How is she ? ''^ This Mr. 
 Guppy resents as a liberty ; retorting, " Jobling, there ai^e 
 chords in the human mind '''' Jobling begs pardon. 
 
 "Any subject but that ! says Mr. Guppy, with a 
 gloomy enjoyment of his injury. "For there ar^ 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, "Return immediately.*" This notification to all 
 whom it may concern, he inserts in the letter-box ; and then 
 putting on the tall hat, at the angle of inclination at which 
 Mr. Guppy wears his, informs his patron that they may now 
 make themselves scarce. 
 
 Accordingly they betake themselves to a neighbouring 
 dining-house, of the class known among its frequenters by 
 the denomination Slap-Bang, /where the w^aitress, a bouncing 
 young female of forty, is supposed tgi have made some im- 
 pression on the susceptible Smallweed;; of whom it may be 
 remarked that he is a weird chans:elin|s:, to whom years are 
 nothing. He stands precociously possessed of centuries of 
 owlish wisdom. If he ever lay in a cradle, it seems as if he 
 must have lain there in a tail-coat. He has an old, old eye. 
 
334 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 Roe family : also that his first long- 
 clothes were made from a blue bag. 
 
 Into the dining-house, unaffected by the seductive show in 
 the window, of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, 
 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 favourite 
 box, he bespeaks all the papers, he is down upon bald patri- 
 archs, 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 gravy he is 
 adamant. 
 
 Conscious of his elfin power, and submitting to his dread 
 experience, Mr. Guppy consults him in the choice of that 
 day^s banquet; turning an appealing look towards him as 
 the waitress repeats the catalogue of viands, and saying 
 " What do you take. Chick ? Chick, out of the profundity 
 of his artfulness, preferring " veal and ham and French beans 
 — And don't you forget the stuffing, Polly,'' (with an un- 
 earthly cock of his venerable eye); Mr. Guppy and Mr. 
 Jobling give the like order. Three pint pots of half-and-half 
 are superadded. Quickly the waitress returns, bearing what 
 is apparently a model of the tower of Babel, but what is 
 really a pile of plates and flat tin dish-covers. Mr. Small- 
 weed, 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 down of 
 
OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY ot ILLINOIS. 
 
A SLAP-BANG DINNER. 
 
 335 
 
 the mF'hine which brings the nice cuts from the kitchen, 
 and a shrill crying for more nice cuts down the speaking- 
 pipe and a shrill reckoning of the cost of nice cuts that 
 hav been disposed of, and a general flush and steam of hot 
 joints, cut and uncut, and a considerably heated atmosphere 
 ir which the soiled knives and table-cloths seem to break out 
 spontaneously into eruptions of grease and blotches of beer, 
 die legal triumvirate appease their appetites. 
 
 Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment 
 might require. His hat presents at the rims a peculiar ap- 
 pearance of a glistening nature, as if it had been a favourite 
 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 circum- 
 stances ; even his light whiskers droop with something of a 
 shabby air. 
 
 His appetite is so vigorous, that it suggests spare living 
 for some little time back. He makes such a speedy end of 
 his plate of veal and ham, bringing it to a close while his 
 companions are yet midway in theirs, that Mr. Guppy pro- 
 poses 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. 
 
 Mr. Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals, until he 
 is half way through this second plate and stops to take an 
 enjoying pull at his pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed), 
 and stretches out his legs and rubs his hands. Beholding 
 him in which glow of 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 zmll take summer cabbage." 
 
336 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Order given ; with the sarcastic addition (from Mr. • Small- 
 weed) of "Without slugs, Polly ! '''' And cabbage proc l^ced. 
 
 "I am growing up, Guppy,'" says Mr. Jobling, plyiii^ 
 knife and fork with a relishing steadiness. 
 
 « Glad to hear it.'' i 
 
 " In fact, I have just turned into my teens,'' says Mi. ^' 
 Jobling. 1 
 
 He says no more until he has performed his task, which\ 
 he achieves as Messrs. Guppy and Small weed finish theirs ; thus y 
 getting over the ground in excellent style, [and beating those \ 
 two gentlemen easily by a veal and ham an3^ cabbage.^ \ 
 
 " Now, Small," says Mr. Guppy, " what would you recom- \ 
 mend about pastry ? " 
 
 " Marrow puddings," says Mr. Small weed, instantly. 
 
 " Aye, aye ! " cries Mr. Jobling, with an arch look. 
 
 You're there, are you ? Thank you, Mr. Guppy, I don't 
 know but what I will take a marrow pudding." 
 
 Three marrow puddings being produced, Mr. Jobling adds, 
 in a pleasant humour, 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 entertain- 
 ment happily reached, Mr. Jobling puts up his legs on the 
 carpeted seat (having his own side of the box to himself), 
 leans against the wall, and says, " I am grov/n up, now, Guppy. 
 I have arrived at maturity." 
 
 " 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 
 drinking his good health." 
 
 " Sir, to you ! " says Mr. Smallweed. 
 
 " I was saying, what do you think norc;," pursues Mr. Guppy, 
 " of enlisting ? " 
 
 " 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 
 
THE WRONG SIDE OF THE POST. 337 
 
 fo manger, you know,'' says Mr. Jobling, pronouncing that 
 word as if he meant a necessary fixture in an English stable. 
 "Ill fo manger. That's the French saying, and mangering 
 is as necessary to me as it is to a Frenchman. Or more so. ' 
 
 Mr. Smallweed is decidedly of opinion " much more so." 
 
 " If any man had told me," pursues 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 honourable friend for that 
 cheer.) If any man had told me, then, that I should be as 
 hard up at the present time as I literally find myself, I 
 should have — well, I should have pitched into him," says Mr. 
 Jobling, taking a little rum-and-water with an air of desperate 
 resignation ; " I should have let fly at his head." 
 
 " Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then," 
 remonstrates Mr. Guppy. " You were talking about nothing 
 else in the gig."*' 
 
 "Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, "I will not deny it. I was 
 on the wrong side of the post. But I trusted to things 
 coming round." 
 
 That very popular trust in flat things coming round ! 
 Not in their being beaten round, or worked round, but in 
 their " coming " round ! As though a lunatic should trust in 
 the world's "coming'* triangular! 
 
 "I had confident expectations that things would come 
 round and be all square," says Mr. Jobling, with some vague- 
 ness 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-morrow, it would be mentioned, and 
 would sew me up. Then, what's a fellow to do? I have 
 been keeping out of the way, and living cheap, down about 
 
 VOL. I. z 
 
338 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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. Small weed thinks. 
 
 "Certainly. It's the fashionable way; and fashion and 
 whiskers have been my weaknesses, and I don't care who 
 knows it," says Mr. Jobling. "They are great weaknesses — 
 Damme, sir, they are great. Well ! " proceeds Mr. Jobling, 
 after a defiant visit to his rum-and-Avater, " what can a fellow 
 do, I ask you, but enlist.'^" 
 
 Mr. 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, otherwise than as he has become the victim of 
 a tender sorrow of the heart. 
 
 " Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, " myself and our mutual friend 
 Smallweed " 
 
 (Mr. Smallweed modestly observes " Gentlemen both ! '"^ and 
 drinks.) 
 
 "Have had a little conversation on this matter more than 
 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 ours, and I am not acquainted with him." 
 
 " He is ours, Jobling, and I am 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, 
 
A CHANCE FOR JOBLING. 
 
 339 
 
 which may — or may not — have cast its shadow on my 
 existence." 
 
 As it is Mr. Guppy'^s perplexing way, with boastful 
 misery to tempt his particular friends into this subject, and 
 the moment they touch it, to turn on them with that 
 trenchant severity about the chords in the human mind; 
 both Mr. 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 nothing, and better 
 than enlistment. You want time. There must be time for 
 these late affairs to blow over. You might live through it 
 on much worse terms than by writing for Snagsby." 
 
 Mr. Jobling is about to interrupt, when the sagacious 
 Smallweed checks him with a dry cough, and the 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 know him by sight. Very well. And you know 
 little Flite.?" 
 
 " Everybody knows her," says Mr. Jobling. 
 
 " Everybody knows her. Very well. Now it has been one 
 
340 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 her presence. This has brought 
 me into communication with Krook, and into a knowledge 
 of his house and his habits. I know he has a room to let. 
 You may live there at a very low charge, under any name 
 you like ; as quietly as if you were a hundred miles oft*. He'll 
 ask no questions ; and would accept you as a tenant, at a 
 word from me — before the clock strikes, if you chose. And 
 I tell you another thing, Jobling,"' says Mr. Guppy, who has 
 suddenly lowered his voice, and become familiar again, "he's 
 an extraordinary old chap — always rummaging among a litter 
 of papers, and grubbing away at teaching himself to read 
 and write ; without getting on a bit, as it seems to me. He 
 is a most extraordinary old chap, sir. I don't know but what 
 it might be worth a fellow's while to look him up a bit." 
 
 "You don't mean ?" Mr. Jobling begins. 
 
 "I mean," returns Mr. Guppy, shrugging his shoulders 
 with becoming modesty, "that / can't make him out. I 
 appeal to our mutual friend Small weed whether he has or 
 has not heard me remark, that I can't make him out." 
 
 Mr. Small weed bears the concise testimony, " A few ! " 
 
 " I have seen something of the profession, and something of 
 life, Tony," says Mr. Guppy, "and it's seldom I can't make 
 a man out, more or less. But such an old card as this ; so 
 deep, so sly, and secret (though I don't believe he is ever 
 sober), I never came across. Now, he must be precious old, you 
 know, and he has not a soul about him, and he is reported 
 to be immensely rich ; and whether he is a smuggler, or a 
 receiver, or an unlicensed pawnbroker, or a money-lender — 
 all of which I have thought likely at different times — it 
 might pay you to knock up a sort of knowledge of him. I 
 don't see why you shouldn't go in for it, when everything 
 else suits." 
 
 Mr. Jobling, Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Smallweed, all lean their 
 
MR. GUPPY A TRUE FRIEND. 341 
 
 elbows on the table, and their chins upon their hands, and 
 look at the ceiling. After a time, they all drink, slowly 
 lean back, put their hands in their pockets, and look at one 
 another. 
 
 " If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony ! says Mr. 
 Guppy, with a sigh. "But there are chords in the human 
 mind '''' 
 
 Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum- 
 and- water, Mr. 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,""' will be at his disposal. " For never 
 shall it be said," Mr. Guppy adds with emphasis, "that 
 William Guppy turned his back upon his friend ! 
 
 The latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose, 
 that Mr. Jobling says with emotion, " Guppy, my trump, 
 your fist!'' Mr. Guppy presents it, saying, "Jobling, my 
 boy, there it is ! Mr. Jobling returns, " Guppy, we have 
 been pals now for some years ! Mr. Guppy repHes, " Jobling, 
 we have.'' 
 
 They then shake hands, and Mr. Jobling adds in a feeling 
 manner, "Thank you, Guppy, I don't know but what I will 
 take another glass for old acquaintance sake." 
 
 "Krook's last lodger died there," observes Mr. Guppy, in 
 an incidental way. 
 
 " Did he though ! " says Mr. Jobling. 
 
 "There was a verdict. Accidental death. You don't 
 mind that?" 
 
 "No," says Mr. 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 my place ! " Mr. Jobling quite resents 
 this liberty; several times returning. to it with such remarks 
 as, " There are places enough to die in, I should think ! " 
 or, " He wouldn't have liked my dying at his place, I dare 
 say ! " 
 
 However, the compact being virtually made, Mr. Guppy 
 
342 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE 
 
 proposes to despatch 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 Guppy manner. He soon returns with 
 the intelligence that Mr. Krook is at home, and that he has 
 seen him through the shop-door, sitting in the back premises, 
 sleeping, " like one o'clock.'** 
 
 "Then Fll pay,'' says Mr. Guppy, "and we'll go and see 
 him. Small, what will it be ? " 
 
 Mr. Smallweed, compelling the attendance of the waitress 
 with one hitch of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows : 
 " Four 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 five, and 
 three Cheshires is five and three, and four half-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 eighteenpence out ! " 
 
 Not at all excited by these stupendous calculations, Small- 
 weed 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. 
 
SLEEPING LIKE ONE O^CLOCK. 
 
 343 
 
 " Hold up here ! " says Mr. Guppy, giving the relaxed 
 figure of the old man another shake. " Mr. 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 pur- 
 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." 
 
 The old man still sits, often smacking his dry lips without 
 the least consciousness. 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 
 discomfiture. "How do you do, sir? You are looking 
 charming, Mr. Krook. I hope you are pretty well ? " 
 
 The old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at Mr. Guppy, 
 or at nothing, feebly swings himself round, and comes with 
 his face against the wall. So he remains for a minute or 
 two, heaped up against it ; and then staggers down 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. 
 
344 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " Your servant, gentlemen ; I've been dozing. Hi ! I am 
 hard to wake, odd times."*' 
 
 "Rather so, indeed, sir,*" responds Mr. Guppy. 
 
 " What ? You've been a- trying to do it, have you ? " says 
 the suspicious Krook. 
 
 " Only a little," Mr. Guppy explains. 
 
 The old man's eye resting on the empty bottle, he takes 
 it up, examines it, and slowly tilts it upside down. 
 
 " I say ! " he cries, like the Hobgoblin in the story. 
 " Somebody's been making free here ! " 
 
 " I assure you we found it so," says Mr. Guppy. " Would 
 you allow me to get it filled for you ? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly I would ! " cries Krook, in high glee. " Cer- 
 tainly I would ! Don't mention it ! Get it filled 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 filled. 
 The old man receives it in his arms like a beloved grand- 
 child, 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. Wee vie, 
 and states the object of their visit. Krook 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 
 whitewashed. Been cleaned down with soft soap and soda. 
 
MR. KROOK^S LODGER TAKES POSSESSION. 345 
 
 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 Eord Chancellor cannot 
 be hard on Mr. Guppy, associated as he is with Kenge and 
 Carboy, Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and other famous claims on 
 his professional <^onsideration — and it is agreed that Mr. 
 Weevle shall take possession on the morrow. Mr. Weevle 
 and Mr. Guppy then repair to Cook's Court, 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 ; where the 
 two eyes in the shutters stare at him in his sleep, as if they 
 were full of wonder. On the following day Mr. Weevle, who 
 J_s a handy good-for-nothing kind of young fellow, borrows a 
 needle and thread of Miss Elite, and a hammer of his land- 
 lord, 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 impressions from that truly 
 
346 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 national work. The Divinities of Albion, or Galuxy 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, un- 
 worthily confined 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 balustrade, the result 
 is very imposing. 
 
 But, fashion is Mr. Weevle's, as it was Tony Jobling's 
 weakness. To borrow yesterday's paper from the SoPs 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 in- 
 formed 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 man- 
 kind. Mr. Weevle reverts from this intelligence, to the Galaxy 
 portraits implicated ; and seems to know the originals, and t 
 be known of them. 
 
 For the rest he is a quiet lodger, full of handy shifts an 
 devices as before mentioned, able to cook and clean for him 
 self as well as to carpenter, and developing social inclin 
 tions after the shades of evening have fallen on the cou 
 At those times, when he is not visited by Mr. Guppy, or b 
 a small light in his likeness quenched in a dark hat, he com 
 out of his dull room — where he has inherited the deal wilder 
 ness of desk bespattered with a rain of ink — and talks to Krook 
 or is " very free," as they call it in the court, commendingly 
 
IDEAL WHISKERS. 
 
 347 
 
 with any one disposed for conversation. Wherefore, Mrs, 
 Piper, who leads the court, is impelled to offer two remarks 
 to Mrs. Perkins: Firstly, that if her Johnny was to have 
 whiskers, she could wish ''em to be identically like that 
 young man'^s ; and secondly, Mark my words, Mrs. Perkins, 
 ma'am, and don't you be surprised Lord bless you, if that 
 young man comes in at last for old Krook's money ! 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE SMALLWEED FAMILY, 
 
 In a rather ill-favoured and ill-savoured 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 contingencies 
 have no claim. He dwells in a little narrow street, always 
 solitary, 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 flavour is about as fresh and natural as the 
 Smallweed smack of youth. 
 
 There has been only one child in the Smallweed family for 
 several generations. Little old men and women there have 
 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 observation, 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 four rules of arithmetic, and a 
 certain small collection of the hardest facts. In respect of 
 
ILL WEEDS DONT ALWAYS GROW APACE. 349 
 
 ideality, reverence, wonder, and other such phrenological 
 attributes, it is no worse off* than it used to be. Everything 
 that Mr. Smallweed's grandfather ever put away in his mind 
 was a grub at 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 neighbour- 
 hood of Mount Pleasant, was a horny-skinned, two-legged, 
 money-getting species of spider, who spun webs to catch un- 
 wary 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 heavy 
 loss in an honest little enterprise in which all the loss was 
 intended to have been on the other side, he broke something 
 — something necessary to his existence ; therefore it couldn'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, 
 me was frequently quoted as an example of the failure of 
 education. 
 
 His spirit shone through his son, to whom he had always 
 preached of " going out '' early in life, and whom he made a 
 clerk in a 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, fairy tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all 
 levities whatsoever. Hence the gratifying fact, that it has 
 
350 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 parlour certain feet 
 below the level of the street — a grim, hard, uncouth parlour, 
 only ornamented with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and 
 the hardest of sheet-iron tea-trays, and offering in its deco- 
 rative character no bad allegorical representation of Grand- 
 father Smallweed's mind — seated in two black horse-hair 
 porter''s chairs, one on each side of the fireplace, the super- 
 annuated Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed while away the rosy hours. 
 On the stove are a couple of trivets for the pots and kettles 
 which it is Grandfather Small weed's usual occupation to 
 watch, and projecting from the chimney-piece between them 
 is a sort of brass gallows for roasting, which he also super- 
 intends when it is in action. Under the venerable Mr. Small- 
 weed'^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 pro- 
 vided, in order that he may have something to throw at the 
 venerable partner of his respected age whenever she makes 
 an allusion to money — a subject on which he is particularly 
 sensitive. 
 
 "And where'^s Bart.^" Grandfather Smallweed inquires of 
 Judy, Barfs twin-sister. 
 
 " He ain'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, 
 
OF THE 
 UNIVERSIiy of 
 
MR. AND MRS. SMALLWEED. 
 
 351 
 
 connects them with money, and screeches, like a horrible old 
 parrot without any plumage, " Ten ten-pound notes ! 
 
 Grandfather Small weed 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 unbecoming state of cap, but 
 the necessary exertion recoils on Mr. Smallweed himself, 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 Mr. Smallweed the younger, 
 that the two kneaded into one would hardly make a young 
 person of average proportions ; while she so happily exempli- 
 fies 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 Avith 
 them. She seemed like an animal of another species, and 
 
BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 probabiHties are strong 
 the other way. Of anything like a youthful laugh, she 
 certainly can have no conception. If she were to try one, 
 she would 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-brother couldn't wind up a top for his life. 
 He knows no more of Jack the Giant Killer, or of Sinbad 
 the Sailor, than he knows of the people in the stars. He 
 could as soon play at leap-frog, or at cricket, as change into 
 a cricket or a frog himself. But, he is so much the better 
 off than his sister, that on his narrow world of fact an open- 
 ing has dawned, into such broader regions as lie within the 
 ken of Mr. 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 arranges 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. Grand- 
 father 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 water, over the 
 water to Charley, Charley over the water, over the water to 
 Charley ! and becomes quite energetic about it. Grandfather 
 looks at the cushion, but has not sufficiently recovered his 
 late exertion. 
 
 " Ha ! he says, when there is silence — " if that's her name. 
 She eats a deal. It would be better to allow her for her 
 keep." 
 
GRANDFATHER SMALLWEED^S ADVICE. 353 
 
 Judy, with her 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. 
 
 "Sure?" 
 
 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 into 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 up-stairs 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. For 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. 
 
 VOL, I. 2 A 
 
354 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 His grandson, without receiving this good counsel as duti- 
 fully as he might, honours it with all such acceptance as may 
 lie in a slight wink and a nod, and takes a chair at the tea- 
 table. The four old faces then hover over teacups, like a 
 company of ghastly cherubim ; Mrs. Smallweed perpetually 
 twitching her head and chattering at the trivets, and Mr. 
 Smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up like a large 
 black draught. 
 
 "Yes, yes,"' says the good old gentleman, reverting to his 
 lesson of wisdom. " Thafs such advice as your father would 
 have given you, Bart. You never saw your father. More's 
 the pity. He was my true son."*' Whether it is intended to 
 be conveyed that he was particularly pleasant to look 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 visiting 
 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, because he 
 mutters violent imprecations against Mrs. Smallweed ; and 
 thirdly, because the contrast between those powerful expres- 
 sions and his powerless figure is suggestive of a baleful old 
 malignant, who would be very wicked if he could. All this, 
 however, is so common in the Smallweed family circle, 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. 
 
A MIXED DISCOURSE. 
 
 355 
 
 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 discourse ; and 
 even then he mixes it up with several edifying expletives 
 addressed to the unconscious partner of his bosom, who holds 
 communication with nothing on earth but the trivets. As 
 thus : 
 
 "If your father, Bart, had lived longer, he might have 
 been worth a deal of money — you brimstone chatterer ! — but 
 just as he was beginning to build up the house that he had 
 been making the foundations for, through many a year — yon 
 jade of a magpie, jackdaw, and poll-parrot, 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 should like 
 to throw a cat at you instead of a cushion, and I will too if 
 you make such a confounded 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 
 collect in a basin various tributary streams of tea, from the 
 bottoms of cups and saucers and from the bottom of the tea- 
 pot, for the little charwoman''s evening meal. In like manner 
 she gets together, in the iron bread-basket, as many outside 
 fragments and worn-down heels of loaves as the rigid economy 
 of the house has left in existence. 
 
 "But, your father and me were partners, Bart,*" says the 
 old gentleman; "and when I am gone, you and Judy will 
 have all there is. It's rare for you both, that you went out 
 early in life — Judy to the flower business, and you to the 
 law. You won't want to spend it. You'll get your living 
 without it, and put more to it. When I am gone, Judy will 
 go back to the flower business, and you'll still stick to the 
 law." 
 
356 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 perhaps detect both 
 in her eye and her brother's, when their venerable grandsire 
 anticipates his being gone, some little impatience to know 
 when he may be going, and some resentful opinion that it is 
 time he went. 
 
 ''Now, if everybody has done,'' says Judy, completing her 
 preparations, "Til 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 ruin of bread- 
 and-butter. In the active superintendence of this young 
 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 without 
 pretence, whether 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 Druidical 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 chew when you open it ! " cries 
 Judy. 
 
MR. GEORGE. 
 
 357 
 
 The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose, 
 Miss Small weed takes that opportunity of jumbling the re- 
 mainder of the bread-and-butter together, and launching two 
 or three dirty teacups 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 fire, eh ? Well ! Perhaps you do right to get used to one.'"* 
 Mr. George makes the latter remark to himself, as he nods to 
 Grandfather Smallweed. 
 
 " Ho ! It's you ! " cries the old gentleman. " How de do ? 
 How de do?" 
 
 " Middling," replies Mr. George, taking a chair. " Your 
 grand-daughter I have had the honour of seeing before; my 
 service to you, miss." 
 
 "This is my grandson," says Grandfather Smallweed. 
 " You haVt seen him before. He is in the law, and not 
 much at home." 
 
 " My service to him, too ! He is like his sister. He is 
 very like his sister. He is devilish like his sister," says Mr. 
 George, laying a great and not altogether complimentary 
 stress on his last adjective. 
 
 " And how does the world use you, Mr. George ? " Grand- 
 father Smallweed inquires, slowly rubbing his legs. 
 
 " Pretty much as usual. Like a football." 
 
 He is a swarthy brown man of fifty ; well-made, and good- 
 looking ; with crisp dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest. 
 His 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, allowing space for some dress or accoutre- 
 ments that he has altogether laid aside. His step too is 
 measured and heavy, and would go well with a weighty clash 
 
358 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 
 effect. Altogether, one might guess Mr. George to have been 
 a trooper once upon a time. 
 
 A special contrast Mr. George makes to the Smallweed 
 family. Trooper was never yet billeted upon a household 
 more unlike him. It is a broadsword to an oyster-knife. 
 His developed figure, and their stunted 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 parlour, 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 ! repeats Mr. George, folding his arms 
 upon his chest, and seeming to become two sizes larger. 
 "Not much of that, I should think.*"' 
 
 " Truly Fm old, Mr. George,'' says Grandfather Smallweed. 
 "But I can carry my years. I'm older than A^r," 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 hair 
 all in a muddle. Hold up, ma'am. That's better. There 
 we are! Think of your mother, Mr. Smallweed," says Mr. 
 George, coming back to his seat from assisting her, " if your 
 wife an't enough." 
 
A LITTLE BUSINESS TRANSACTION. 359 
 
 "I suppose you were an excellent son, Mr. George?'' the 
 old man hints, with a leer. 
 
 The colour of Mr. George's face rather deepens, as he 
 replies : " Why no. I wasn't." 
 
 " I am astonished at it." 
 
 " So am I. I ought to have been a good son, and I think 
 I meant to have been one. But I wasn't. I was a thunder- 
 ing 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 parlour, 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 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 
 
360 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 betw^een your two states,'^ 
 says the visitor, in a key too low for the old man's dull 
 hearing, as he looks from him to the old woman and back 
 again. " I say ! " in a louder voice. 
 
 " I hear you." 
 
 " You'll sell me up at last, I suppose, when I am a day in 
 arrear." 
 
 " My dear friend ! " cries Grandfather 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 — he might ! " 
 
 " O ! you can't answer for him ? " says Mr. George ; finish- 
 ing the inquiry, in his low er key, with the words " you lying 
 old rascal ! " 
 
 " My dear friend, he is not to be depended on. I wouldn't 
 trust him. He will have his bond, my dear friend." 
 
 "Devil doubt him," says Mr. George. Charley appearing 
 with a tray, on which are the pipe, a small 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. 
 
A GOOD SHAKING. 
 
 361 
 
 The trooper (if trooper he be or have been) takes her 
 bonnet off, with a light touch for so strong a hand, and pats 
 her on the head. " You give the house almost a wholesome 
 look. It wants a bit of youth as much as it wants fresh air."' 
 Then he dismisses her, lights his pipe, and drinks to Mr. 
 Smallweed's friend in the city — the one solitary flight of that 
 esteemed old gentleman'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 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 brim- 
 stone scorpion ! You're a sweltering toad. You're a chatter- 
 ing 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 grave. 
 Resisting the temptation, but agitating him violently enough 
 to make his head roll like a harlequin's, he puts him smartly 
 down in his chair again, and adjusts his skull-cap with such 
 a rub, that the old man winks with both eyes for a minute 
 afterwards. 
 
 "O Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed. "That'll do. Thank 
 
362 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 you, my dear friend, that'll do. O dear me, Fm out of 
 breath. O Lord ! And Mr. Small weed 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 D, comrade, and youVe about right re- 
 specting the bond.*"" 
 
 " Did you speak, Mr. George ? '''' inquires 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. Mean- 
 while he looks at Mr. Smallweed with grave attention, and 
 now and then fans the cloud of smoke away, in order that he 
 may see him the more clearly. 
 
 "I take it,*" he says, making just as much and as little 
 change in his position as will enable him to reach the glass to 
 his lips, with a round, full action, " that I am the only man 
 alive (or dead either), that gets the value of a pipe out of 
 
 " 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 great thing. 
 It was a fancy to get it out of you. To have something in 
 for my money." 
 
 " Ha ! You're prudent, prudent, sir ! " cries Grandfather 
 Smallweed, rubbing his legs. 
 
 "Very. I always was." Puff. "It's a sure sign of my 
 prudence, that I ever found the way here." Puff. "Also, 
 that I am what I am." Puff. "I am well known to be 
 prudent," says Mr. George, composedly smoking. " I rose in 
 life, that way." 
 
ABOUT CAPTAIN HAWDON. 
 
 363 
 
 "Don't be down-hearted, sir. You may rise yeV 
 Mr. George laughs and drinks. 
 
 "HaVt you no relations, now,'' asks Grandfather Small- 
 weed, with a twinkle in his eyes, "who would pay off this 
 little principal, or who would lend you a good name or two 
 that I could persuade my friend in the city to make you a 
 further advance upon ? Two good names would be sufficient 
 for my friend in the city. HaVt 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 may be a very good sort of 
 penitence in a vagabond, who has wasted the best time of 
 his life, to go back then to decent people that he never was 
 a credit to, and live upon them ; but it's not my sort. The 
 best kind of amends theuj for having gone away, is to keep 
 away, in my opinion." 
 
 "But natural affection, Mr. George," hints Grandfather 
 Smallweed. 
 
 " For two good names, hey ? " says Mr. 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 first 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 
 
364 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 to give me a lift with my little pittance — if, at that time, 
 you could have helped us, Mr. George, it would 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 has 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, why ? " 
 says Grandfather Smallweed, with a plain appearance of 
 exasperation. (Brimstone apparently suggested by his eye 
 lighting on Mrs. Smallweed in her slumber.) 
 
 "For two reasons, comrade." 
 
 "And what two reasons, Mr. George.'^ In the name of 
 the " 
 
 " Of our friend in the city ? " suggests Mr. George, com- 
 posedly drinking. 
 
 " Ay, if you like. What two reasons ? " 
 
 " In the first place," returns Mr. George ; but still looking 
 at Judy, as if, she being so old and so like her grand- 
 father, 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 us in. He owed us immense sums, all round. I 
 would sooner have strangled him than had no return. If I 
 sit here thinking of him," snarls the old man, holding up his 
 impotent ten fingers, "I want to strangle him now." And 
 
THE CAPTAIN^S FRIENDS AND ENEMIES. 365 
 
 in a sudden access of fury, he throws the cushion at the 
 unoffending Mrs. Smallweed, but it passes harmlessly on one 
 side of her chair. 
 
 "I don't need to be told,'''' returns the trooper, taking his 
 pipe from his hps 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 
 was charging upon ruin full-gallop. I was with him, when 
 he was sick and well, rich and poor. I laid this hand upon 
 him, after he had run through everything and broken down 
 everything beneath him — when he held a pistol to his 
 head." 
 
 "I wish he had let it off!'''* says the benevolent old 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. He was 
 there." 
 
 " How do you know he was there ? " 
 " He wasn't here." 
 
 "How do you know he wasn't here?'^ 
 
 " Don't lose your temper as well as your money," says 
 Mr. George, calmly knocking the ashes out of his pipe. 
 "He was drowned long before. I am convinced of it. He 
 went over a ship's side. Whether intentionally or accidentally, 
 I don't know. Perhaps your friend in the city does. — Do 
 you know what that tune is, Mr. Smallweed 'i " he adds, after 
 breaking off to whistle one, accompanied on the table with 
 the empty pipe. 
 
366 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " Tune ! replies the old man. " No. We never have 
 tunes here.^'' 
 
 "That's the Dead March in Saul. They bury soldiers 
 to it; so iVs 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 parlour, 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'll 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 
 while away the rosy hours, two unrelieved sentinels forgotten 
 as aforesaid by the Black Serjeant. 
 
 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 by 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; dis- 
 approves 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 
 
GEORGE'S SHOOTING GALLERY. 367 
 
 cart and condescends to bless the united lovers by hovering 
 over them with the Union-Jack, his eye-lashes are moistened 
 with emotion. 
 
 The theatre 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, floors, 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 gas-lights (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 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 him 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 all 
 crushed together, who appears, from a certain blue and 
 speckled appearance that one of his cheeks presents, to have 
 been blown up, in the w^ay of business, at some odd time 
 or times. 
 
 " Phil ! " says the trooper, in a quiet voice. 
 
 " All right ! " cries Phil, scrambling to his feet. 
 
368 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Anything been doing?'" 
 
 "Flat as ever so much swipes,"** says Phil. "Five dozen 
 rifle and a dozen pistol. As to aim ! Phil gives a howl at 
 the recollection. 
 
 " Shut up shop, Phil ! 
 
 As Phil moves about to execute this 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 w^ant 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 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 w^alls, conventionally called "PhiPs mark.**' 
 
 This custodian of George's Gallery in George's absence con- 
 cludes his proceedings, when he has locked the great doors, 
 and turned 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 yoii^ from the 
 beginning." 
 
 "As nat'ral as possible," says Phil. 
 
 " Good night ! " 
 
 " Good night, guv'ner." 
 
RETIRING TO REST. 
 
 369 
 
 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. 
 
 VOL. T, 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 MR. BUCKET. 
 
 Allegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln's Inn Fields, though 
 the evening is hot; for, both Mr. Tulkinghorn'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 everywhere. 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 Mr. Tulkinghorn, one of its trustiest 
 representatives — may scatter, on occasion, in the eyes of the 
 laity. 
 
 In his lowering magazine of dust, the universal 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, 
 
MR. TULKINGHORN AND MR. SNAGSBY. 371 
 
 which is 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 coffee-house, 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 were, in secrecy; pondering, at that twilight hour, on all 
 the mysteries he knows, associated with darkening woods in 
 the country, 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 every 
 one — and that one bachelor friend of his, a man of the 
 same mould and a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of life 
 until he was seventy-five years old, and then, suddenly con- 
 ceiving (as it is supposed) an impression that it w^as 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 way 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 
 
372 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a 
 liberty, sir; but I remember that you had taken a sort of 
 an interest in that person, and I thought it possible that 
 you might — ^just — wish — to 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any con- 
 clusion, or to admit anything as to any possibility concerning 
 himself. So Mr. Snagsby trails off* into saying, with an 
 awkward cough, "I must ask you to excuse the Hberty, 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 
 ig — not to put too fine a point upon it — inquisitive. She's' 
 inquisitive. Poor little thing, she'^s liable to spasms, and it's 
 good for her to have her mind employed. In consequence 
 of which she employs it — I should say upon every individual 
 thing she can lay hold of, whether it concerns her or not — 
 especially not. My little woman has a very active mind, sir.'' 
 
 Mr. Snagsby drinks, and murmurs with an admiring cough 
 behind his hand, " Dear me, very fine wine indeed ! " 
 
 Therefore you kept your visit to yourself, last night?" 
 says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "And to-night, too?'' 
 
 " Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present 
 in — not to put too fine a point on it — in a pious state, or in 
 what she considers such, and attends the Evening Exertions 
 (which is the name they go by) of a reverend party of the 
 name of Chadband. He has a great deal of eloquence at his 
 command, undoubtedly, but I am not quite favourable to his 
 style myself. That's neither here nor there. My little woman 
 being engaged in that way, made it easier for me to step 
 round in a quiet manner." 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. " Fill your glass, Snagsby." 
 
 "Thank you, sir, I am sure," returns the stationer, with 
 
ONLY MR. BUCKET. 
 
 37S 
 
 his cough of deference. "This is wonderfully fine wine, 
 sir ! " 
 
 "It is a rare wine now,'' says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It is 
 fifty years old.'' 
 
 " Is it indeed, sir ? But I am not surprised to hear it, I 
 am sure. It might be— any age ahnost."" After rendering 
 this general tribute to the port, Mr. Snagsby in his modesty 
 coughs an apology behind his hand for drinking anything so 
 precious. 
 
 "Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" 
 asks Mr. Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets 
 of his rusty small-clothes and leaning quietly back in his 
 chair. 
 
 " With pleasure, sir.'' 
 
 Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law- 
 stationer repeats Jo'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 his 
 ghostly manner of appearing. 
 
 "Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, in 
 his quiet way. " This is only Mr. Bucket." 
 
 "O indeed, sir.^" returns the stationer, expressing by a 
 
374 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 things. What do you 
 say to this, Bucket ? 
 
 "It's very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this 
 boy on, and he's not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. 
 Snagsby don't object to go down with me to Tom-all- Alone's 
 and point him out, we can have him here in less than a 
 couple of hours' time. I can do it without Mr. Snagsby, of 
 course ; but this is the shortest way." 
 
 "Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby," says the 
 lawyer in explanation. 
 
 " Is he, indeed, sir ? " says Mr. Snagsby, with a strong 
 tendency in his clump of hair to stand on end. 
 
 " And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. 
 Bucket to the place in question," pursues the lawyer, " I shall 
 feel obliged to you if you will 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'll be paid for his trouble, and 
 sent away again. It'll 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 cheer- 
 fully, and reassured, "since that's the case " 
 
 "Yesj 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." 
 
THE MATTER TO BE KEPT QUIET. 375 
 
 ^'I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good 
 opinion,'^ returns the stationer, with his cough of modesty, 
 "but 
 
 " That's what you are, you know," says Bucket. " Now, it 
 an'^t necessary to say to a man Hke 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 your business once) 
 — it an't necessary to say to a man like you, that it's the 
 best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet. 
 Don't you see ? Quiet ! 
 
 " Certainly, certainly,'" returns the other. 
 
 "I don't mind telling ^/ow," 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 chest 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 uncle used to call it." 
 
 " Why, I generally say customer myself," replies Mr. Snagsby. 
 
 " You're right ! " returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with 
 him quite 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.?" 
 
376 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " You are right, sir. You are right,'' says Mr. Snagsby. 
 
 "Then here's your hat," retunis 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 his unfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go 
 down into the streets. 
 
 "You don't happen to know a very good sort of person 
 of the name of Gridley, do you.?" says Bucket, in friendly 
 converse as they descend the stairs. 
 
 " No," says Mr. Snagsby, considering, " I don't know any- 
 body of that name. Why ? " 
 
 " Nothing particular," says Bucket ; " only, having allowed 
 his temper to get a little the better of him, and having 
 been threatening some respectable people, he is keeping out 
 of the way of a warrant I have got against him — which it's 
 a pity that a man of sense should do." 
 
 As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes, as a novelty, 
 that, however quick their pace may be, his companion still 
 seems in some undefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, 
 that whenever 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 deep 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 curl on each side of his head, almost 
 without glancing at him touches him with his stick; upon 
 which the young man, looking round, instantly evaporates. 
 For 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. 
 
INQUIRY MADE FOR JO. 
 
 377 
 
 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 bulPs-eye at his waist. Between 
 his two conductors, Mr. Snagsby passes along the middle of 
 a villainous street, undrained, unventilated, deep in black 
 mud and corrupt water — though the roads are dry elsewhere 
 — and reeking with such 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 were going, every moment 
 deeper down, into the infernal gulf. 
 
 "Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby,'' says Bucket, as a 
 kind of shabby palanquin is borne towards them, surrounded 
 by a noisy crowd. " Here's the fever coming up the street ! " 
 
 As the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that 
 object of attraction, hovers round the three visitors, like a 
 dream of horrible 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 turns his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins. 
 
 Darby replies that "all them are," and further that in all, 
 for months and months, the people " have been down by 
 dozens," and have been carried out, dead and dying " like 
 sheep with the rot." Bucket observing to Mr. Snagsby as 
 they go on again, that he looks a little 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 
 
378 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 
 bull'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 the 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 apartment — leads to the establishment of this con- 
 clusion. Toughy has gone to the Doctor's to get a bottle 
 of stuff* for a sick woman, but will be here anon. 
 
 ''And who have we got here to-night ?"*' says Mr. Bucket, 
 opening another door and glaring in with his bulPs-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 down with us 
 at present, but we have done no good by coming here, and 
 shall do none, I expect." 
 
 " That's not the way to do much good," says Mr. Bucket^ 
 
A MOTHER^S LOVK 
 
 37^ 
 
 turning his head in the direction of the unconscious figures 
 on the ground. 
 
 "It an't indeed,**^ rephes the woman with 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 
 offensive to every sense; even the gross candle burns pale 
 and sickly in the polluted air. There are a couple of benches, 
 and a higher bench by way of table. The men lie asleep 
 where they stumbled 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 born yesterday.'*' He is not 
 at all rough about it; and as he turns his light gently on 
 the infant, Mr. Snagsby is strangely reminded of another 
 infant, encircled with light, that he has seen in pictures. 
 
 "He is not three weeks old yet, sir,"'' says the woman. 
 
 " Is he )' our child ? 
 
 " Mine.'' 
 
 The other woman, who was bending over it when they 
 came in, stoops down again, and kisses it as it lies asleep. 
 
 " You seem as fond of it as if you were the mother your- 
 self," says Mr. Bucket. 
 
 "I was the mother of one like it, master, and it died.'' 
 
 " Ah, Jenny, Jenny ! " says the other woman to her ; " better 
 so. Much better to think of dead than alive, Jenny ! Much 
 better ! " 
 
 " Why, you an't such an unnatural woman, I hope," returns 
 Bucket, sternly, " as to wish your own child dead ? " 
 
 "God knows you are right, master," she returns. "I am 
 not. I'd stand between it and death, with my own life if 
 I could, as true as any pretty lady." 
 
 " Then don't talk in that wrong manner," says Mr. Bucket, 
 mollified again. "Why do you do it?''' 
 
380 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "It''s brought into my head, niasteiV' returns the woman, 
 her eyes filling with tears, " when I look down at the child 
 lying so. If it was never to wake no more, you'd think me 
 mad, I should take on so. I know that very well. I was 
 with Jenny when she lost hers — warn't I, Jenny ? — and I 
 know how she grieved. But look around you, at this place. 
 Look at them ; "' glancing at the sleepers on the ground. 
 "Look at the boy you're waiting for, who's gone out to do 
 me a good turn. Think of the children that your business 
 lays with often and often, and that you see grow up !" 
 
 "Well, well," says Mr. Bucket, "you train him respect- 
 able, and he'll be a comfort to you^ and look after you in 
 your old age, you know." 
 
 "I mean to try hard," she answers, wiping her eyes. "But 
 I have been a-thinking, being over- tired to-night, and not 
 well with the ague, of all the many things that'll come in his 
 way. My master will be against it, and he'll be beat, and 
 see me beat, and made to fear his home, and perhaps to stray 
 wild. If I work for him ever so much, and ever so hard, 
 there's no one to help me ; and if he should be turned bad, 
 'spite of all I could do, and the time should come when I 
 should sit by him in his sleep, made hard and changed, an't 
 it likely I should think of him as he lies in my lap now, and 
 wish he had died as Jenny's child dierl ! " 
 
 " There, there ! " says Jenny. " Liz, you're tired and ill. 
 Let me take him." 
 
 In doing so, she displaces the mother's dress, but quickly 
 readjusts it over the wounded and bruised bosom where the 
 baby has been lying. 
 
 " It's my dead child," says Jenny, walking up and down as 
 she nurses, "that makes me love this child so dear, and it's 
 my dead child that makes her love it so dear too, as even 
 to think of its being taken away from her now. While she 
 thinks that, / think what fortune would I give to have my 
 darling back. But we mean the same thing, if we knew how 
 to say it, us two mothers does in our poor hearts ! " 
 
ONLY A JOB FOR JO. 
 
 381 
 
 As Mr. Snagsby blows his nose, and coughs his cough of 
 sympathy, a step is heard without. Mr. Bucket throws his 
 hght into the doorway, and says to Mr. Snagsby, "Now, 
 what do you say to Toughy ? Will he do ^ ''^ 
 
 " That's Jo,'' says Mr. Snagsby. 
 
 Jo stands amazed in the disc of light, like a ragged figure 
 in a magic-lanthorn, trembling to think that he has offended 
 against the law in not having moved on far enough. Mr. 
 Snagsby, however, giving him the consolatory assurance, " It's 
 only a job you will be paid for, Jo," he recovers; and, on 
 being taken outside by Mr. Bucket for a little private con- 
 fabulation, tells his tale satisfactorily, though out of breath. 
 
 " I have squared it with the lad," says Mr. Bucket, return- 
 ing, "and it's all right. Now, Mr. Snagsby* we're ready for 
 you.; 
 
 First, Jo has to complete his errand of good-nature by 
 handing over the physic he has been to get, which he delivers 
 with the laconic verbal direction that "it's to be all took 
 d'rectly." Secondly, Mr. Snagsby has to lay upon the table 
 half-a-crown, his usual panacea for an immense variety of 
 afflictions. Thirdly, Mr. Bucket has to take Jo by the arm 
 a little above the elbow and walk him on before him : without 
 which observance, neither the Tough Subject nor any other 
 Subject could be professionally conducted to Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields. These arrangements completed, they give the w^omen 
 good night, and come out once more into black and foul 
 Tom-all- Alone's. 
 
 By the noisome ways through which they descended into 
 that pit, they gradually emerge from it ; the crowd flitting, 
 and whistling, and skulking about them, until they come to 
 the verge, where restoration of the bull's-eyes is made to 
 Darby. Here, the crowd, like a concourse of imprisoned 
 demons, turns back, yelling, and is seen no more. Through 
 the clearer and fresher streets, never so clear and fresh to Mr. 
 Snagsby's mind as now, they walk and ride, until they come 
 to Mr. Tulkinghorn's gate. 
 
382 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 As they ascend the dim stairs (Mr. Tulkinghom's chambers 
 being on the first floor), Mr. Bucket mentions that he has 
 the key of the outer door in his pocket, and that there is no 
 need to ring. For a man so expert in most things of that 
 kind, Bucket takes time to open the door, and makes some 
 noise too. It may be that he sounds a note of preparation. 
 
 Howbeit, they come at last into the hall, where a lamp 
 is burnings and so into Mr. Tulkinghorn's usual room — the 
 room where he drank his old wine to-night. He is not 
 there, but his two old-fashioned candlesticks are ; and the 
 room is tolerably light. 
 
 Mr. Bucket, still having his professional hold of Jo, and 
 appearing to Mr. Snagsby to possess an unlimited number of 
 eyes, makes a little way into this room, when Jo starts and 
 stops. 
 
 " What's the matter ? says Bucket in a whisper. 
 " There she is ! '"^ cries Jo. 
 "Who!'' 
 "The lady!" 
 
 A female figure, closely veiled, stands in the middle of the 
 room, where the light falls upon it. It is quite still, and 
 silent. The front of the figure is towards them, but it takes 
 no notice of their entrance, and remains like a statue. 
 
 "Now, tell me," says Bucket aloud, "how you knoAv that 
 to be the lady." 
 
 "I know the wale," replies Jo, staring, "and the bonnet, 
 and the gownd." 
 
 "Be quite sure of what you say. Tough," returns Bucket, 
 narrowly observant of him. " Look again." 
 
 " I am a-looking as hard as ever I can look," says Jo, with 
 starting eyes, " and that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the 
 gownd." 
 
 "What about those rings you told me of?" asks Bucket. 
 
 " A-sparkling all over here," says Jo, rubbing the fingers 
 of his left hand on the knuckles of his right, without taking 
 his eyes from the figure. 
 
THE VEILED FIGURE. 
 
 383 
 
 The figure removes the right-hand glove^ and shows the 
 hand. 
 
 " Now, what do you say to that ? asks Bucket. 
 
 Jo shakes his head. "Not rings a bit Hke them. Not a 
 hand like that,'" 
 
 " What are you talking of?'' says Bucket ; evidently pleased 
 though, and well pleased too. 
 
 "Hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal 
 smaller,*" returns Jo. 
 
 "Why, you'll tell me I'm my own mother next," says Mr. 
 Bucket. " Do you recollect the lady's voice ? " 
 
 "I think I does," says Jo. 
 
 The figure speaks. " Was it at all like this ? I will speak 
 as long as you like if you are not sure. Was it this voice, 
 or at all like this voice ? " 
 
 Jo looks aghast at Mr. Bucket. " Not a bit ! " 
 
 " Then, what," retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, 
 " did you say it was the lady for ? " 
 
 "Cos," says Jo, with a perplexed stare, but without being 
 at all shaken in his certainty, " Cos that there's the w^ale, the 
 bonnet, and the gownd. It is her and it an't her. It an't 
 her hand, nor yet her rings, nor yet her woice. But that 
 there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd, and they're wore 
 I the same way wot she wore 'em, and it's her height wot she 
 wos, and she giv me a sovVing and hooked it." 
 
 " Well ! " says Mr. Bucket, slightly, " we haven't got much 
 good out of you. But, however, here's five shillings for you. 
 Take care how you spend it, and don't get yourself into 
 trouble." Bucket stealthily tells the coins from one hand 
 into the other like counters — which is a way he has, his 
 principal use of them being in these games of skill — and then 
 puts them, in a little pile, into the boy's hand, and takes him 
 out to the door; leaving Mr. Snagsby, not by any means 
 comfortable under these mysterious circumstances, alone with 
 the veiled figure. But on Mr. Tulkinghorn's coming into 
 the room, the veil is raised^ and a sufficiently good-looking 
 
384 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Frenchwoman is revealed, though her expression is something 
 of the intensest. 
 
 "Thank you. Mademoiselle Hortense,**' says Mr. Tulking- 
 horn, with his usual equanimity. " I will give you no further 
 trouble about this little wager.*" 
 
 " You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am 
 not at present placed ? says Mademoiselle. 
 
 " Certainly, certainly ! 
 
 "And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished 
 recommendation ? " 
 
 " By all means, Mademoiselle Hortense.**^ 
 
 " A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful.'' — " It 
 shall not be wanting, Mademoiselle."' — " Receive the assurance 
 of my devoted gratitude, dear sir." — "Good night." Made- 
 moiselle goes out with an air of native gentility; and Mr. 
 Bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural to be 
 groom of the ceremonies as it is to be anything else, shows 
 her down-stairs, not without gallantry. 
 
 "Well, Bucket?" quoth Mr. Tulkinghorn, on his return. 
 
 " It's all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. 
 There an't a doubt that it was the other one with this one's 
 dress on. The boy was exact respecting colours and every- 
 thing. Mr. Snagsby, I promised you as a man that he 
 should be sent away all right. Don't say it wasn't done ! " 
 
 " You have kept your word, sir," returns the stationer ; 
 " and if I can be of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, 
 as my little woman will be getting anxious " 
 
 "Thank you, Snagsby, no further use," says Mr. Tulking- 
 horn. " I am quite indebted to you for the trouble you 
 have taken already." 
 
 "Not at all, sir. I Avish you good night." 
 
 "You see, Mr. Snagsby," says Mr. Bucket, accompanying 
 him to the door, and shaking hands with him over and 
 over again, " what I like in you is, that you're a man it's of 
 no use pumping; that's what you are. When you know 
 you have done a right thing, you put it away, and it's 
 
ANXIETY OF MRS. SNAGSBY. 385 
 
 done with and gone, and there's an end of it. That's what 
 you do.*" 
 
 "That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir,'' returns 
 Mr. Snagsby. 
 
 " No, you don't do yourself justice. It an't what you 
 endeavour to do," says Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him 
 and blessing him in the tenderest manner, "it's what you 
 do. That's what I estimate in a man in your way of 
 business." 
 
 Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response; and goes home- 
 ward so confused by the events of the evening, that he is 
 doubtful of his being awake and out — doubtful of the reality 
 of the streets through which he goes — doubtful of the reality 
 of the moon that shines above him. He is presently re- 
 assured on these subjects, by the unchallengeable reality of 
 Mrs. Snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfect beehive 
 of curl-papers and nightcap : who has despatched Guster to 
 the police-station with official intelligence of her husband's 
 being made away with, and who, within the last two hours, 
 has passed through every stage of swooning with the greatest 
 decorum. But, as the little woman feelingly says, many 
 thanks she gets for it ! 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
CHAPTER XXIIL 
 
 esther'^s narrative. 
 
 We came home from Mr, Boy thorn's after six pleasant 
 weeks. We were often in the park, and in the woods, and 
 seldom passed the Lodge where we had taken shelter without 
 looking in to speak to the keeper's wife ; but we saw no more 
 of Lady Dedlock, except at church on Sundays. There was 
 company at Chesney Wold ; and although several beautiful 
 faces surrounded her, her face retained the same influence 
 on me as at first. I do not quite know, even now, whether 
 it was painful or pleasurable ; whether it drew me towards 
 her, or made me shrink from her. I think I admired her 
 with a kind of fear ; and I know that in her presence my 
 thoughts always wandered back, as they had done at first, 
 to that old time of my life. 
 
 I had a fancy, on more than one of these Sundays, that 
 what this lady so curiously was to me, I was to her — I mean 
 that I disturbed her thoughts as she influenced mine, though 
 in some different way. But when I stole a glance at her, 
 and saw her so composed and distant and unapproachable, 
 I felt this to be a foolish weakness. Indeed, I felt the 
 whole state of my mind in reference to her to be weak and 
 unreasonable; and I remonstrated with myself about it as 
 much as I could. 
 
 One incident that occurred before we quitted Mr. Boy- 
 thorn's house, I had better mention in this place. 
 
MADEMOISELLE HORTENSE. 
 
 387 
 
 I was walking in the garden with Ada, when I was told 
 that some one wished to see me. Going into the breakfast- 
 room, where this person was waiting, I found it to be the 
 French maid who had cast off her shoes and walked through 
 the wet grass, on the day when it thundered and lightened. 
 
 "Mademoiselle,''' she began, looking fixedly at me with 
 her too-eager eyes, though otherwise presenting an agreeable 
 appearance, and speaking neither with boldness nor servility, 
 " I have taken a great liberty in coming here, but you know 
 how to excuse it, being so amiable, mademoiselle.''^ 
 
 "No excuse is necessary ,''' I returned, "if you wish to 
 speak to me/' 
 
 "That is my desire, mademoiselle. A thousand thanks 
 for the permission. I have your leave to speak. Is it not.'^''' 
 she said, in a quick, natural way. 
 
 " Certainly,'' said I. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, you are so amiable! Listen then, if you 
 please. I have left my Lady. We could not agree. My 
 Lady is so high ; so very high. Pardon ! Mademoiselle, you 
 are right!" Her quickness anticipated what I might have 
 said presently, but as yet had only thought. " It is not for 
 me to come here to complain of my Lady. But I say she 
 is so high, so very high. I will not say a word more. Ail 
 the world knows that." 
 
 "Go on, if you please," said I. 
 
 "Assuredly; mademoiselle, I am thankful for your polite- 
 ness. Mademoiselle, I have an inexpressible desire to find 
 service with a young lady who is good, accomplished, beauti- 
 ful. You are good, accomplished, and beautiful as an angel. 
 Ah, could I have the honour of being your domestic ! " 
 
 " I am sorry " I began. 
 
 " Do not dismiss me so soon, mademoiselle ! " she said, with 
 an involuntary contraction of her fine black eyebrows. " Let 
 me hope, a moment! Mademoiselle, I know this service 
 would be more retired than that which I have quitted. 
 Well ! I wish that. I know this service would be less 
 
388 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 distinguished than that which I have quitted. Well ! I wish 
 that. I know that I should win less, as to wages here. 
 Good. I am content."'' 
 
 "I assure you,**** said I, quite embarrassed by the mere 
 idea of having such an attendant, " that I keep no maid 
 
 "Ah, mademoiselle, but why not? Why not, when you 
 can have one so devoted to you ! Who would be enchanted 
 to serve you ; who would be so true, so zealous, and so 
 faithful, every day ! Mademoiselle, I wish with all my heart 
 to serve you. Do not speak of money at present. Take 
 me as I am. For nothing!'' 
 
 She was so singularly earnest that I drew back, almost 
 afraid of her. Without appearing to notice it, in her ardour 
 she still pressed herself upon me; speaking in a rapid sub- 
 dued voice, though always with a certain grace and propriety. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, I come from the South country, where we 
 are quick, and where we like and dislike very strong. My 
 Lady was too high for me; I was too high for her. It is 
 done — past — finished ! Receive me as your domestic, and I 
 will serve you well. I will do more for you, than you figure 
 to yourself now. Chut ! mademoiselle, I will — no matter, 
 I will do my utmost possible, in all things. If you accept 
 my service, you will not repent it. Mademoiselle, you will 
 not repent it, and I Avill serve you well. You don't know 
 how well ! 
 
 There was a lowering energy in her face, as she stood 
 looking at me while I explained the impossibility of my 
 engaging her (without thinking it necessary to say how very 
 little I desired to do so), which seemed to bring visibly before 
 me some woman from the streets of Paris in the reign of 
 terror. She heard me out without interruption ; and then 
 said, with her pretty accent, and in her mildest voice : 
 
 " Hey, mademoiselle, I have received my answer ! I am 
 sorry of it. But I must go elsewhere, and seek what I have 
 not found here. Will you graciously let me kiss your 
 hand ? " 
 
SINKING INTO A CHANCERY SUITOR. S89 
 
 She looked at me more intently as she took it, and seemed 
 to take note, with her momentary touch, of every vein in it. 
 "I fear I surprised you, mademoiselle, on the day of the 
 storm '''' she said with a parting curtsey. 
 
 I confessed that she had surprised us all. 
 
 " I took an oath, mademoiselle,"'' she said, smiling, " and 
 I wanted to stamp it on my mind, so that I might keep it 
 faithfully. And I will ! Adieu, mademoiselle ! 
 
 So ended our conference, which I was very glad to bring 
 to a close. I supposed she went away from the village, 
 for I saw her no more ; and nothing else occurred to disturb 
 our tranquil summer pleasures, until six weeks were out, and 
 we returned home as I began just now by saying. 
 
 At that time, and for a good many weeks after that time, 
 Richard was constant in his visits. Besides coming every 
 Saturday or Sunday, and remaining with us until Monday 
 morning, he sometimes rode out on horseback unexpectedly, 
 and passed the evening with us, and rode back again early 
 next day. He was as vivacious as ever, and told us he was 
 very industrious ; but I was not easy in my mind about him. 
 It appeared to me that his industry was all misdirected. I 
 could not find that it led to anything but the formation of 
 delusive hopes in connexion with the suit already the 
 pernicious cause of so much sorrow and ruin. He had got 
 at the core of that mystery now, he told us ; and nothing 
 could be plainer than that the will under which he and Ada 
 were to take, I don't know how many thousands of pounds, must 
 be finally established, if there were any sense or justice in the 
 Court of Chancery — but O what a great if that sounded in 
 my ears — and that this happy conclusion could not be much 
 longer delayed. He proved this to himself by all the weary 
 arguments on that side he had read, and every one of them 
 sunk him deeper in the infatuation. He had even begun 
 to haunt the Court. He told us how he saw Miss Flite there 
 daily ; how they talked together, and how he did her little 
 kindnesses ; and how, while he laughed at her, he pitied her 
 
390 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 from his heart. But he never thought — never, my poor, dear, 
 sanguine Richard, capable of so much happiness then, and 
 with such better things before him ! — what a fatal link was 
 riveting between his fresh youth and her faded age ; between 
 his free hopes and her caged birds, and her hungry garret, and 
 her wandering mind. 
 
 Ada loved him too well to mistrust him much in anything 
 he said or did, and my guardian, though he frequently com- 
 plained of the east wind and read more than usual in the 
 Growlery, preserved a strict silence on the subject. So, I 
 thought, one day when I went to London to meet Caddy 
 Jellyby, at her solicitation, I would ask Richard to be in 
 waiting for me at the coach-office, that we might have a 
 little talk together. I found him there when I arrived, and 
 we walked away arm in arm. 
 
 " Well, Richard,'"' said I, as soon as I could begin to be 
 grave with him, " are you beginning to feel more settled 
 now ? '"^ 
 
 " O yes, my dear ! returned Richard. " Tm all right 
 enough.*^' 
 
 " But settled ? said I. 
 
 " How do you mean, settled ? returned Richard, with his 
 gay laugh. 
 
 "Settled in the law,'' said I. 
 
 " O aye," replied Richard, " Fm all right enough.'' 
 
 "You said that before, my dear Richard." 
 
 " And you don't think it's an answer, eh ? Well ! Perhaps 
 it's not. Settled ? You mean, do I feel as if I were settling 
 down?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Why, no, I can't say I am settling down," said Richard, 
 strongly emphasising " down," as if that expressed the 
 difficulty; "because one can't settle down while this business 
 remains in such an unsettled state. When I say this business, 
 of course I mean the — forbidden subject." 
 
 "Do you think it will ever be in a settled state?" said L 
 
NOT QUITE SETTLED YET. 
 
 391 
 
 *'Not the least doubt of it,"' answered Richard. 
 
 We walked a little way without speaking; and presently 
 Richard addressed me in his frankest and most feeling 
 manner, thus : 
 
 " My dear Esther, I understand you, and I wish to Heaven 
 I were a more constant sort of fellow. I don'^t mean con- 
 stant to Ada, for I love her dearly — better and better every 
 day — but constant to myself. (Somehow, I mean something 
 that I can't very well express, but you'll make it out.) If I 
 were a more constant sort of fellow, I should have held on, 
 either to Badger, or to Kenge and Carboy, like grim Death; 
 and should have begun to be steady and systematic by this 
 time, and shouldn't be in debt, and " 
 
 "Are you in debt, Richard 
 
 "Yes," said Richard, "I am a little so, my dear. Also, I 
 have taken rather too much to billiards, and that sort of 
 thing. Now the murder's out ; you despise me, Esther, don't 
 you ? " 
 
 "You know I don't," said I. 
 
 "You are kinder to me than I often am to myself," he 
 returned. "My dear Esther, I am a very unfortunate dog 
 not to be more settled, but how can I be more settled ? If 
 you lived in an unfinished house, you couldn't settle down in 
 it ; if you were condemned to leave everything you undertook, 
 unfinished, you would find it hard to apply yourself to any- 
 thing; and yet that's my unhappy case. I was born into 
 this unfinished contention with all its chances and changes, 
 and it began to unsettle me before I quite knew the differ- 
 ence between a suit at law and a suit of clothes; and it 
 has gone on unsettling me ever since ; and here I am now, 
 conscious sometimes that I am but a worthless fellow to love 
 my confiding cousin Ada." 
 
 We were in a solitary place, and he put his hands before 
 his eyes and sobbed as he said the words. 
 
 " O Richard ! " said I, " do not be so moved. You have a 
 noble nature, and Ada's love may make you worthier every day." 
 
392 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " I know, my dear,**^ he replied, pressing my arm, " I know 
 all that. You mustn'^t mind my being a little soft now, for 
 I have had all this upon my mind for a long time ; and have 
 often meant to speak to you, and have sometimes wanted 
 opportunity and sometimes courage. I know what the 
 thought of Ada onght to do for me, but it doesn'^t do it. I 
 am too unsettled even for that. I love her most devotedly ; 
 and yet I do her wrong, in doing myself wrong, every day 
 and hour. But it can't last for ever. We shall come on for 
 a final hearing, and get judgment in our favour; and then 
 you and Ada shall see what I can really be ! ''^ 
 
 It had given me a pang to hear him sob, and see the tears 
 start out between his fingers ; but that was infinitely less 
 affecting to me, than the hopeful animation with which he 
 said these words. 
 
 " I have looked well into the papers, Esther — I have been 
 deep in them for months'" — he continued, recovering his 
 cheerfulness in a moment, " and you may rely upon it that 
 we shall come out triumphant. As to years of delay, there 
 has been no want of them, Heaven knows ! and there is the 
 greater probability of our bringing the matter to a speedy 
 close ; in fact, it's on the paper now. It will be all right at 
 last, and then you shall see ! '' 
 
 Recalling how he had just now placed Messrs. Kenge and 
 Carboy in the same category with Mr. Badger, I asked him 
 when he intended to be articled in Lincoln's Inn ? 
 
 " There again ! I think not at all, Esther," he returned 
 with an effort. "I fancy I have had enough of it. Having 
 worked at Jarndyce and Jarndyce like a galley slave, I have 
 slaked my thirst for the law, and satisfied myself that I 
 shouldn't like it. Besides, I find it unsettles me more and 
 more to be so constantly upon the scene of action. So what," 
 continued Richard, confident again by this time, " do I 
 naturally turn my thoughts to?" 
 
 "I can't imagine," said I. 
 
 " Don't look so serious," returned Richaixl, " because it's 
 
PUT NOT YOUR TRUST IN CHANCERY. 393 
 
 the best thing I can do, my dear Esther, I am certain. It's 
 not as if I wanted a profession for Hfe. These proceedings 
 will come to a termination, and then I am provided for. No. 
 I look upon it as a pursuit which is in its nature more or less 
 unsettled, and therefore suited to my temporary condition — 
 I may say, precisely suited. What is it that I naturally turn 
 my thoughts to ? 
 
 I looked at him, and shook my head. 
 
 "What,'** said Richard, in a tone of perfect conviction, 
 " but the army ! 
 
 " The army ? said I. 
 
 "The army, of course. What I have to do, is, to get a 
 commission ; and — there I am, you know ! said Richard. 
 
 And then he showed me, proved by elaborate calculations 
 in his pocket-book, that supposing he had contracted, say two 
 hundred pounds of debt in six months, out of the army ; 
 and that he contracted no debt at all within a corresponding 
 period, in the army — as to which he had quite made up his 
 mind ; this step must involve a saving of four hundred 
 pounds in a year, or two thousand pounds in five years 
 — which was a considerable sum. And then he spoke so 
 ingenuously and sincerely, of the sacrifice he made in with- 
 drawing himself for a time from Ada, and of the earnestness 
 with which he aspired — as in thought he always did, I know 
 full well — to repay her love, and to ensure her happiness, and 
 to conquer what was amiss in himself, and to acquire the very 
 soul of decision, that he made my heart ache keenly, sorely. 
 For, I thought how would this end, how could this end, when 
 so soon and so surely all his manly qualities were touched by 
 the fatal blight that ruined everything it rested on ! 
 
 I spoke to Richard with all the earnestness I felt, and all 
 the hope I could not quite feel then; and implored him, for 
 Ada's sake, not to put any trust in Chancery. To all I said, 
 Richard readily assented ; riding over the Court and every- 
 thing else in his easy way, and drawing the brightest pictures 
 of the character he was to settle into — alas, when the grievous 
 
394 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 suit should loose its hold upon him ! We had a long talk, 
 but it always came back to that, in substance. 
 
 At last, we came to Soho Square, where Caddy Jellyby had 
 appointed to wait for me, as a quiet place in the neighbour- 
 hood of Newman Street. Caddy was in the garden in the 
 centre, and hurried out as soon as I appeared. After a few 
 cheerful words, Richard left us together. 
 
 " Prince has a pupil over the way, Esther,^^ said Caddy, 
 " and got the key for us. So, if you will walk round and 
 round here with me, we can lock ourselves in, and I can tell 
 you comfortably what I wanted to see your dear good face 
 about.'^ 
 
 " Very well, my dear,'' said I. " Nothing could be better.'' 
 So Caddy, after affectionately squeezing the dear good face 
 as she called it, locked the gate, and took my arm, and we 
 began to walk round the garden very cosily. 
 
 "You see, Esther," said Caddy, who thoroughly enjoyed a 
 little confidence, " after you spoke to me about its being 
 wrong to marry without Ma's knowledge, or even to keep Ma 
 long in the dark respecting our engagement — though I don't 
 believe Ma cares much for me, I must say — 1 thought it 
 I'ight to mention your opinions to Prince. In the first place, 
 because I want to profit by everything you tell me ; and in 
 the second place, because I have no secrets from Prince." 
 
 " I hope he approved, Caddy ? " 
 
 " O, my dear ! I assure you he would approve of anything 
 you could say. You have no idea what an opinion he has 
 of you ! " 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 "Esther, it's enough to make anybody but me jealous," 
 said Caddy, laughing and shaking her head ; " but it only 
 makes me joyful, for you are the first friend I ever had, and 
 the best friend I ever can have, and nobody can respect and 
 love you too much to please me." 
 
 " Upon my word, Caddy," said I, " you are in the general 
 conspiracy to keep me in a good humour. Well, my dear ? 
 
A CONFIDENTIAL TALK. 
 
 395 
 
 " Well ! I am going to tell you," replied Caddy, crossing 
 her hands confidentially upon my arm. " So we talked a 
 good deal about it, and so I said to Prince, ' Prince, as Miss 
 Summerson " 
 
 " I hope you didn't say ' Miss Summerson ' ? 
 
 " No. I didn't ! cried Caddy, greatly pleased, and with 
 the brightest of faces. " I said, ' Esther.' I said to Prince, 
 ' As Esther is decidedly of that opinion, Prince, and has ex- 
 pressed it to me, and always hints it when she writes those 
 kind notes, which you are so fond of hearing me read to you, 
 I am prepared to disclose the truth to Ma whenever you 
 think proper. And I think, Prince,' said I, ^that Esther 
 thinks that I should be in a better, and truer, and more 
 honourable position altogether, if you did the same to your 
 Papa.'" 
 
 " Yes, my dear," said I. " Esther certainly does think so." 
 
 " So I was right, you see ! " exclaimed Caddy. " Well ! 
 this troubled Prince a good deal ; not because he had the 
 least doubt about it, but because he is so considerate of the 
 feelings of old Mr. Turveydrop ; and he had his apprehen- 
 sions that old Mr. Turveydrop might break his heart, or 
 faint away, or be very much overcome in some affecting 
 manner or other, if he made such an announcement. He 
 feared old Mr. Turveydrop might consider it undutiful, and 
 might receive too great a shock. For, old Mr. Turveydrop's 
 deportment is very beautiful you know, Esther," said Caddy ; 
 " and his feelings are extremely sensitive." 
 
 " Are they, my dear ? " 
 
 " O, extremely sensitive. Prince says so. Now, this has 
 caused my darling child — I didn't mean to use the expression 
 to you, Esther," Caddy apologised, her face suffused with 
 blushes, "but I generally call Prince my darling child." 
 
 I laughed ; and Caddy laughed and blushed, and went on. 
 
 "This has caused him, Esther " 
 
 " Caused whom, my dear ? " 
 
 " O you tiresome thing ! " said Caddy, laughing, with her 
 
396 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 pretty face on fire. " My darling child, if you insist upon it ! 
 — This has caused him weeks of uneasiness, and has made 
 him delay, from day to day, in a very anxious manner. At 
 last he said to me, 'Caddy, if Miss Summerson, who is a 
 great favourite with my father, could be prevailed upon to 
 be present when I broke the subject, I think I could do it."* 
 So I promised I would ask you. And I made up my mind, 
 besides,'^ said Caddy, looking at me hopefully, but timidly, 
 "that if you consented, I w^ould ask you afterwards to come 
 with me to Ma. This is what I meant, when I said in my 
 note that I had a great favour and a great assistance to beg 
 of you. And if you thought you could grant it, Esther, we 
 should both be very grateful.'''' 
 
 "Let me see, Caddy ,^'' said I, pretending to consider. 
 "Really I think I could do a greater thing than that, if the 
 need were pressing. I am at your service and the darling 
 chi^s, my dear, whenever you like.''^ 
 
 Caddy was quite transported by this reply of mine ; being, 
 I believe, as susceptible to the least kindness or encouragement 
 as any tender heart that ever beat in this world ; and after 
 another turn or two round the garden, during which she 
 put on an entirely new pair of gloves, and made herself as 
 resplendent as possible that she might do no avoidable dis- 
 credit to the Master of Deportment, we went to Newman 
 Street direct. 
 
 Prince was teaching, of course. We found him engaged 
 with a not very hopeful pupil — a stubborn little girl with a 
 sulky forehead, a deep voice, and an inanimate dissatisfied 
 mamma — whose case was certainly not rendered more hopeful 
 by the confusion into which we threw her preceptor. The 
 lesson at last came to an end, after proceeding as discordantly 
 as possible ; and when the little girl had changed her shoes, 
 and had had her white muslin extinguished in shawls, she was 
 taken away. After a few words of preparation, we then 
 went in search of Mr. Turveydrop ; whom we found, grouped 
 with his hat and gloves, as a model of Deportment, on the 
 
DEPORTMENT DROOPS. 
 
 397 
 
 sofa in his private apartment — the only comfortable room in 
 the house. He appeared to have dressed at his leisure, in the 
 intervals of a light collation ; and his dressing-case, brushes, 
 and so forth, all of quite an elegant kind, lay about. 
 . Father, Miss Summerson ; Miss Jellyby/'* 
 
 " Charmed ! Enchanted ! said Mr. Turveydro}), rising 
 with his high-shouldered bow. " Permit me ! handing chairs. 
 Be seated ! " kissing the tips of his left fingers. " Overjoyed ! ''^ 
 shutting his eyes and rolling. "My little retreat is made a 
 Paradise.'*'* Recomposing himself on the sofa, like the second 
 gentleman in Europe. 
 
 " Again you find us. Miss Summerson,"'* said he, " using our 
 little arts to polish, polish ! Again the sex stimulates us, and 
 rewards us, by the condescension of its lovely presence. 
 It is much in these times (and we have made an awfully 
 degenerating business of it since the days of His Royal 
 Highness the Prince Regent — my patron, if I may presume 
 to say so) to experience that Deportment is not wholly 
 trodden under foot by mechanics. That it can yet bask in 
 the smile of Beauty, my dear madam."'* 
 
 I said nothing, which I thought a suitable reply; and he 
 took a pinch of snufF. 
 
 "My dear son,'*'* said Mr. Turveydrop, "you have four 
 schools this afternoon. I would recommend a hasty sand- 
 
 " Thank you, father,"" returned Prince, " I will be sure to 
 be punctual. My dear father, may I beg you to prepare your 
 mind for what I am going to say ! **" 
 
 " Good Heaven ! exclaimed the model, pale and aghast, 
 as Prince and Caddy, hand in hand, bent down before him. 
 " What is this ? Is this lunacy ! Or what is this ? '*" 
 
 " Father,'*'* returned Prince, with great submission, " I love 
 this young lady, and we are engaged.**' 
 
 " Engaged ! cried Mr. Turveydrop, reclining on the sofa, 
 and shutting out the sight with his hand. \' An arrow 
 launched at my brain, by my own child I""/ * 
 
 wich. 
 
398 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "We have been engaged for some time, father,'"^ faltered 
 Prince; "and Miss Summerson, hearing of it, advised that 
 we should declare the fact to you, and was so very kind as 
 to attend on the present occasion. Miss Jellyby is a young 
 lady who deeply respects you, father.'^ 
 
 Mr. Turveydrop uttered a groan. 
 
 "No, pray don't! Pray don't, father,'^ urged his son. 
 "Miss Jellyby is a young lady who deeply respects you, 
 and our first desire is to consider your comfort.'' 
 
 Mr. Turveydrop sobbed. 
 
 " No, pray don't, father ! " cried his son. 
 
 " Boy," said Mr. Turveydrop, " it is well that your sainted 
 mother is spared this pang. Strike deep, and spare not. 
 Strike home, sir, strike home ! " 
 
 "Pray, don't say so, father," implored Prince, in tears. 
 "It goes to my heart. I do assure you, father, that our 
 first wish and intention is to consider your comfort. Caroline 
 and I do not forget our duty — what is my duty is Caroline's, 
 as we have often said together — and, with your approval and 
 consent, father, we will devote ourselves to making your life 
 agreeable." 
 
 "Strike home," murmured Mr. Turveydrop. "Strike 
 home!" 
 
 But he seemed to listen, I thought, too. 
 
 "My dear father," returned Prince, "we well know what 
 little comforts you are accustomed to, and have a right to; 
 and it will always be our study, and our pride, to provide 
 those before anything. If you will bless us with your 
 approval and consent, father, we shall not think of being 
 married until it is quite agreeable to you; and when we 
 are married, we shall always make you — of course — our first 
 consideration. You must ever be the Head and Master 
 here, father; and we feel how truly unnatural it would be 
 in us, if we failed to know it, or if we failed to exert our- 
 selves in every possible way to please you. ' 
 
 Mr. Turveydrop underwent a severe internal struggle, and 
 
UNIVERSITY of ILLINOIS. 
 
PARENTAL DEPORTMENT. 399 
 
 came upright on the sofa again, with his cheeks puffing over 
 his stiff cravat : a perfect model of parental deportment. 
 
 "My son!"" said Mr. Turveydrop. "My children! I 
 cannot resist your prayer. Be happy ! 
 
 His benignity, as he raised his future daughter-in-law and 
 stretched out his hand to his son (who kissed it with 
 affectionate respect and gratitude), was the most confusing 
 sight I ever saw. 
 
 "My children," said Mr. Turveydrop, paternally encircling 
 Caddy with his left arm as she sat beside him, and putting 
 his right hand gracefully on his hip. " My son and daughter, 
 your happiness shall be my care. I will watch over you. 
 You shall always live with me ; meaning, of course, I will 
 always live with you ; " this house is henceforth as much yours 
 as mine ; consider it your home. May you long live to share 
 it with me ! 
 
 The power of his Deportment w^as such, that they really 
 were as much overcome with thankfulness as if, instead of 
 quartering himself upon them for the rest of his life, he were 
 making some munificent sacrifice in their favour. 
 
 "For myself, my children,"' said Mr. Turveydrop, "I am 
 falling into the sear and yellow leaf, and it is impossible to 
 say how long the last feeble traces of gentlemanly Deportment 
 may linger in this weaving and spinning age. But, so long, 
 I will do my duty to society, and will show myself, as usual, 
 about town. My wants are few and simple. My little 
 apartment here, my few essentials for the toilet, my frugal 
 morning meal, and my little dinner, will suffice. I charge 
 your dutiful affection with the supply of these requirements, 
 and I charge myself with all the rest."*' 
 
 They were overpowered afresh by his uncommon geneiosity. 
 
 " My son,'" said Mr. Turveydrop, " for those little points in 
 which you are deficient — points of Deportment which are born 
 with a man — which may be improved by cultivation, but can 
 never be originated — you may still rely on me. I have been 
 faithful to my post, since the days of His Royal Highness 
 
400 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 the Prince Regent ; and I will not desert it now. No, my 
 son. If you have ever contemplated your father'^s poor position 
 with a feeling of pride, you may rest assured that he will do 
 nothing to tarnish it. For yourself, Prince, whose character 
 is different (we cannot be all alike, nor is it advisable that 
 we should), work, be industrious, earn money, and extend the 
 connexion as much as possible." 
 
 " That you may depend I will do, dear father, with all my 
 heart,**' replied Prince. 
 
 "I have no doubt of it,'** said Mr. Turveydrop. "Your 
 qualities are not shining, my dear child, but they are steady 
 and useful, ^nd to both of you, my dear children, I would 
 merely observe, in the spirit of a sainted Wooman on whose 
 path I had the happiness of casting, I believe, some ray of 
 light, — take care of the establishment, take care of my simple • 
 wants, and bless you both ! " 
 
 Old Mr. Turveydrop then became so very gallant, in 
 honour of the occasion, that I told Caddy we must really go 
 to Thavies Inn at once if we were to go at all that day. So ; 
 we took our departure, after a very loving farewell between i 
 Caddy and her betrothed : and during our walk she was so | 
 happy, and so full of old Mr. Turvey drop's praises, that I \ 
 would not have said a word in his disparagement for any v 
 consideration. 
 
 The house in Thavies Inn had bills in the windows 
 announcing that it was to let, and it looked dirtier and 
 gloomier and ghastlier than ever. The name of poor Mr. 
 Jellyby had appeared in the list of Bankrupts, but a day or 
 two before ; and he was shut up in the dining-room with two 
 gentlemen, and a heap of blue bags, account-books, and 
 papers, making the most desperate endeavours to understand 
 his affairs. They appeared to me to be quite beyond his 
 comprehension ; for when Caddy took me into the dining- 
 room by mistake, and we came upon Mr. Jellyby in his 
 spectacles, forlornly fenced into a corner by the great 
 dining-table and the two gentlemen, he seemed to have 
 
MR. JELLYBY A BANKRUPT. 
 
 4^ 
 
 given up the whole thing, and to be speechless and in- 
 sensible. 
 
 Going up-stairs to Mrs. Jellyby's room (the children were 
 all screaming in the kitchen, and there was no servant to be 
 seen), we found that lady in the midst of a voluminous corre- 
 spondence, opening, reading, and sorting letters, with a great 
 accumulation of torn covers on the floor. She was so pre- 
 occupied that at first she did not know me, though she sat 
 looking at me w4th that curious, bright-eyed, far-off look 
 of hers. 
 
 " Ah ! Miss Summerson ! she said at last. " I was thinkinsr 
 of something so different ! I hope you are well. * I am happy 
 to see you. Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Clare quite well?**' 
 
 I hoped in return that Mr. Jellyby was quite well. 
 
 "Why, not quite, my dear,'' said Mrs. Jellyby, in the 
 calmest manner. " He has been unfortunate in his affairs, y 
 and is a little out of spirits. Happily for me, I am so 
 much engaged that I have no time to think about it. We 
 have, at the present moment, one hundred and seventy 
 families, Miss Summerson, averaging five persons in each, 
 either gone or going to the left bank of the Niger.'' 
 
 I thought of the one family so near us, who were neither 
 gone nor going to the left bank of the Niger, and wondered 
 how she could be so placid. 
 
 "You have brought Caddy back, I see," observed Mrs. 
 Jellyby, with a glance at her daughter. "It has become 
 quite a novelty to see her here. She has almost deserted 
 her old employment, and in fact obliges me to employ a 
 boy." 
 
 " I am sure, Ma, " began Caddy. 
 
 "Now you know, Caddy," her mother mildly interposed, 
 "' that I do employ a boy, who is now at his dinner. What 
 is the use of your contradicting ? " 
 
 "I was not going to contradict, Ma," returned Caddy. 
 "I was only going to say, that surely you wouldn't have 
 me be a mere drudge all my life." 
 
 VOL. I. • 2 u 
 
BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " I believe, my deai^^ said Mrs. Jellyby, still opening her 
 letters, casting her bright eyes smilingly over them, and 
 sorting them as she spoke, " that you have a business example 
 before you in your mother. Besides. A mere drudge .^^ If 
 you had any sympathy with the destinies of the human race, 
 it would raise you high above any such idea. But you have 
 none. I have often told you, Caddy, you have no such 
 sympathy.*" 
 
 "Not if iVs Africa, Ma, I have not.'' 
 
 " Of course you have not. Now, if I were not happily so 
 much engaged. Miss Summerson,'' said Mrs. Jellyby, sweetly 
 casting her eyes for a moment on me, and considering where 
 to put the particular letter she had just opened, "this would 
 distress and disappoint me. But I have so much to think 
 of, in connexion with Borrioboola-Gha, and it is so necessary 
 I should concentrate myself, that there is my remedy, you 
 see.'' 
 
 As Caddy gave me a glance of entreaty, and as Mrs. 
 Jellyby was looking far away into Africa straight through 
 my bonnet and head, I thought it a good opportunity to 
 come to the subject of my visit, and to attract Mrs. Jelly by 's 
 attention. 
 
 " Perhaps," I began, " you will wonder what has brought 
 me here to interrupt you." 
 
 "I am always delighted to see Miss Summerson," said 
 Mrs. Jellyby, pursuing her employment with a placid smile. 
 "Though I wish," and she shook her head, "she was more 
 interested in the Borrioboolan project." 
 
 "I have come with Caddy," said I, "because Caddy justly 
 thinks she ought not to have a secret from her mother ; and 
 fancies I shall encourage and aid her (though I am sure I 
 don't know how), in imparting one." 
 
 " Caddy," said Mrs. Jellyby, pausing for a moment in her 
 occupation, and then serenely pursuing it after shaking her 
 head, " you are going to tell me some nonsense." 
 
 Caddy untied the strings of her bonnet^ took her bonnet 
 
A MODEL MOTHER. 
 
 409 
 
 off, and letting it dangle on the floor by the strings, and 
 crying heartily, said, "Ma, I am engaged." 
 
 " O, you ridiculous child ! '''' observed Mrs. Jellyby, with an 
 abstracted air, as she looked over the despatch last opened ; 
 " what a goose you are ! '"^ 
 
 " I am engaged. Ma,'' sobbed Caddy, " to young Mr. 
 Turveydrop, at the Academy ; and old Mr. Turveydrop (who 
 is a very gentlemanly man indeed) has given his consent, and 
 I beg and pray you'll give us yours. Ma, because I never 
 could be happy without it. I never, never could ! " sobbed 
 Caddy, quite forgetful of her general complainings, and of 
 everything but her natural affection. 
 
 "You see again, Miss Summerson," observed Mrs. Jellyby, 
 serenely, "what a happiness it is to be so much occupied as 
 I am, and to have this necessity for self-concentration that I 
 have. Here is Caddy engaged to a dancing-master's son — 
 mixed up with people who have no more sympathy with the 
 destinies of the human race than she has herself! This, too, 
 when Mr. Quale, one of the first philanthropists of our time, 
 has mentioned to me that he was really disposed to be 
 interested in her I " 
 
 " Ma, I always hated and detested Mr. Quale ! " sobbed 
 Caddy. 
 
 "Caddy, Caddy!" returned Mrs. Jellyby, opening another 
 letter with the greatest complacency. " I have no doubt you 
 did. How could you do otherwise, being totally destitute of 
 the sympathies with which he overflows ! Now, if my public 
 duties were not a favourite child to me, if I w^ere not occupied 
 with large measures on a vast scale, these petty details might 
 grieve me very much, Miss Summerson. But can I permit 
 the film of a silly proceeding on the part of Caddy (from 
 whom I expect nothing else), to interpose between me and 
 the great African continent? No. No," repeated Mrs. 
 Jellyby, in a calm clear voice, and with an agreeable smile, 
 as she opened more letters and sorted them. " No, indeed." 
 
 I was so unprepared for the perfect coolness of this 
 
404 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 reception, though I might have expected it, that I did not 
 know what to say. Caddy seemed equally at a loss. Mrs. 
 Jellyby continued to open and sort letters ; and to repeat 
 occasionally, in quite a charming tone of voice, and with a 
 smile of perfect composure, "No, indeed."" 
 
 "I hope. Ma,'" sobbed poor Caddy at last, "you are not 
 angry?"" 
 
 "O Caddy, you really are an absurd girl,"" returned Mrs. 
 Jellyby, "to ask such questions, after what I have said of 
 the preoccupation of my mind."" 
 
 "And I hope. Ma, you give us your consent, and wish us 
 well ? "" said Caddy. 
 
 "You are a nonsensical child to have done anything of 
 this kind,"" said Mrs. Jellyby; "and a degenerate child, when 
 you might have devoted yourself to the great public measure. 
 But the step is taken, and I have engaged a boy, and there 
 is no more to be said. Now, pray, Caddy,"" said Mrs. Jellyby 
 — for Caddy was kissing her — "don"t delay me in my work, 
 but let me clear off* this heavy batch of papers before the 
 afternoon post comes in ! "" 
 
 I thought I could not do better than take my leave; I 
 was detained for a moment by Caddy"s saying, 
 
 "You won"t object to my bringing him to see you, Ma.^"" 
 
 " O dear me, Caddy,"" cried Mrs. Jellyby, who had relapsed 
 into that distant contemplation, "have you begun again? 
 Bring whom?"" 
 
 "Him, Ma."" 
 
 "Caddy, Caddy!"" said Mrs. Jellyby, quite weary of such 
 little matters. "Then you must bring him some evening 
 which is not a Parent Society night, or a Branch night, or a 
 Ramification night. You must accommodate the visit to the 
 demands upon my time. My dear Miss Summerson, it was 
 very kind of you to come here to help out this silly chit. 
 Good-bye ! When I tell you that I have fifty-eight new 
 letters from manufacturing families anxious to understand 
 the details of the Native and Coffee Cultivation question, 
 
CADDY'S PROSPECTS. 
 
 405 
 
 this morning, I need not apologise for having very Httle 
 leisure/** 
 
 I was not surprised by Caddy's being in low spirits, when 
 we went down-stairs ; or by her sobbing afresh on my neck, 
 or by her saying she would far rather have been scolded than 
 treated with such indifference, or by her confiding to me that 
 she was so poor in clothes, that how she was ever to be 
 married creditably she didn't know. I gradually cheered her 
 up, by dwelling on the many things she would do for her 
 unfortunate father, and for Peepy, when she had a home of 
 her own ; and finally we went down-stairs into the damp dark 
 kitchen, where Peepy and his little brothers and sisters were 
 grovelling on the stone floor, and where we had such a game 
 of play with them, that to prevent myself from being quite 
 torn to pieces I was obliged to fall back on my fairy tales. 
 From time to time, I heard loud voices in the parlour over- 
 head ; and occasionally a violent tumbling about of the 
 furniture. The last effect I am afraid was caused by poor 
 Mr. Jellyby's breaking away from the dining-table, and 
 making rushes at the window, with the intention of throwing 
 himself into the area, whenever he made any new attempt 
 to understand his affairs. 
 
 As I rode quietly home at night after the day's bustle, I 
 thought a good deal of Caddy's engagement, and felt con- 
 , firmed in my hopes (in spite of the elder Mr. Turveydrop) 
 ' that she would be the happier and better for it. And if 
 there seemed to be but a slender chance of her and her 
 1 husband ever finding out what the model of Deportment 
 ' really was, why that was all for the best too, and who would 
 wish them to be wiser? I did not wish them to be any 
 ! wiser, and indeed was half ashamed of not entirely believing 
 in him myself. And I looked up at the stars, and thought 
 about travellers in distant countries and the stars they saw, 
 and hoped I might always be so blest and happy as to be 
 useful to some one in my small way. 
 
 They were so glad to see me when I got home, as they 
 
406 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 always were, that I could have sat down and cried for joy, if 
 that had not been a method of making myself disagreeable. 
 Everybody in the house, from the lowest to the highest, 
 showed me such a bright face of welcome, and spoke so 
 cheerily, and was so happy to do anything for me, that I 
 suppose there never was such a fortunate little creature in 
 the world. 
 
 We got into such a chatty state that night, through Ada 
 and my guardian drawing me out to tell them all about 
 Caddy, that I went on prose, prose, prosing, for a length of 
 time. At last I got up to my own room, quite red to think 
 how I had been holding forth ; and then I heard a soft tap 
 at my door. So I said, " Come in ! and there came in a 
 pretty little girl, neatly dressed in mourning, who dropped a 
 curtsey. 
 
 "If you please, miss,"''* said the little girl, in a soft voice, 
 " I am Charley.^' 
 
 " Why, so you are,'**' said I, stooping down in astonishment, 
 and giving her a kiss. " How glad am I to see you, Charley ! " 
 
 " If you please, miss,'*'' pursued Charley, in the same soft 
 voice, " I'm your maid.**^ 
 
 " Charley 
 
 "If you please, miss, Fm a present to you, with Mr. 
 Jarndyce's love.'"* 
 
 I sat down with my hand on Charley's neck, and looked at 
 Charley. 
 
 " And O, miss,'' says Charley, clapping her hands, with the 
 tears starting down her dimpled cheeks, "Tom's at school, if 
 you please, and learning so good ! And little Emma, she's 
 with Mrs. Blinder, miss, a being took such care of! And 
 Tom, he would have been at school — and Emma, she would 
 have been left with Mrs. Blinder — and me, I should have 
 been here — all a deal sooner, miss ; only Mr. Jarndyce thought 
 that Tom and Emma and me had better get a little used to 
 parting first, we was so small. Don't cry, if you please, 
 miss ! " 
 
A PRESENT, WITH MR. JARNDYCKS LOVE. 407 
 " I can't help it, Charley/' 
 
 "No, miss, nor I can't help it,'' says Charley. "And if 
 you please, miss, Mr. Jarndyce's love, and he thinks you'll 
 like to teach me now and then. And if you please, Tom 
 and Emma and me is to see each other once a month. And 
 I'm so happy and so thankful, miss," cried Charley with 
 a heaving heart, " and I'll try to be such a good maid ! " 
 
 " O Charley dear, never forget who did all this ! " 
 
 " No, miss, I never will. Nor Tom won't. Nor yet Emma. 
 It was all you, miss." 
 
 "I have known nothing of it. It was Mr. Jarndyce, 
 Charley." 
 
 "Yes, miss, but it was all done for the love of you, and 
 that you might be my mistress. If you please, miss, I am a 
 little present with his love, and it was all done for the love 
 of you. Me and Tom was to be sure to remember it." 
 
 Charley dried her eyes, and entered on her functions : going 
 in her matronly little way about and about the room, and 
 folding up everything she could lay her hands upon. Presently, 
 Charley came creeping back to my side, and said : 
 
 " O don't cry, if you please, miss." 
 
 And I said again, "I can't help it, Charley." 
 
 And Charley said again, "No, miss, nor I can't help it." 
 And so, after all, I did cry for joy indeed, and so did she. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV, 
 
 AN APPEAL CASE. 
 
 As soon as Richard and I had held the conversation of which 
 I have given an account, Richard communicated the state of 
 his mind to Mr. Jarndyce. I doubt if my guardian were 
 altogether taken by surprise, when he received the representa- 
 tion ; though it caused him much uneasiness and disappoint- 
 ment. He and Richard were often closeted together, late at 
 night and early in the morning, and passed whole days in 
 London, and had innumerable appointments with Mr. Kenge, 
 and laboured through a quantity of disagreeable business. 
 While they were thus employed, my guardian, though he 
 underwent considerable inconvenience from the state of the 
 wind, and rubbed his head so constantly that not a single 
 hair upon it ever rested in its right place, was as genial with 
 Ada and me as at any other time, but maintained a steady 
 reserve on these matters. And as our utmost endeavours 
 could only elicit from Richard himself sweeping assurances 
 that everything was going on capitally, and that it really was 
 all right at last, our anxiety was not much relieved by him. 
 
 We learnt, however, as the time went on, that a new appli- 
 cation was made to the Lord Chancellor on Richard's behalf, 
 as an Infant and a Ward, and I don'*t know what ; and that 
 there was a quantity of talking ; and that the Lord Chancellor 
 described him, in open court, as a vexatious and capricious 
 infant ; and that the matter was adjourned and readjourned, 
 
A FRIENDLY DIFFERENCE. 
 
 409 
 
 and referred, and reported on, and petitioned about, until 
 Richard began to doubt (as he told us) whether, if he entered 
 the army at all, it would not be as a veteran of seventy or 
 eighty years of age. At last an appointment was made for 
 him to see the Lord Chancellor again in his private room, 
 and there the Lord Chancellor very seriously reproved him 
 for trifling with time, and not knowing his mind — "a pi^etty 
 good joke, I think,'"* said Richard, "from that quarter!" — 
 and at last it was settled that his application should be granted. 
 His name was entered at the Horse Guards, as an applicant 
 for an Ensign's commission ; the purchase-money was deposited 
 at an Agent's; and Richard, in his usual characteristic way, 
 plunged into a violent course of military study, and got up 
 at five o'clock every morning to practise the broadsword 
 exercise. 
 
 Thus, vacation succeeded term, and term succeeded vaca- 
 tion. We sometimes heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, as 
 being in the paper or out of the paper, or as being to be 
 mentioned, or as being to be spoken to ; and it came on, and 
 it went off. Richard, who was now in a Professor's house in 
 London, was able to be with us less frequently than before; 
 my guardian still maintained the same reserve ; and so time 
 passed until the commission was obtained, and Richard re- 
 ceived directions with it to join a regiment in Ireland. 
 
 He arrived post-haste with the intelligence one evening, 
 and had a long conference with my guardian. Upwards of 
 an hour elapsed before my guardian put his head into the 
 room where Ada and I were sitting, and said, " Come in, my 
 dears ! " We went in, and found Richard, whom w^e had last 
 seen in high spirits, leaning on the chimney-piece, looking 
 mortified and angry. 
 
 " Rick and I, Ada," said Mr. Jarndyce, " are not quite of 
 one mind. Come, come. Rick, put a brighter face upon it ! " 
 
 "You are very hard with me, sir," said Richard. "The 
 harder, because you have been so considerate to me in all 
 other respects, and have done me kindnesses that I can never 
 
410 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE 
 
 acknowledge. I never could have been set right without 
 you, sir.'^^ 
 
 "Well, well ! '''' said Mr. Jarndycc, "I want to set you more 
 right yet. I want to set you more right with yourself.'^ 
 
 "I hope you will excuse my saying, sir,'' returned Richard 
 in a fiery way, but yet respectfully, " that I think I am the 
 best judge about myself.'' 
 
 " I hope you will excuse my saying, my dear Rick," observed 
 Mr. Jarndyce with the sweetest cheerfulness and good humour, 
 " that it's quite natural in you to think so, but I don't think 
 so. I must do my duty. Rick, or you could never care for 
 me in cool blood ; and I hope you will always care for me, 
 cool and hot." 
 
 Ada had turned so pale, that he made her sit down in his 
 reading-chair, and sat beside her. 
 
 " It's nothing, my dear," he said, " it's nothing. Rick and 
 I have only had a friendly difference, which we must state to 
 you, for you are the theme. Now you are afraid of what's 
 coming." 
 
 " I am not indeed, cousin John," replied Ada, with a smile, 
 " if it is to come from you." 
 
 "Thank you, my dear. Do you give me a minute's calm 
 attention, without looking at Rick. And, little woman, do 
 you likewise. My dear girl," putting his hand on hers, as it 
 lay on the side of the easy-chair, "you recollect the talk we 
 had, we four, when the little woman told me of a little love 
 affair.?" 
 
 " It is not likely that either Richard or I can ever forget 
 your kindness, that day, cousin John." 
 
 " I can never forget it," said Richard. 
 
 " And I can never forget it," said Ada. 
 
 "So much the easier what I have to say, and so much the 
 easier for us to agree," returned my guardian, his face 
 irradiated by the gentleness and honour of his heart. " Ada, 
 my bird, you should know that Rick has now chosen his pro- 
 fession for the last time. All that he has of certainty will be 
 
STRONG WORDS OF ADVICE. 
 
 411 
 
 expended when he is fully equipped. He has exhausted his 
 resources, and is bound henceforward to the tree he has 
 planted.*" 
 
 "Quite true that I have exhausted my present resources, 
 and I am quite content to know it. But what I have of 
 certainty, sir,'''' said Richard, " is not all I have.''' 
 
 " Rick, Rick ! ''"' cried my guardian, with a sudden terror in 
 his manner, and in an altered voice, and putting up his hands 
 as if he would have stopped his ears, " for the love of God, 
 don"'t found a hope or expectation on the family curse ! 
 Whatever you do on this side the grave, never give one 
 lingering glance towards the horrible phantom that has 
 haunted us so many years. Better to borrow, better to beg, 
 better to die ! 
 
 We were all startled by the fervour of this warning. 
 Richard bit his lip and held his breath, and glanced at me, 
 as if he felt, and knew that I felt too, how much he needed it. 
 
 "Ada, my dear,*''' said Mr. Jarndyce, recovering his cheer- 
 fulness, "these are strong words of advice; but I live in 
 Bleak House, and have seen a sight here. Enough of that. 
 All Richard had, to start him in the race of life, is ventured. 
 I recommend to him and you, for his sake and your own, 
 that he should depart from us with the understanding that 
 there is no sort of contract between you. I must go further. 
 I will be plain with you both. You were to confide freely 
 in me, and I will confide freely in you. I ask you wholly to 
 relinquish, for the present, any tie but your relationship.*''' 
 
 "Better to say at once, sir,*'*' returned Richard, "that you 
 renounce all confidence in me, and that you advise Ada to 
 do the same.*" 
 
 "Better to say nothing of the sort, Rick, because I don't 
 mean it.'' 
 
 "You think I have begun ill, sir," retorted Richard. "I 
 have^ I know." 
 
 " How I hoped you would begin, and how go on, I told 
 you when we spoke of these things last," said Mr. Jarndyce, 
 
412 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 in a cordial and encouraging manner. " You have not made 
 that beginning yet; but there is a time for all things, and 
 yours is not gone by — rather, it is just now fully come. 
 Make a clear beginning altogether. You two (very young, 
 my dears) are cousins. As yet, you are nothing more. 
 What more may come, must come of being worked out, 
 Rick; and no sooner.*" 
 
 " You are very hard with me, sir,"'' said Richard. " Harder 
 than I could have supposed you would be."" 
 
 "My dear boy,''' said Mr. Jarndyce, "I am harder with 
 myself when I do anything that gives you pain. You have 
 your remedy in your own hands. Ada, it is better for him 
 that he should be free, and that there should be no youthful 
 engagement between you. Rick, it is better for her, much 
 better ; you owe it to her. Come ! Each of you will do 
 what is best for the other, if not what is best for yourselves.*" 
 
 "Why is it best, sir.^*" returned Richard, hastily. "It 
 was not, when we opened our hearts to you. You did not 
 say so, then." 
 
 " I have had experience since. I don't blame you, Rick — 
 but I have had experience since.*" 
 "You mean of me, sir."' 
 
 " Well ! Yes, of both of you,*" said Mr. Jarndyce, kindly. 
 "The time is not come for your standing pledged to one 
 another. It is not right, and I must not recognise it. Come, 
 come, my young cousins, begin afresh ! Byegones shall be 
 byegones, and a new page turned for you to write your 
 lives in.*" 
 
 Richard gave an anxious glance at Ada, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 "I have avoided saying one word to either of you, or to 
 Esther,'" said Mr. Jarndyce, "until now, in order that we 
 might be open as the day, and all on equal terms. I now 
 affectionately advise, I now most earnestly entreat, you two, 
 to part as you came here. Leave all else to time, truth, and 
 steadfastness. If you do otherwise, you will do wrong; and 
 
AN ESTRANGEMENT. 
 
 413 
 
 you will have made me do wrong, in ever bringing you 
 together."' 
 
 A long silence succeeded. 
 
 "Cousin Richard,'''' said Ada, then, raising her blue eyes 
 tenderly to his face, "after what our cousin John has said, I 
 think no choice is left us. Your mind may be quite at ease 
 about me; for you will leave me here under his care, and 
 will be sure that I can have nothing to wish for ; quite sure, 
 if I guide myself by his advice. I — I don*'t doubt, cousin 
 Richard,**'' said Ada, a little confused, " that you are very fond 
 of me, and I — I don"'t think you will fall in love with any- 
 body else. But I should like you to consider well about it, 
 too ; as I should like you to be in all things very happy. 
 You may trust in me, cousin Richard. I am not at all 
 changeable ; but I am not unreasonable, and should never 
 blame you. Even cousins may be sorry to part; and in 
 truth I am very, very sorry, Richard, though I know it's for 
 your welfare. I shall always think of you affectionately, and 
 often talk of you with Esther, and — and perhaps you will 
 sometimes think a little of me, cousin Richard. So now,'''' 
 said Ada, going up to him and giving him her trembling 
 hand, "we are only cousins again, Richard — for the time 
 perhaps — and I pray for a blessing on my dear cousin, wherever 
 he goes ! '''' 
 
 It was strange to me that Richard should not be able to 
 forgive my guardian, for entertaining the very same opinion 
 of him which he himself had expressed of himself in much 
 stronger terms to me. But, it was certainly the case. I 
 observed, with great regret, that from this hour he never was 
 as free and open with Mr. Jarndyce as he had been before. 
 He had every reason given him to be so, but he was not; 
 and, solely on his side, an estrangement began to arise 
 between them. 
 
 In the business of preparation and equipment he soon lost 
 himself, and even his grief at parting from Ada, who remained 
 in Hertfordshire, while he, Mr. Jarndyce, and I went up to 
 
414 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 London for a week. He remembered her by fits and starts, 
 even with bursts of tears; and at such times would confide 
 to me the heaviest self-reproaches. But, in a few minutes he 
 would recklessly conjure up some undefinable means by which 
 they were both to be made rich and happy for ever, and 
 would become as gay as possible. 
 
 It was a busy time, and I trotted about with him all day 
 long, buying a variety of things, of which he stood in need. 
 Of the things he would have bought, if he had been left to 
 his own ways, I say nothing. He was perfectly confidential 
 with me, and often talked so sensibly and feelingly about 
 his faults and his vigorous resolutions, and dwelt so much 
 upon the encouragement he derived from these conversations, 
 that I could never have been tired if I had tried. 
 
 There used, in that week, to come backward and forward 
 to our lodging, to fence with Richard, a person who had 
 formerly been a cavalry soldier; he was a fine bluff-looking 
 man, of a frank free bearing, with whom Richard had 
 j^ractised for some months. I heard so much about him, not 
 only from Richard, but from my guardian too, that I was 
 purposely in the room, with my work, one morning after 
 breakfast when he came. 
 
 Good morning, Mr. George,**** said my guardian, who 
 happened to be alone with me. " Mr. Carstone will be here 
 directly. Meanwhile, Miss Summerson is very happy to see 
 you, I know. Sit down."" 
 
 He sat down, a little disconcerted by my presence, I 
 thought; and, without looking at me, drew his heavy sun- 
 burnt hand across and across his upper lip. 
 
 "You are as punctual as the sun,**' said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 "Military time, sir,**** he replied. "Force of habit. A 
 mere habit in me, sir. I am not at all business-like.**' 
 
 " Yet you have a large establishment, too, I am told ? 
 said Mr, Jarndyce. 
 
 "Not much of a one, sir. I keep a shooting gallery, but 
 not much of a one.**' 
 
RICHARD^S FENCING MASTER 
 
 415 
 
 " And what kind of a shot, and what kind of a swordsman, 
 do you make of Mr. Carstone?**' said my guardian. 
 
 "Pretty good, sir,''*' he replied, folding his arms upon his 
 broad chest, and looking very large. " If Mr. Carstone was 
 to give his full mind to it, he would come out very good.**'' 
 
 "But he don't, I suppose said my guardian. 
 
 "He did at first, sir, but not afterwards. Not his full 
 mind. Perhaps he has something else upon it — some young 
 lady, perhaps." His bright dark eyes glanced at me for the 
 first time. 
 
 " He has not me upon his mind, I assure you, Mr. George," 
 said I, laughing, "though you seem to suspect me." 
 
 He reddened a little through his brown, and made me a 
 trooper'^s bow. "No offence, I hope, miss. I am one of the 
 Roughs." 
 
 "Not at all," said I. "I take it as a compliment." 
 
 If he had not looked at me before, he looked at me now, in 
 three or four quick successive glances. " I beg your pardon, 
 sir," he said to my guardian, with a manly kind of diffidence, 
 "but you did me the honour to mention the young lady's 
 name " 
 
 " Miss Summerson." 
 
 "Miss Summerson," he repeated, and looked at me again. 
 " Do you know the name ? " I asked. 
 
 " No, miss. To my knowledge, I never heard it. I thought 
 I had seen you somewhere." 
 
 " I think not," I returned, raising my head from my work 
 to look at him ; and there was something so genuine in his 
 speech and manner that I was glad of the opportunity. " I 
 remember faces very well." 
 
 " So do I, miss ! " he returned, meeting my look with the 
 fulness of his dark and broad forehead. " Humph ! What 
 set me off, now, upon that ! " 
 
 His once more reddening through his brown, and being 
 disconcerted by his efforts to remember the association, 
 brought my guardian to his relief. 
 
416 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " Have you many pupils, Mr. George ? 
 
 '•They vary in their number, sir. Mostly, theyVe but a 
 small lot to live by.'' 
 
 "And what classes of chance people come to practise at 
 your gallery ? '' 
 
 "All sorts, sir. Natives and foreigners. From gentlemen 
 to 'prentices. I have had French women come, before now, 
 and show themselves dabs at pistol-shooting. Mad people 
 out of number, of course — but they go everywhere, where the 
 doors stand open." 
 
 " People don't come with grudges, and schemes of finishing 
 their practice with live targets, I hope ? " said my guardian, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Not much of that, sir, though that has happened. Mostly 
 they come for skill — or idleness. Six of one, and half-a-dozen 
 of the other. I beg your pardon," said Mr. George, sitting 
 stiffly upright, and squaring an elbow on each knee, " but I 
 believe youVe a Chancery suitor, if I have heard correct ? " 
 
 "I am sorry to say I am." 
 
 " I have had one of your compatriots in my time, sir." 
 " A Chancery suitor ? " returned my guardian. " How was 
 that?" 
 
 " Why, the man was so badgered, and worried, and tortured, 
 by being knocked about from post to pillar, and from pillar 
 to post," said Mr. George, " that he got out of sorts. I don't 
 believe he had any idea of taking aim at anybody ; but he was 
 in that condition of resentment and violence, that he would 
 come and pay for fifty shots, and fire away till he was red hot. 
 One day I said to him when there was nobody by, and he had 
 been talking to me angrily about his wrongs, ' If this practice 
 is a safety-valve, comrade, well and good ; but I don't altogether 
 like your being so bent upon it, in your present state of mind ; 
 I'd rather you took to something else.' I was on my guard for 
 a blow, he was that passionate ; but he received it in very good 
 part, and left off directly. We shook hands, and struck up 
 a sort of friendship." 
 
MR. GEORGE IN A BROWxN STUDY. 417 
 
 " What was that man asked my guardian, in a new tone 
 of interest. 
 
 ' Why, he began by being a small Shropshire farmer, before 
 they made a baited bull of him,'' said Mr. George. 
 " Was his name Gridley ? 
 " It was, sir."' 
 
 Mr. George directed another succession of quick bright 
 glances at me, as my guardian and I exchanged a word or 
 two of surprise at the coincidence ; and I therefore explained 
 to him how we knew the name. He made me another of his 
 soldierly bows, in acknowledgment of what he called my 
 condescension. 
 
 " I don't know,'' he said, as he looked at me, " what it is 
 that sets me off again — but — bosh ! what's my head running 
 against ! " He passed one of his heavy hands over his crisp 
 dark hair, as if to sweep the broken thoughts out of his mind ; 
 and sat a little forward, with one arm akimbo and the other 
 resting on his leg, looking in a brown study at the ground. 
 
 " I am sorry to learn that the same state of mind has got 
 this Gridley into new troubles, and that he is in hiding," said 
 my guardian. 
 
 " So I am told, sir," returned Mr. George, still musing and 
 looking on the ground. "So I am told." 
 " You don't know where ? " 
 
 "No, sir," returned the trooper, lifting up his eyes and 
 coming out of his reverie. " I can't say anything about him. 
 He will be worn out soon, I expect. You may file a strong 
 man's heart away for a good many years, but it will tell all 
 of a sudden at last." 
 
 Richard's entrance stopped the conversation. Mr. George 
 rose, made me another of his soldierly bows, wished my 
 guardian a good day, and strode heavily out of the room. 
 
 This was the morning of the day appointed for Richard's 
 departure. We had no more purchases to make now ; I had 
 completed all his packing early in the afternoon ; and our 
 time was disengaged until night, when he was to go to 
 
 VOL. I. 2 E 
 
418 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Liverpool for Holyhead. Jarndyce and Jarndyce being again 
 expected to come on that day, Richard proposed to me that 
 we should go down to the Court and hear what passed. As 
 it was his last day, and he was eager to go, and I had never 
 been there, I gave my consent, and we walked down to West- 
 minster, where the Court was then sitting. We beguiled the 
 way with arrangements concerning the letters that Richard 
 was to write to me, and the letters that I was to write to 
 him ; and with a great many hopeful projects. My guardian 
 knew where we were going, and therefore was not with us. 
 
 When we came to the Court, there was the Lord Chancellor 
 — the same whom I had seen in his private room in Lincoln's 
 Inn — sitting in great state and gravity, on the bench; with 
 the mace and seals on a red table below him, and an immense 
 flat nosegay, like a little garden, which scented the whole 
 Court. Below the table, again, was a long row of solicitors, 
 with bundles of papers on the matting at their feet ; and then 
 there were the gentlemen of the bar in wigs and gowns 
 — some awake and some asleep, and one talking, and nobody 
 paying much attention to what he said. The Lord Chancellor 
 leaned back in his very easy chair, with his elbow on the 
 cushioned arm, and his forehead resting on his hand ; some 
 of those who w^ere present, dozed ; some read the newspapers ; 
 some walked about, or whispered in groups : all seemed 
 perfectly at their ease, by no means in a hurry, very uncon- 
 cerned, and extremely comfortable. 
 
 To see everything going on so smoothly, and to think of 
 the roughness of the suitors' lives and deaths; to see all that 
 full dress and ceremony, and to think of the waste, and want, 
 and beggared misery it represented ; to consider that, while 
 the sickness of hope deferred was raging in so many hearts, 
 this polite show went calmly on from day to day, and year to 
 year, in such good order and composure ; to behold the Lord 
 Chancellor, and the whole array of practitioners under him, 
 looking at one another and at the spectators, as if nobody 
 had ever heard that all over England the name in which they 
 
NO HURRY WHATEVER. 
 
 419 
 
 were assembled was a bitter jest : was held in universal horror, 
 contempt, and indignation ;t was known for something so 
 flagrant and bad, that little short of a miracle could bring 
 any good out of it to any one : this was so curious and self- 
 contradictory to me, who had no experience of it, that it was 
 at first incredible, and I could not comprehend it. I sat 
 where Richard put me, and tried to listen, and looked about 
 me; but there seemed to be no reality in the whole scene, 
 except poor little Miss Elite, the madwoman, standing on a 
 bench, and nodding at it. 
 
 Miss Elite soon espied us, and came to where we sat. She 
 gave me a gracious welcome to her domain, and indicated, 
 with much gratification and pride, its principal attractions. 
 Mr. Kenge also came to speak to us, and did the honours of 
 the place in much the same way ; with the bland modesty of 
 a proprietor. It was not a very good day for a visit, he said ; 
 he would have preferred the first day of term ; but it was 
 imposing, it was imposing. 
 
 When we had been there half an hour or so, the case in 
 progress — if I may use a phrase so ridiculous in such a 
 connexion — seemed to die out of its own vapidity, without 
 coming, or being by anybody expected to come, to any result. 
 The Lord Chancellor then threw down a bundle of papers 
 from his desk to the gentlemen below him, and somebody 
 said, " Jarndyce and Jarndyce." Upon this there was a buzz, 
 and a laugh, and a general withdrawal of the by-standers, 
 and a bringing in of great heaps, and piles, and bags and 
 bags-full of papers. 
 
 I think it came on "for further directions,'** — about some 
 bill of costs, to the best of my understanding, which was 
 confused enough. But I counted twenty-three gentlemen 
 in wigs, who said they were "in it;" and none of them 
 appeared to understand it much better than I. They chatted 
 about it with the Lord Chancellor, and contradicted and ex- 
 plained among themselves, and some of them said it was 
 this way, and some of them said it was that way, and some 
 
420 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 of them jocosely proposed to read huge volumes of affidavits, 
 and there was more buzzing and laughing, and everybody 
 concerned was in a state of idle entertainment, and nothing 
 could be made of it by anybody. After an hour or so of 
 this, and a good many speeches being begun and cut short, 
 it was "referred back for the present,**** as Mr. Kenge said, 
 and the papers were bundled up again, before the clerks 
 had finished bringing them in. 
 
 I glanced at Richard, on the termination of these hopeless 
 proceedings, and was shocked to see the worn look of his 
 handsome young face. " It can't last for ever, Dame Durden. 
 Better luck next time ! " was all he said. 
 
 I had seen Mr. Guppy bringing in papers, and arranging 
 them for Mr. Kenge; and he had seen me and made me a 
 forlorn bow, which rendered me desirous to get out of the 
 Court. Richard had given me his arm, and was taking me 
 away, when Mr. Guppy came up. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mr. Carstone,"' said he in a whisper, 
 "and Miss Summerson's also; but there's a lady here, a 
 friend of mine, who knows her, and wishes to have the 
 pleasure of shaking hands.'' As he spoke, I saw before me, 
 as if she had started into bodily shape from my remembrance, 
 Mrs. Rachael of my godmother's house. 
 
 " How do you do, Esther ? " said she. " Do you recollect 
 me ? " 
 
 1 gave her my hand, and told her yes, and that she was 
 very little altered. 
 
 " I wonder you remember those times, Esther," she returned 
 with her old asperity. " They are changed now. Well ! I 
 am glad to see you, and glad you are not too proud to know 
 me." But, indeed she seemed disappointed that I was not. 
 
 " Proud, Mrs. Rachael ! " I remonstrated. 
 
 " I am married, Esther," she returned, coldly correcting me, 
 " and am Mrs. Chadband. Well ! I wish you good day, 
 and I hope you'll do well." 
 
 Mr. Guppy, who had been attentive to this short dialogue. 
 
GRIDLEY IN HIDING. 
 
 421 
 
 heaved a sigh in my ear, and elbowed his own and Mrs. 
 RachaeFs way through the confused Httle crowd of people 
 coming in and going out, which we were in the midst of, 
 and which the change in the business had brought together. 
 Richard and I were making our way through it, and I was 
 yet in the first chill of the late unexpected recognition, when 
 I saw, coming towards us, but not seeing us, no less a person 
 than Mr. George. He made nothing of the people about 
 him as he tramped on, staring over their heads into the body 
 of the Court. 
 
 " George ! " said Richard, as I called his attention to him. 
 
 "You are well met, sir,**' he returned. "And you, miss. 
 Could you point a person out for me, I want? I don't 
 understand these places."'^ 
 
 Turning as he spoke, and making an easy way for us, he 
 stopped when we were out of the press, in a corner behind a 
 great red curtain. 
 
 " There's a little cracked old woman,'' he began, " that " 
 
 I put up my finger, for Miss Flite was close by me ; having 
 kept beside me all the time, and having called the attention 
 of several of her legal acquaintance to me (as I had overheard 
 to my confusion), by whispering in their ears, " Hush ! Fitz- 
 Jarndyce on my left ! " 
 
 " Hem ! " said Mr. George. " You remember, miss, that 
 we passed some conversation on a certain man this morning? 
 — Gridley," in a low whisper behind his hand. 
 
 "Yes," said I. 
 
 "He is hiding at my place. I couldn't mention it. 
 Hadn't his authority. He is on his last march, miss, and 
 has a whim to see her. He says they can feel for one another, 
 and she has been almost as good as a friend to him here. I 
 came down to look for her; for when I sat by Gridley this 
 afternoon, I seemed to hear the roll of the muffled drums." 
 
 "Shall I tell her?" said I. 
 
 "Would you be so good?" he returned, with a glance of 
 something like apprehension ^t Miss Flite. " It's a Providence 
 
422 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 I met you, miss ; I doubt if I should have known how to get 
 on with that lady/' And he put one hand in his breast, and 
 stood upright in a martial attitude, as I informed little Miss 
 Elite, in her ear, of the purport of his kind errand. 
 
 " My angry friend from Shropshire ! Almost as celebrated 
 as myself ! she exclaimed. " Now really ! My dear, I will 
 wait upon him with the greatest pleasure."' 
 
 " He is living concealed at Mr. George's,'' said I. " Hush ! 
 This is Mr. George." 
 
 " In — deed ! " returned Miss Elite. " Very proud to have 
 the honour! A military man, my dear. You know, a 
 perfect General ! " she whispered to me. 
 
 Poor Miss Elite deemed it necessary to be so courtly and 
 polite, as a mark of her respect for the army, and to curtsey 
 so very often, that it was no easy matter to get her out of 
 the Court. When this was at last done, and addressing Mr. 
 George, as "General," she gave him her arm, to the great 
 entertainment of some idlers who were looking on, he was so 
 discomposed, and begged me so respectfully " not to desert 
 him," that I could not make up my mind to do it ; especially 
 as Miss Elite was always tractable with me, and as she too 
 said, " Eitz- Jarndyce, my dear, you will accompany us, of 
 course." As Richard seemed quite willing, and even anxious, 
 that we should see them safely to their destination, we agreed 
 to do so. And as Mr. George informed us that Gridley's mind 
 had run on Mr. Jarndyce all the afternoon, after hearing of 
 their interview in the morning, I wrote a hasty note in 
 pencil to my guardian to say where we were gone, and why. 
 Mr. George sealed it at a coffee-house, that it might lead 
 to no discovery, and we sent it off by a ticket-porter. 
 
 We then took a hackney-coach, and drove away to the 
 neighbourhood of Leicester Square. We walked through 
 some narrow courts, for which Mr. George apologised, and 
 soon came to the Shooting Gallery, the door of which was 
 closed. As he pulled a bell-handle which hung by a chain 
 to the door-post, a very respectable old gentleman, with grey 
 
MUFFLED DRUMS. 
 
 423 
 
 hair, wearing spectacles, and dressed in a black spencer and 
 gaiters and a broad-brimmed hat, and carrying a large gold- 
 headed cane, addressed him. 
 
 "I ask your pardon, my good friend,'' said he; "but is 
 this George's Shooting Gallery ? 
 
 " It is, sir," returned Mr. George, glancing up at the great 
 letters in which that inscription was painted on the white- 
 washed wall. 
 
 " Oh ! To be sure ! said the old gentleman, following his 
 eyes. " Thank you. Have you rung the bell ? " 
 
 " My name is George, sir, and I have rung the bell.'' 
 
 "Oh, indeed?" said the old gentleman. "Your name is 
 George? Then I am here as soon as you, you see. You 
 came for me, no doubt?" 
 
 " No, sir. You have the advantage of me." 
 
 "Oh, indeed?" said the old gentleman. "Then it was 
 your young man who came for me. I am a physician, and 
 was requested — five minutes ago — to come and visit a sick 
 man, at George's Shooting Gallery.''' 
 
 " The muffled drums," said Mr. George, turning to Richard 
 and me, and gravely shaking his head. "It's quite correct, 
 sir. Will you please to walk in ? " 
 
 The door being at that moment opened, by a very singular- 
 looking little man in a green baize cap and apron, whose 
 face, and hands, and dress, were blackened all over, we passed 
 along a dreary passage into a large building with bare brick 
 walls ; where there were targets, and guns, and swords, and 
 other things of that kind. When we had all arrived here, 
 the physician stopped, and, taking off his hat, appeared to 
 vanish by magic, and to leave another and quite a different 
 man in his place. 
 
 "Now look'ee here, George," said the man, turning quickly 
 round upon him, and tapping him on the breast with a 
 large forefinger. " You know me, and I know you. YouVe 
 a man of the world, and I'm a man of the world. My 
 name's Bucket, as you are aware, and I have got a peace- 
 
424 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 warrant against Gridley. You have kept him out of the 
 way a long time, and you have been artful in it, and it does 
 vou credit.'" 
 
 Mr. George, looking hard at him, bit his lip and shook 
 his head. 
 
 "Now, George,'" said the other, keeping close to him, 
 " you're a sensible man, and a well-conducted man ; that's 
 what you are, beyond a doubt. And mind you, I don't talk 
 to you as a common character, because you have served your 
 country, and you know that when duty calls we must obey. 
 Consequently, youVe very far from wanting to give trouble. 
 If I required assistance, you'd assist me; that's what ?/o?/'d 
 do. Phil Squod, don't you go a-sidling round the gallery 
 like that ; " the dirty little man was shuffling about with 
 his shoulder against the wall, and his eyes on the intruder, 
 in a manner that looked threatening : " because I know you, 
 and won't have it." 
 
 " Phil ! " said Mr. George. 
 
 " Yes, guv'ner." 
 
 " Be quiet." 
 
 The little man, with a low growl, stood still. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Bucket, " you'll excuse 
 anything that may appear to be disagreeable in this, for my 
 name's Inspector Bucket of the Detective, and I have a duty 
 to perform. George, I know where my man is, because I 
 was on the roof last night, and saw him through the skylight, 
 and you along with him. He is in there, you know," point- 
 ing; "that's where lie is — on a sofy. Now I must see my 
 man, and I must tell my man to consider himself in custody; 
 but, you know me, and you know I don't want to take any 
 uncomfortable measures. You give me your word, as from 
 one man to another (and an old soldier, mind you, likewise !), 
 that it's honourable between us two, and I'll accommodate 
 you to the utmost of my power." 
 
 " I give it," was the reply. " But it wasn't handsome in 
 you, Mr. Bucket." 
 
GRIDLEY^S RETREAT. 
 
 425 
 
 " Gammon, George ! Not handsome ? said Mr. Bucket, 
 tapping him on his broad breast again, and shaking hands 
 with him. "I don't say it wasn't handsome in you to keep 
 my man so close, do I ? Be equally good-tempered to me, 
 old boy! Old William Tell, Old Shaw, the Life Guardsman! 
 Why, he's a model of the whole British army in himself, 
 ladies and gentlemen. Fd give a fifty-pun' note to be such 
 a figure of a man ! " 
 
 The affair being brought to this head, Mr. George, after 
 a little consideration, proposed to go in first to his comrade 
 (as he called him), taking Miss Elite with him. Mr. Bucket 
 agreeing, they went away to the further end of the gallery, 
 leaving us sitting and standing by a table covered with guns. 
 Mr. Bucket took this opportunity of entering into a little 
 light conversation : asking me if I were afraid of fire-arms, 
 as most young ladies were ; asking Richard if he were a 
 good shot; asking Phil Squod which he considered the best 
 of those rifles, and what it might be worth, first-hand ; telling 
 him, in return, that it w^as a pity he ever gave way to his 
 temper, for he was naturally so amiable, that he might have 
 been a young woman; and making himself generally agreeable. 
 
 After a time he followed us to the further end of the 
 gallery, and Richard and I were going quietly away, when 
 Mr. George came after us. He said that if Ave had no 
 objection to see his comrade, he would take a visit from us 
 very kindly. The words had hardly passed his lips, when the 
 bell was rung, and my guardian appeared ; "on the chance," 
 he slightly observed, " of being able to do any little thing 
 for a poor fellow involved in the same misfortune as himself." 
 We all four went back together, and went into the place 
 where Gridley w^as. 
 
 It was a bare room, partitioned off from the gallery with 
 unpainted wood. As the screening was not more than eight 
 or ten feet high, and only enclosed the sides, not the top, 
 the rafters of the high gallery roof were overhead, and the 
 skylight through which Mr. Bucket had looked down. The 
 
BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 sun was low — near setting — and its light came redly in 
 above, without descending to the ground. Upon a plain 
 canvas-covered sofa lay the man from Shropshire — dressed 
 much as we had seen him last, but so changed, that at first 
 I recognised no likeness in his colourless face to what I 
 recollected. 
 
 He had been still writing in his hiding-place, and still 
 dwelling on his grievances, hour after hour. A table and 
 some shelves were covered with manuscript papers, and with 
 worn pens, and a medley of such tokens. Touchingly and 
 awfully drawn together, he and the little mad woman were 
 side by side, and, as it were, alone. She sat on a chair 
 holding his hand, and none of us went close to them. 
 
 His voice had faded, with the old expression of his face, 
 with his strength, with his anger, with his resistance to the 
 wrongs that had at last subdued him. The faintest shadow 
 of an object full of form and colour, is such a picture of it, 
 as he was of the man from Shropshire whom we had spoken 
 with before. 
 
 He inclined his head to Richard and me, and spoke to my 
 guardian. 
 
 "Mr. Jarndyce, it is very kind of you to come to see me. 
 I am not long to be seen, I think. I am very glad to take 
 your hand, sir. You are a good man, superior to injustice, 
 and God knows I honour you.**^ 
 
 They shook hands earnestly, and my guardian said some 
 words of comfort to him. 
 
 " It may seem strange to you, sir,''' returned Gridley ; " I 
 should not have liked to see you, if this had been the first 
 time of our meeting. But, you know I made a fight for it, 
 you know I stood up with my single hand against them all, 
 you know I told them the truth to the last, and told them 
 what they were, and what they had done to me ; so I don't 
 mind your seeing me, this wreck."" 
 
 "You have been courageous with them, many and many 
 a time,'' returned my guardian. 
 
MR. BUCKET OFFERS CONSOLATION. 427 
 
 " Sir, I have been ; with a faint smile. " I told you what 
 would come of it, when I ceased to be so ; and, see here ! 
 Look at us — look at us ! He drew the hand Miss Elite 
 held, through her arm, and brought her something nearer 
 to him. 
 
 "This ends it. Of all my old associations, of all my old 
 pursuits and hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this 
 one poor soul alone comes natural to me, and I am fit for. 
 There is a tie of many suffering years between us two, and 
 it is the only tie I ever had on earth that Chancery has not 
 broken. 
 
 "Accept my blessing, Gridley,"'' said Miss Elite, in tears. 
 " Accept my blessing ! 
 
 "I thought, boastfully, that they never could break my 
 heart, Mr. Jarndyce. I was resolved that they should not. 
 I did believe that I could, and would, charge them with being 
 the mockery they were, until I died of some bodily disorder. 
 But I am worn out. How long I have been wearing out, I 
 don't know ; I seemed to break down in an hour. I hope 
 they may never come to hear of it. I hope everybody, here, 
 will lead them to believe that I died defying them, consistently 
 and perseveringly, as I did through so many years." 
 
 Here Mr. Bucket, who was sitting in a corner, by the 
 door, good-naturedly offered such consolation as he could 
 administer. 
 
 " Come, come ! he said from his corner. " Don't go on 
 in that way, Mr. Gridley. You are only a little low. We 
 are all of us a little low, sometimes. / am. Hold up, hold 
 up ! You'll lose your temper with the whole round of "'em, 
 again and again ; and I shall take you on a score of warrants 
 yet, if I have luck.'*'* 
 
 He only shook his head. 
 
 " Don't shake your head,'*'' said Mr. Bucket. " Nod it ; 
 thafs what I want to see you do. Why, Lord bless your 
 soul, what times we have had together ! Haven't I seen you 
 in the Fleet over and over again, for contempt ? Haven't I 
 
428 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 come into Court, twen-ty afternoons, for no other purpose 
 than to see you pin the Chancellor like a bull-dog? Don't 
 you remember, when you first began to threaten the lawyers, 
 and the peace was sworn against you two or three times a 
 week ? Ask the little old lady there ; she has been always 
 present. Hold up, Mr. Gridley, hold up, sir ! 
 
 " What are you going to do about him ? asked George, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 " I don't know yet,"' said Bucket, in the same tone. Then 
 resuming his encouragement, he pursued aloud : 
 
 " Worn out, Mr. Gridley ? After dodging me for all these 
 weeks, and forcing me to climb the roof here like a Tom Cat, 
 and to come to see you as a Doctor ? That ain't like being 
 worn out. / should think not ! Now I tell you what you 
 want. You want excitement, you know, to keep you up ; 
 that's what you want. You're used to it, and you can't do 
 without it. I couldn't myself. Very well, then ; here's this 
 warrant got by Mr. Tulkinghorn of Lincoln's Inn Fields, and 
 backed into half-a-dozen counties since. What do you say 
 to coming along with me, upon this warrant, and having a 
 good angry argument before the Magistrates ? It'll do you 
 good ; it'll freshen you up, and get you into training for 
 another turn at the Chancellor. Give in ? Why, I am sur- 
 prised to hear a man of your energy talk of giving in. You 
 mustn't do that. You're half the fun of the fair, in the 
 Court of Chancery. George, you lend Mr. Gridley a hand, 
 and let's see now whether he won't be better up than down." 
 
 " He is very weak," said the trooper, in a low voice. 
 
 " Is he ? " returned Bucket, anxiously. " I only want to 
 rouse him. I don't like to see an old acquaintance giving in 
 like this. It would cheer him up more than anything, if I 
 could make him a little waxy with me. He's welcome to 
 drop into me, right and left, if he likes. I shall never take 
 advantage of it." 
 
 The roof rang with a scream from Miss Elite, which still 
 rings in my ears. 
 
GRIDLETS LAST REFUGE. 
 
 429 
 
 " O no, Gridley ! she cried, as he fell heavily and calmly 
 back from before her, "not without my blessing. After so 
 many years ! 
 
 The sun was down, the light had gradually stolen from the 
 roof, and the shadow had crept upward. But, to me, the 
 shadow of that pair, one living and one dead, fell heavier on 
 Richard's departure, than the darkness of the darkest night. 
 And through Richard'^s farewell words I heard it echoed : 
 
 "Of all my old associations, of all my old pursuits and 
 hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor 
 soul alone comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a 
 tie of many suffering years between us two, and it is the only 
 tie I ever had on earth that Chancery has not broken ! 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MRS. SNAGSBY SEES IT ALL. 
 
 There is disquietude in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. Black 
 suspicion hides in that peaceful region. The mass of Cook's- 
 Cour tiers are in their usual state of mind, no better and no 
 worse; but, Mr. Snagsby is changed, and his little woman 
 knows it. 
 
 For, Tom-all-Alone''s and Lincoln''s Inn Fields persist in 
 harnessing themselves, a pair of ungovernable coursers, to the 
 chariot of Mr. Snagsby 's imagination ; and Mr. Bucket drives ; 
 and the passengers are Jo and Mr. Tulkinghorn; and the 
 complete equipage whirls through the Law Stationery business 
 at wild speed, all round the clock. Even in the little front 
 kitchen where the family meals are taken, it rattles away at 
 a smoking pace from the dinner-table, when Mr. Snagsby 
 pauses in carving the first slice of the leg of mutton baked 
 with potatoes, and stares at the kitchen wall. 
 
 Mr. Snagsby cannot make out what it is that he has 
 had to do with. Something is wrong, somewhere; but what 
 something, what may come of it, to whom, when, and from 
 which unthought-of and unheard-of quarter, is the puzzle of 
 his life. His remote impressions of the robes and coronets, 
 the stars and garters, that sparkle through the surface-dust 
 of Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers ; his veneration for the 
 mysteries presided over by that best and closest of his 
 customers, Mhom all the Inns of Court, all Chancery Lane, 
 
MR. SNAGSBY'S SECRET. 
 
 431 
 
 and all the legal neighbourhood agree to hold in awe; his 
 remembrance of Detective Mr. Bucket with his forefinger, 
 and his confidential manner impossible to be evaded or 
 declined ; persuade him that he is a party to some dangerous 
 secret, without knowing what it is. And it is the fearful 
 peculiarii»/ of this condition that, at any hour of his daily 
 life, at any opening of the shop-door, at any pull of the bell, 
 at any entrance of a messenger, or any delivery of a letter, 
 the secret may take air and fire, explode, and blow up — Mr. 
 Bucket only knows whom. 
 
 For which reason, whenever a man unknown comes into the 
 shop (as many men unknown do), and says, " Is Mr. Snagsby 
 in ? or words to that innocent effect, Mr. Snagsby's heart 
 knocks hard at his guilty breast. He undergoes so much 
 from such inquiries, that when they are made by boys he 
 revenges himself by flipping at their ears over the counter, 
 and asking the young dogs what they mean by it, and why 
 they can't speak out at once? More impracticable men and 
 boys persist in walking into Mr. Snagsby's sleep, and terrify- 
 ing him with unaccountable questions ; so that often, when 
 the cock at the little dairy in Cursitor Street breaks out in 
 his usual absurd way about the morning, Mr. Snagsby finds 
 himself in a crisis of nightmare, with his little woman shaking 
 him, and saying, " What's the matter with the man ! 
 
 The little woman herself is not the least item in his 
 difficulty. To know that he is always keeping a secret from 
 her ; that he has, under all circumstances, to conceal and hold 
 fast a tender double tooth, which her sharpness is ever ready 
 to twist out of his head ; gives Mr. Snagsby, ini her dentistical 
 presence, .hnuch of the air of a dog who has a reservation from 
 his masttfr, and will look anywhere rather than meet his eye. 
 
 These various signs and tokens, marked by the little woman, 
 are not lost upon her. They impel her to say, " Snagsby has 
 something on his mind ! '' And thus suspicion gets into Cook's 
 Court, Cursitor Street. From suspicion to jealousy, Mrs. 
 Snagsby finds the road as natural and short as from Cook's 
 
432 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Court to Chancery Lane. And thus jealousy gets into Cook's 
 Court, Cursitor Street. Once there (and it was always lurk- 
 ing thereabout), it is very active and nimble in Mrs. Snagsby'^s 
 breast — prompting her to nocturnal examinations of Mr. 
 Snagsby's pockets ; to secret perusals of Mr. Snagsby'^s letters ; 
 to private researches in the Day Book and Ledger, till, cash- 
 box, and iron safe ; to watchings at windows, . listenings 
 behind doors, and a general putting of this and that together 
 by the wrong end. 
 
 Mrs. Snagsby is so perpetually on the alert, that the house 
 becomes ghostly w^ith creaking boards and rustling garments. 
 The ''prentices think somebody may have been murdered 
 there, in bygone times. Guster holds certain loose atoms of 
 an idea (picked up at Tooting, where they were found floating 
 among the orphans), that there is buried money underneath 
 the cellar, guarded by an old man with a white beard, who 
 cannot get out for seven thousand years, because he said the 
 Lord's Prayer backwards. 
 
 " Who was Nimrod ? '' Mrs. Snagsby repeatedly inquires of 
 herself. " Who was that lady — that creature ? And who is 
 that boy ? " Now, Nimrod being as dead as the mighty hunter 
 whose name Mrs. Snagsby has appropriated, and the lady 
 being unproducible, she directs her mental eye, for the present, 
 ^v\i\l redoubled vigilance, to the boy. "And who,'' quoth 
 Mrs. Snagsby, for the thousand and first time, " is that boy ? 
 
 Who is that ! " And there Mrs. Snagsby is seized with 
 
 an inspiration. 
 
 He has no respect for Mr. Chadband. No, to be sure, 
 and he wouldn't have, of course. Naturally he wouldn't, 
 vmder those contagious circumstances. He was invited and 
 appointed by Mr. Chadband — why, Mrs. Snagsby heard it 
 herself with her own ears ! — to come back, and be told where 
 he was to go, to be addressed by Mr. Chadband; and he 
 never came ! Why did he never come ? Because he was told 
 not to come. Who told him not to come ? Who ? Ha, 
 ha ! Mrs. Snagsby sees it all. 
 
A VERY TOUGH SUBJECT. 
 
 But happily (and Mrs. Snagsby tightly shakes her head 
 and tightly smiles), that boy was met by Mr. Chadband yester- 
 day in the streets; and that boy, as affording a subject which 
 Mr. Chadband desires to improve for the spiritual delight 
 of a select congregation, was seized by Mr. Chadband and 
 threatened with being delivered over to the police, unless he 
 showed the reverend gentleman where he lived, and unless 
 he entered into, and fulfilled, an undertaking to appear in 
 Cook's Court to-morrow night — " to — mor — row — night,**' Mrs. 
 Snagsby repeats for mere emphasis, with another tight smile, 
 and another tight shake of her head; and to-morrow night 
 that boy will be here, and to-morrow night Mrs. Snagsby will 
 have her eye upon him and upon some one else ; and O you 
 may walk a long while in your secret ways (says Mrs. Snagsby, 
 with haughtiness and scorn), but you can't blind me ! 
 
 Mrs. Snagsby sounds no timbrel in anybody's ears, but holds 
 her purpose quietly, and keeps her counsel. To-morrow comes, 
 the savoury preparations for the Oil Trade come, the evening 
 comes. Comes, Mr. Snagsby in his black coat; come, the 
 Chadbands; come (when the gorging vessel is replete), the 
 'prentices and Guster, to be edified ; comes, at last, with his 
 slouching head, and his shuffle backward, and his shuffle 
 forward, and his shuffle to the right, and his shuffle to the 
 left, and his bit of fur cap in his muddy hand, which he 
 picks as if it were some mangy bird he had caught, and was 
 plucking before eating raw, Jo, the very, very tough subject 
 Mr. Chadband is to improve. 
 
 Mrs. Snagsby screws a watchful glance on Jo, as he is 
 brought into the little drawing-room by Guster. He looks 
 at Mr. Snagsby the moment he comes in. Aha ! Why does 
 he look at Mr. Snagsby ? Mr. Snagsby looks at him. Why 
 should he do that, but that Mrs. Snagsby sees it all ? Why 
 else should that look pass between them, why else should Mr. 
 Snagsby be confused, and cough a signal cough behind his hand? 
 It is as clear as crystal that Mr. Snagsby is that boy's father. 
 
 "Peace, my friends,'^ says Chadband, rising and wiping the 
 
 VOL. I. 2 F 
 
434 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 oily exudations from his reverend visage. " Peace be with 
 us ! My friends, why with us ? Because,*" with his fat smile, 
 " it cannot be against us, because it must be for us ; because 
 it is not hardening, because it is softening ; because it does 
 not make war like the hawk, but comes home untoe us like 
 the dove. Therefore, my friends, peace be with us ! My 
 human boy, come forward ! ""^ 
 
 Stretching forth his flabby paw, Mr. Chadband lays the 
 same on Jo'^s arm, and considers where to station him. Jo, 
 very doubtful of his reverend friend's intentions, and not at 
 all clear but that something practical and painful is going to 
 be done to him, mutters, " You let me alone. I never said 
 nothink to you. You let me alone.'*'' 
 
 " No, my young friend,^'' says Chadband, smoothly, " I will 
 not let you alone. And why? Because I am a harvest- 
 labourer, because I am a toiler and a moiler, because you are 
 delivered over untoe me, and are become as a precious in-^^ 
 strument in my hands. My friends, may I so employ this 
 instrument as to use it toe your advantage, toe your profit, 
 toe your gain, toe your welfare, toe your enrichment ! My 
 young friend, sit upon this stool.'*' 
 
 Jo, apparently possessed by an impression that the reverend 
 gentleman wants to cut his hair, shields his head with both 
 arms, and is got into the required position with great diffi- 
 culty, and every possible manifestation of reluctance. 
 
 When he is at last adjusted like a lay-figure, Mr. Chadband, 
 retiring behind the table, holds up his bear's-paw, and says, 
 " My friends ! This is the signal for a general settlement of 
 the audience. The 'prentices giggle internally, and nudge 
 each other. Guster falls into a staring and vacant state, 
 compounded of a stunned admiration of Mr. Chadband and 
 pity for the friendless outcast whose condition touches her 
 nearly. Mrs. Snagsby silently lays trains of gunpowder. Mrs. 
 Chadband composes herself grimly by the fire, and warms her 
 knees: finding that sensation favourable to the reception of 
 eloquence. 
 
UNIVEftSnV It ILLINOIS. 
 
A GENTILE AND A HEATHEN. 435 
 
 It happens that Mr. Chadband has a pulpit habit of fixing 
 some member of his congregation with his eye, and fatly 
 arguing his points with that particular person ; who is under- 
 stood to be expected to be moved to an occasional grunt, 
 groan, gasp, or other audible expression of inward working ; 
 which expression of inward working, being echoed by some 
 elderly lady in the next pew, and so communicated, like 
 a game of forfeits, through a circle of the more fermentable 
 sinners present, serves the purpose of parliamentary cheering, 
 and gets Mr. Chadband's steam up. From mere force of 
 habit, Mr. Chadband in saying " My friends ! has rested his 
 eye on Mr. Snagsby ; and proceeds to make that ill-starred 
 stationer, already sufficiently confused, the immediate recipient 
 of his discourse. 
 
 " We have here among us, my friends," says Chadband, " a 
 Gentile and a Heathen, a dweller in the tents of Tom-all- 
 Alone'^s and a mover-on upon the surface of the earth. We 
 have here among us, my friends," and Mr. Chadband, untwist- 
 ing the point with his dirty thumb-nail, bestows an oily smile 
 on Mr. Snagsby, signifying that he will throw him an argu- 
 mentative back-fall presently if he be not already down, "a 
 brother and a boy. Devoid of parents, devoid of relations, 
 devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold and silver, and of 
 precious stones. Now, my friends, why do I say he is devoid 
 of these possessions ? Why ? Why is he ? " Mr. Chadband 
 states the question as if he were propounding an entirely new 
 riddle, of much ingenuity and merit, to Mr. Snagsby, and 
 entreating him not to give it up. 
 
 Mr. Snagsby, greatly perplexed by the mysterious look he 
 received just now from his littk woman — at about the period 
 when Mr. Chadband mentioned the word parents — is tempted 
 into modestly remarking, "I don't know, Fm sure, sir." On 
 which interruption, Mrs. Chadband glares, and Mrs. Snagsby 
 says, " For shame ! " 
 
 " I hear a voice," says Chadband ; " is it a still small voice, 
 my friends ? I fear not, though I fain would hope so " 
 
436 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 (" Ah— h ! from Mrs. Snagsby.) 
 
 "Which says, I don't know. Then I will tell you why. 
 I say this brother, present here among us, is devoid of 
 parents, devoid of relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid 
 of gold, of silver, and of precious stones, because he is devoid 
 of the hght that shines in upon some of us. What is that 
 light ? AVhat is it ? I ask you what is that light ? 
 
 Mr. Chadband draws back his head and pauses, but Mr. 
 Snagsby is not to be lured on to his destruction again. 
 Mr. Chadband, leaning forward over the table, pierces what 
 he has got to follow, directly into Mr. Snagsby, with the 
 thumb-nail already mentioned. 
 
 " It is,*" says Chadband, " the ray of rays, the sun of suns, 
 the moon of moons, the star of stars. It is the light of 
 Terewth." 
 
 Mr. Chadband draws himself up again, and looks trium- 
 phantly at Mr. Snagsby, as if he would be glad to know how 
 he feels after that. 
 
 " Of Terewth,'" says Mr. Chadband, hitting him again. 
 "Say not to me it is not the lamp of lamps. I say to 
 you, it is. I say to you, a million times over, it is. It is ! 
 1 say to you that I will proclaim it to you, whether you like 
 it or not ; nay, that the less you like it, the more I will 
 proclaim it to you. With a speaking-trumpet ! I say to you 
 that if you rear yourself against it, you shall fall, you shall 
 be bruised, you shall be battered, you shall be flayed, you 
 shall be smashed.'' 
 
 The present effect of this flight of oratory — much admired 
 for its general power by Mr. Chadband's followers — being 
 not only to make Mr. Chadband unpleasantly warm, but to 
 represent the innocent Mr. Snagsby in the light of a deter- 
 mined enemy to virtue, with a forehead of brass and a heart of 
 adamant, that unfortunate tradesman becomes yet more dis- 
 concerted ; and is in a very advanced state of low spirits and 
 false position, when Mr. Chadband accidentally finishes him. 
 
 "My friends," he resumes, after dabbing his fat head for 
 
WHAT IS TEREWTH? 
 
 437 
 
 some time — and it smokes to such an extent that he seems to 
 light his pocket-handkerchief at it, which smokes, too, after 
 every dab — "to pursue the subject we are endeavouring with 
 our lowly gifts to improve, let us in a spirit of love inquire 
 what is that Terewth to which I have alluded. For, my 
 young friends,"''' suddenly addressing the 'prentices and Guster, 
 to their consternation, " if I am told by the doctor that 
 calomel or castor-oil is good for me, I may naturally ask what 
 is calomel, and what is castor-oil. I may wish to be informed 
 of that, before I dose myself with either or with both. Now, 
 my young friends, what is this Terewth, then ? Firstly (in 
 a spirit of love), what is the common sort of Terewth — the 
 working clothes — the e very-day wear, my young friends ? Is 
 it deception ? " 
 
 ("Ah— h!'' from Mrs. Snagsby.) 
 
 " Is it suppression ? 
 
 (A shiver in the negative from Mrs. Snagsby.) 
 "Is it reservation.^**' 
 
 (A shake of the head from Mrs. Snagsby — very long and 
 very tight.) 
 
 " No, my friends, it is neither of these. Neither of these 
 names belongs to it. When this young Heathen now among 
 us — who is now, my friends, asleep, the seal of indifference 
 and perdition being set upon his eyelids; but do not wake 
 him, for it is right that I should have to wrestle, and to 
 combat and to struggle, and to conquer, for his sake — when 
 this young hardened Heathen told us a story of a Cock, and 
 of a Bull, and of a lady, and of a sovereign, was that the 
 Terewth? No. Or, if it was partly, was it wholly, and 
 entirely ? No, my friends, no ! '' 
 
 If Mr. Snagsby could withstand his little woman's look, 
 as it enters at his eyes, the windows of his soul, and searches 
 the whole tenement, he were other than the man he is. He 
 cowers and droops. 
 
 "Or, my juvenile friends," says Chadband, descending to 
 the level of their comprehension, with a very obtrusive 
 
438 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 demonstration, in his greasily meek smile, of coming a long 
 way down-stairs for the purpose, " if the master of this house 
 was to go forth into the city and there see an eel, and was 
 to come back, and was to call untoe him the mistress of this 
 house, and was to say, 'Sarah, rejoice with me, for I have 
 seen an elephant ! would that be Terewth ? 
 Mrs. Snagsby in tears. 
 
 "Or put it, my juvenile friends, that he saw an elephant, 
 and returning said, 'Lo, the city is barren, I have seen but 
 an eel,'' would that be Terewth ? 
 
 Mrs. Snagsby sobbing loudly. 
 
 " Or put it, my juvenile friends,'''' said Chadband, stimulated 
 by the sound, " that the unnatural parents of this slumbering 
 Heathen — for parents he had, my juvenile friends, beyond a 
 doubt — after casting him forth to the wolves and the vultures, 
 and the wild dogs and the young gazelles, and the serpents, 
 went back to their dwellings and had their pipes, and their 
 pots, and their flutings and their dancings, and their malt 
 liquors, and their butcher'^s meat and poultry, would that be 
 Terewth 
 
 Mrs. Snagsby replies by delivering herself a prey to spasms ; 
 not an unresisting prey, but a crying and a tearing one, so that 
 Cook's Court re-echoes with her shrieks. Finally, becoming 
 cataleptic, she has to be carried up the narrow staircase like 
 a grand piano. After unspeakable suffering, productive of the 
 utmost consternation, she is pronounced, by expresses from 
 the bedroom, free from pain, though much exhausted; in 
 which state of affairs Mr. Snagsby, trampled and crushed in 
 the pianoforte removal, and extremely timid and feeble, ven- 
 tures to come out from behind the door in the drawing-room. 
 
 All this time, Jo has been standing on the spot where he 
 woke up, ever picking his cap, and putting bits of fur in his 
 mouth. He spits them out with a remorseful air, for he feels 
 that it is in his nature to be an unimprovable reprobate, and 
 that it's no good his trying to keep awake, for he won''t never 
 know nothink. Though it may be, Jo, that there is a history 
 
A TOUCH OF COMPASSION. 439 
 
 so interesting and affecting even to minds as near the brutes 
 as thine, recording deeds done on this earth for common men, 
 that if the Chadbands, removing their own persons from the 
 light, would but show it thee in simple reverence, would but 
 leave it unimproved, would but regard it as being eloquent 
 enough without their modest aid — it might hold thee awake, 
 and thou might learn from it yet ! 
 
 Jo never heard of any such book. Its compilers, and the 
 Reverend Chadband, are all one to him — except that he knows 
 the Reverend Chadband, and would rather run away from 
 him for an hour than hear him talk for five minutes. "It 
 an't no good my waiting here no longer,^** thinks Jo. "Mr. 
 Snagsby an't a-going to say nothink to me to-night.'" And 
 down-stairs he shuffles. 
 
 But down-stairs is the charitable Guster, holding by the 
 handrail of the kitchen stairs, and warding off a fit, as yet 
 doubtfully, the same having been induced by Mrs. Snagsby'^s 
 screaming. She has her own supper of bread and cheese to 
 hand to Jo ; with whom she ventures to interchange a word 
 or so, for the first time. 
 
 "Here's something to eat, poor boy,*" says Guster. 
 
 "Thank'ee, mum,"' says Jo. 
 
 " Are you hungry ? "' 
 
 " Jist ! says Jo. 
 
 " What's gone of your father and your mother, eh ? " 
 
 Jo stops in the middle of a bite, and looks petrified. For 
 this orphan charge of the Christian saint whose shrine was 
 at Tooting, has patted him on the shoulder; and it is the 
 first time in his life that any decent hand has been so laid 
 upon him. 
 
 "I never know'd nothink about 'em,'' says Jo. 
 
 "No more didn't I of mine," cries Guster. She is repressx 
 ing symptoms favourable to the fit, when she seems to take 
 alarm at something, and vanishes down the stairs. 
 
 "Jo," whispers the law-stationer softly, as the boy lingers 
 on the step. 
 
440 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " Here I am, Mr. Snagsby ! 
 
 " I didn't know you were gone — there's another half-crown, 
 Jo. It was quite right of you to say nothing about the lady 
 the other night when we were out together. It would breed 
 trouble. You can't be too quiet, Jo." 
 
 " I am fly, master ! '' 
 
 And so, good night. 
 
 A ghostly shade, frilled and night-capped, follows the law- 
 stationer to the room he came from, and glides higher up. 
 And henceforth he begins, go where he will, to be attended 
 by another shadow than his own, hardly less constant than 
 his own, hardly less quiet than his own. And into whatsoever 
 atmosphere of secrecy his own shadow may pass, let all con- 
 cerned in the secrecy beware ! For the watchful Mrs. Snagsby 
 is there too — bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, shadow of 
 his shadow. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 SHARPSHOOTERS. 
 
 Wintry morning, looking with dull eyes and sallow face upon 
 the neighbourhood of Leicester Square, finds its inhabitants 
 unwilling to get out of bed. Many of them are not early 
 risers at the brightest of times, being birds of night who 
 roost when the sun is high, and are wide awake and keen for 
 prey when the stars shine out. Behind dingy blind and cur- 
 tain, in upper story and garret, skulking more or less under 
 false names, false hair, false titles, false jewellery, and false 
 histories, a colony of brigands lie in their first sleep. Gentle- 
 men of the green baize road who could discourse, from 
 personal experience, of foreign galleys and home treadmills; 
 spies of strong governments that eternally quake with weak- 
 ness and miserable fear, broken traitors, cowards, bullies, 
 gamesters, shufflers, swindlers, and false witnesses; some not 
 unmarked by the branding-iron, beneath their dirty braid ; 
 all with more cruelty in them than was in Nero, and more 
 crime than is in Newgate. For, howsoever bad the devil can 
 be in fustian or smock-frock (and he can be very bad in both), 
 he is a more designing, callous, and intolerable devil when he 
 sticks a pin in his shirt-front, calls himself a gentleman, backs 
 a card or colour, plays a game or so of billiards, and knows 
 a little about bills and promissory notes, than in any other 
 form he wears. And in such form Mr. Bucket shall find 
 him, when he will, still pervading the tributary channels of 
 Leicester Square. 
 
442 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 But the wintry morning wants him not and wakes him 
 not. It wakes Mr. George of the Shooting Gallery, and his 
 Familiar. They arise, roll up and stow away their mattresses. 
 Mr. George, having shaved himself before a looking-glass of 
 minute proportions, then marches out, bare-headed and bare- 
 chested, to the Pump, in the little yard, and anon comes back 
 shining with yellow soap, friction, drifting rain, and exceed- 
 ingly cold w^ater. As he rubs himself upon a large jack-towel, 
 blowing like a military sort of diver just come up : his crisp 
 hair curling tighter and tighter on his sunburnt temples, the 
 more he rubs it, so that it looks as if it never could be 
 loosened by any less coercive instrument than an iron rake or 
 a curry-comb — as he rubs, and puffs, and polishes, and blows, 
 turning his head from side to side, the more conveniently to 
 excoriate his throat, and standing with his body well bent 
 forward, to keep the w^et from his martial legs — Phil, on his 
 knees lighting a fire, looks round as if it were enough wash- 
 ing for him to see all that done, and sufficient renovation, 
 for one day, to take in the superfluous health his master 
 throws off. 
 
 When Mr. George is dry, he goes to work to brush his 
 bead with two hard brushes at once, to that unmerciful 
 degree that Phil, shouldering his way round the gallery in 
 the act of sweeping it, winks with sympathy. This chafing 
 over, the ornamental part of Mr. George's toilet is soon per- 
 formed. He fills his pipe, lights it, and marches up and down 
 smoking, as his custom is, while Phil, raising a powerful 
 odour of hot rolls and coffee, prepares breakfast. He smokes 
 gravely, and marches in slow time. Perhaps this morning's 
 pipe is devoted to the memory of Gridley in his grave. 
 
 " And so, Phil,'*'' says George of the Shooting Gallery, after 
 several turns in silence ; " you w^ere dreaming of the country 
 last night?'' 
 
 Phil, by-the-bye, said as much, in a tone of surprise, as he 
 scrambled out of bed. 
 "Yes, guv'ner." 
 
MR. GEORGE AND HIS MAN PHIL. 443 
 
 "What was it like?^^ 
 
 "I hardly know what it was like, guv'neiV said Phil, 
 considering. 
 
 " How did you know it was the country ? " 
 
 " On account of the grass, I think. And the swans upon 
 it," says Phil, after further consideration. 
 
 " What were the swans doing on the grass 
 
 ''They was a-eating of it, I expect,"" says Phil. 
 
 The master resumes his march, and the man resumes his 
 preparation of breakfast. It is not necessarily a lengthened 
 preparation, being limited to the setting forth of very simple 
 breakfast requisites for two, and the broihng of a rasher of 
 bacon at the fire in the rusty grate ; but as Phil has to sidle 
 round a considerable part of the gallery for every object he 
 wants, and never brings two objects at once, it takes time 
 under the circumstances. At length the breakfast is ready. 
 Phil announcing it, Mr. George knocks the ashes out of his 
 pipe on the hob, stands his pipe itself in the chimney corner, 
 and sits down to the meal. When he has helped himself, 
 Phil follows suit; sitting at the extreme end of the little 
 oblong table, and taking his plate on his knees. Either in 
 humility, or to hide his blackened hands, or because it is his 
 natural manner of eating. 
 
 " The country,'*' says Mr. George, plying his knife and fork ; 
 " why, I suppose you never clapped your eyes on the country, 
 Phil?'' 
 
 "I see the marshes once,'' says Phil, contentedly eating his 
 breakfast. 
 
 "What marshes.?" 
 
 " The marshes, commander," returns Phil. 
 "Where are they?" 
 
 " I don't know where they are," says Phil ; " but I see 'em, 
 guv'ner. They was flat. And miste." 
 
 Governor and Commander are interchangeable terms with 
 Phil, expressive of the same respect and deference, and 
 applicable to nobody but Mr. George. 
 
444 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "I was born in the country, Phil/' 
 
 Was you indeed, commander ? 
 "Yes. And bred there.'' 
 
 Phil elevates his one eyebrow, and, after respectfully 
 staring at his master to express interest, swallows a great 
 gulp of coffee, still staring at him. 
 
 "There's not a bird's note that I don't know,*" says Mr. 
 George. " Not many an English leaf or berry that I 
 couldn't name. Not many a tree that I couldn't climb yet, 
 if I was put to it. I was a real country boy, once. My 
 good mother lived in the country." 
 
 " She must have been a fine old lady, guv'ner," Phil 
 observes. 
 
 "Ay! and not so old either, five-and- thirty years ago,'** 
 says Mr. George. " But I'll wager that at ninety she would 
 be near as upright as me, and near as broad across the 
 shoulders.'"' 
 
 " Did she die at ninety, guv'ner ? inquires Phil. 
 
 " No. Bosh ! Let her rest in peace, God bless her ! " says 
 the trooper. "What set me on about country boys, and 
 runaways, and good-for-nothings ? You, to be sure ! So you 
 never clapped your eyes upon the countr}^ — marshes and 
 dreams excepted. Eh?" 
 
 Phil shakes his head. 
 
 " Do you want to see it ? " 
 
 "N-no, I don't know as I do, particular," says Phil. 
 "The town's enough for you, eh?" 
 
 " Why, you see, commander," says Phil, " I ain't acquainted 
 w ith anythink else, and I doubt if I ain't a-getting too old 
 to take to novelties." 
 
 " How old are you, Phil ? " asks the trooper, pausing as 
 he conveys his smoking saucer to his lips. 
 
 " Pm something with a eight in it," says Phil. " It can't 
 be eighty. Nor yet eighteen. It's betwixt Vm, some- 
 wheres." 
 
 Mr. George, slowly putting down his saucer without tasting 
 
PHIUS AGE. 
 
 445 
 
 its contents, is laughingly beginning, " Why, what the deuce, 
 Phil,'' — when he stops, seeing that Phil is counting on his 
 dirty fingers. 
 
 "I was just eight,**' says Phil, "agreeable to the parish 
 calculation, when I went with the tinker. I was sent on a 
 errand, and I see him a sittin under a old buildin with a fire 
 all to himself wery comfortable, and he says, ' Would you like 
 to come along a me, my man ? ' I says ' Yes,' and him and 
 me and the fire goes home to Clerkenwell together. That 
 was April Fool Day. I was able to count up to ten ; and 
 when April Fool Day come round again, I says to myself, 
 'Now, old chap, you're one and a eight in it.' April Fool 
 Day after that, ^Now, old chap, you're two and a eight in 
 it.' In course of time, I come to ten and a eight in it ; two 
 tens and a eight in it. When it got so high, it got the 
 upper hand of me ; but this is how I always know there's a 
 eight in it." 
 
 "Ah!" says Mr. George, resuming his breakfast. "And 
 where's the tinker?" 
 
 " Drink put him in the hospital, guv'ner, and the hospital 
 put him — in a glass case, I have heerd," Phil replies 
 mysteriously. 
 
 " By that means you got promotion ? Took the business, 
 Phil?" 
 
 "Yes, commander, I took the business. Such as it was. 
 It wasn't much of a beat — round Saffron Hill, Hatton 
 Garden, Clerkenwell, SmifFeld, and there — poor neighbour- 
 hood, where they uses up the kettles till they're past mend- 
 ing. Most of the tramping tinkers used to come and lodge 
 at our place ; that was the best part of my master's earnings. 
 But they didn't come to me. I warn't like him. He could 
 sing 'em a good song. / couldn't ! He could play 'em a 
 tune on any sort of pot you please, so as it was iron or 
 block tin. / never could do nothing with a pot, but mend 
 it or bile it — never had a note of music in me. Besides, I 
 was too ill-looking, and their wives complained of me." 
 
446 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " They were mighty particular. You would pass muster in 
 a crowd, Phil ! says the trooper with a pleasant smile. 
 
 "No, guv'ner,'' returns Phil, shaking his head, "No, I 
 shouldn't. I was passable enough when I went with the 
 tinker, though nothing to boast of then : but what with blow- 
 ing the fire with my mouth when I was young, and spileing 
 my complexion, and singeing my hair off, and swallering the 
 smoke ; and what with being naturally unfortunate in the way 
 of running against hot metal, and marking myself by sich 
 means ; and what with having turn-ups with the tinker as I 
 got older, almost whenever he was too far gone in drink — 
 which was almost always — my beauty was queer, wery queer, 
 even at that time. As to since ; what with a dozen years in 
 a dark forge, where the men was given to larking ; and what 
 with being scorched in a accident at a gas-works ; and what 
 with being blowed out of winder, case-filling at the firework 
 business ; I am ugly enough to be made a show on ! '''' 
 
 Resigning himself to which condition with a perfectly 
 satisfied manner, Phil begs the favour of another cup of coffee. 
 While drinking it, he says : 
 
 " It was after the case-filling blow-up, when I first see you, 
 commander. You remember?'" 
 
 " I remember, Phil. You were walking along in the sun.'' 
 
 " Crawling, guv'ner, again a wall " 
 
 " True, Phil — shouldering your way on " 
 
 " In a nightcap ! " exclaims Phil, excited. 
 
 " In a nightcap " 
 
 " And hobbling with a couple of sticks I " cries Phil, still 
 more excited. 
 
 " With a couple of sticks. When " 
 
 " When you stops, you know," cries Phil, putting down his 
 cup and saucer, and hastily removing his plate from his knees, 
 " and says to me, ' What, comrade ! You have been in the 
 wars ! ' I didn't say much to you, commander, then, for I 
 was took by surprise, that a person so strong and healthy 
 and bold as you was, should stop to speak to such a limping 
 
PHIL AT THE COMMANDER^S DISPOSAL. 447 
 
 bag of bones as I was. But you says to me, says you, deliver- 
 ing it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so that it was 
 like a glass of something hot, ' What accident have you met 
 with ? You have been badly hurt. Whafs amiss, old boy ? 
 Cheer up, and tell us about it ! Cheer up ! I was cheered 
 already ! I says as much to you, you says more to me, I 
 says more to you, you says more to me, and here I am, 
 commander! Here I am, commander ! cries Phil, who has 
 started from his chair and unaccountably begun to sidle 
 away. " If a mark's wanted, or if it will improve the business, 
 let the customers take aim at me. They can't spoil my 
 beauty. Fm all right. Come on ! If they want a man to 
 box at, let 'em box at me. Let 'em knock me well about the 
 head. / don't mind ! If they want a light-weight, to be 
 throwed for practice, Cornwall, Devonshire, or Lancashire, let 
 "•em throw me. They won't hurt me. I have been throwed, 
 all sorts of styles, all my life ! " 
 
 With this unexpected speech, energetically delivered, and 
 accompanied by action illustrative of the various exercises 
 referred to, Phil Squod shoulders his way round three sides 
 of the gallery, and abruptly tacking off at his commander, 
 makes a butt at him with his head, intended to express 
 devotion to his service. He then begins to clear away the 
 breakfast. 
 
 Mr. George, after laughing cheerfully, and clapping him 
 on the shoulder, assists in these arrangements, and helps to get 
 the gallery into business order. That done, he takes a turn at 
 the dumb-bells ; and afterwards weighing himself, and opining 
 that he is getting " too fleshy," engages with great gravity in 
 solitary broadsword practice. Meanwhile, Phil has fallen to 
 work at his usual table, where he screws and unscrews, and 
 cleans, and files, and whistles into small apertures, and 
 blackens himself more and more, and seems to do and undo 
 everything that can be done and undone about a gun. 
 
 Master and man are at length disturbed by footsteps in the 
 passage, where they make an unusual sound, denoting the 
 
448 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 arrival of unusual i company. These steps, advancing nearer 
 and nearer to the gallery, bring into it a group, at first sight 
 scarcely reconcilable with any day in the year but the fifth of 
 November. 
 
 It consists of a limp and ugly figure carried in a chair by 
 two bearers, and attended by a lean female with a face like a 
 pinched mask, who might be expected immediately to recite 
 the popular verses, commemorative of the time when they did 
 contrive to blow Old England up alive, but for her keeping 
 her lips tightly and defiantly closed as the chair is put 
 down. At which point, the figure in it gasping, " O Lord ! 
 O dear me ! I am shaken ! adds, " How de do, my dear 
 friend, how de do?" Mr. George then descries, in the pro- 
 cession, the venerable Mr. Smallweed out for an airing, 
 attended by his grand-daughter Judy as body-guard. 
 
 " Mr. George, my dear friend,'' says Grandfather Smallweed, 
 removing his right arm from the neck of one of his bearers, 
 whom he has nearly throttled coming along, "how de do.^ 
 You're surprised to see me, my dear friend." 
 
 "I should hardly have been more surprised to have seen 
 your friend in the city," returns Mr. George. 
 
 " I am very seldom out," pants Mr. Smallweed. " I haven't 
 been out for many months. It's inconvenient — and it comes 
 expensive. But I longed so much to see you, my dear Mr. 
 George. How de do, sir?" 
 
 "I am well enough," says Mr. George. "I hope you are 
 the same." 
 
 "You can't be too well, my dear friend." Mr. Smallweed 
 takes him by both hands. " I have brought my grand-daughter 
 Judy. I couldn't keep her away. She longed so much to 
 see you." 
 
 " Hum ! She bears it calmly ! " mutters Mr. George. 
 
 "So we got a hackney-cab, and put a chair in it, and just 
 round the corner they lifted me out of the cab and into the 
 chair, and carried me here, that I might see my dear friend 
 in his own establishment ! This," says Grandfather Smallweed, 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY ot ILLINOIS. 
 
PHIL IS VERY PROMPT. 
 
 449 
 
 alluding to the bearei', who has been in danger of strangula- 
 tion, and who withdraws adjusting his windpipe, " is the 
 driver of the cab. He has nothing extra. It is by agree- 
 ment included in his fare. This person,"" the other bearer, 
 " we engaged in the street outside for a pint of beer. Which 
 is twopence. Judy, give the person twopence. I was not 
 sure you had a workman of your own here, my dear friend, 
 or we needn^t have employed this person.*" 
 
 Grandfather Small weed refers to Phil, with a glance of 
 considerable terror, and a half-subdued O Lord ! O dear 
 me ! "" Nor is his apprehension, on the surface of things, 
 without some reason ; for Phil, who has never beheld the 
 apparition in the black velvet cap before, has stopped short 
 with a gun in his hand, with much of the air of a dead 
 shot, intent on picking Mr. Smallweed off as an ugly old bird 
 of the crow species. 
 
 "Judy, my child,'"' says Grandfather Smallweed, "give the 
 person his twopence. It's a great deal for what he has done."' 
 
 The person, who is one of those extraordinary specimens of 
 human fungus that spring up spontaneously in the western 
 streets of London, ready dressed in an old red jacket, with a 
 "Mission" for holding horses and calling coaches, receives 
 his twopence with anything but transport, tosses the money 
 into the air, catches it over-handed, and retires. 
 
 "My dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, 
 " would you be so kind as help to carry me to the fire ? I 
 am accustomed to a fire, and I am an old man, and I soon 
 chill. O dear me ! " 
 
 His closing exclamation is jerked out of the venerable 
 gentleman by the suddenness with which Mr. Squod, like a 
 genie, catches him up, chair and all, and deposits him on the 
 hearth-stone. 
 
 " O Lord ! " says Mr. Smallweed, panting. " O dear me ! 
 O my stars ! My dear friend, your workman is very strong 
 — and very prompt. O Lord, he is very prompt ! Judy, 
 draw me back a little, I'm being scorched in the legs;'* 
 
 VOL. I, ^ Q 
 
450 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 which indeed is testified to the noses of all present by the 
 smell of his worsted stockings. 
 
 The gentle Judy, having backed her grandfather a little 
 way from the fire, and having shaken him up as usual, and 
 having released his overshadowed eye from its black velvet 
 extinguisher, Mr. Smallweed again says, '^O dear me! 0 
 Lord ! and looking about, and meeting Mr. George's glance, 
 again stretches out both hands. 
 
 "My dear friend! So happy in this meeting! And this 
 is your establishment ? It's a delightful place. It's a picture ! 
 You never find that anything goes off* here, accidentally ; do 
 you, my dear friend?*' adds Grandfather Smallweed, very ill 
 at ease. 
 
 "No, no. No fear of that." 
 
 " And your workman. He — O dear me ! — he never lets 
 anything oft* without meaning it; does he, my dear friend.^'' 
 
 " He has never hurt anybody but himself," sa.ys Mr. GeorgCj 
 smiling. 
 
 " But he might, you know. He seems to have hurt himself 
 a good deal, and he might hurt somebody else," the old 
 gentleman returns. " He mightn't mean it — or he even might. 
 Mr. George, will you order him to leave his infernal fire-arms 
 alone, and go away ? 
 
 Obedient to a nod from the trooper, Phil retires, empty- 
 handed, to the other end of the gallery. Mr. Smallweed, 
 reassured, falls to rubbing his legs. 
 
 "And you're doing well, Mr. George.^" he says to the 
 trooper, squarely standing faced about towards him with his 
 broadsword in his hand. "You are prospering, please the 
 Powers 
 
 Mr. George answers with a cool nod, adding, "Go on. 
 You have not come to say that, I know." 
 
 " You are so sprightly, Mr. George," returns the venerable 
 gi'andfather. " You are such good company." 
 
 " Ha ha ! Go on ! " says Mr. George. 
 
 " My dear friend ! — But that sword looks awful gleaming 
 
NOW FOR A PIPE! 
 
 451 
 
 and sharp. It might cut somebody, by accident. It makes 
 me shiver, Mr. George — Curse him ! says the excellent old 
 gentleman apart to Judy, as the trooper takes a step or two 
 away to lay it aside. " He owes me money, and might think 
 of paying off old scores in this murdering place. I wivsh 
 your brimstone grandmother was here, and he'd shave her 
 head off" 
 
 Mr. George, returning, folds his arms, and looking down 
 at the old man, sliding every moment lower and lower in his 
 chair, says quietly, " Now for it ! 
 
 " Ho ! cries Mr. Sm.allweed, rubbing his hands with an 
 artful chuckle, " Yes. Novv^ for it. Now for what, my dear 
 friend ? " 
 
 For a pipe,'** says Mr. George ; who with great composure 
 sets his chair in the chimney-corner, takes his pipe from the 
 grate, fills it and lights it, and falls to smoking peacefully. 
 
 This tends to the discomfiture of Mr. Smallweed, who finds 
 it so difficult to resume his object, v/hatever it may be, that 
 he becomes exasperated, and secretly claws the air with an 
 impotent vindictiveness expressive of an intense desire to tear 
 and rend the visage of Mr. George. As the excellent old 
 gentleman'^s nails are long and leaden, and his hands lean 
 and veinous, and his eyes green and watery ; and, over and 
 above this, as he continues, while he claws, to slide down in 
 his chair and to collapse into a shapeless bundle ; he becomes 
 such a ghastly spectacle, even in the accustomed eyes of 
 Judy, that that young virgin pounces at him with something 
 more than the ardour of affection, and so shakes him up, and 
 pats and pokes him in divers parts of his body, but particu- 
 larly in that part which the science of self-defence would 
 call his wind, that in his grievous distress he utters enforced 
 sounds like a paviour's rammer. 
 
 When Judy has by these means set him up again in his 
 chair, with a white face and a frosty nose (but still clawing), 
 she stretches out her weazen forefinger, and gives Mr. George 
 one poke in the back, The trooper raising his head, she 
 
452 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 makes another poke at her esteemed grandfather ; and, having 
 thus brought them together, stares rigidly at the fire. 
 
 " Aye, aye ! Ho, ho ! U — u — u — ugh ! chatters Grand- 
 father Smallweed, swallowing his rage. " My dear friend 1 ''^ 
 (still clawing). 
 
 " I tell you what,"' says Mr. George. If you want to 
 converse with me, you must speak out. I am one of the 
 Roughs, and I can't go about and about. I haven'^t the art 
 to do it. I am not clever enough. It don't suit me. When 
 you go winding round and round me,"' says the trooper, 
 putting his pipe between his lips again, " damme, if I don't 
 feel as if I was being smothered ! '' 
 
 And he inflates his broad chest to its utmost extent, as if 
 to assure himself that he is not smothered yet. 
 
 "If you have come to give me a friendly call,*^' continues 
 Mr. George, " I am obliged to you ; how are you ? If you 
 have come to see whether there's any property on the premises, 
 look about you ; you are welcome. If you want to out with 
 something, out with it ! '' 
 
 The blooming Judy, without removing her gaze from the 
 fire, gives her grandfather one ghostly poke. 
 
 " You see ! It's her opinion, too. And why the devil 
 that young woman won't sit down like a Christian," says 
 Mr. George, with his eyes musingly fixed on Judy, " / can't 
 comprehend." 
 
 "She keeps at my side to attend to me, sir," says Grand- 
 father Smallweed. "I am an old man, my dear Mr. George, 
 and I need some attention. I can carry my years; I am not 
 a Brimstone poll-parrot ; " (snarling and looking unconsciously 
 for the cushion ; ) " but I need attention, my dear friend." 
 
 " Well ! " returns the trooper, wheeling his chair to face 
 the old man. " Now then ? " 
 
 "My friend in the city, Mr. George, has done a little 
 business with a pupil of yours." 
 
 " Has he ? " says Mr. George. " I am sorry to hear it." 
 
 "Yes, sir." Grandfather Smallweed rubs his legs. "He 
 
Concerning captain hawdon. 
 
 453 
 
 IS a fine young soldier now, Mr. George, by the name of 
 Carstone. Friends came forward, and paid it all up, honour^ 
 able;^ 
 
 " Did they ? returns Mr. George. " Do you think your 
 friend in the city would like a piece of advice ? 
 
 I think he would, my dear friend. From you/' 
 
 "I advise him, then, to do no more business in that 
 quarter. There's no more to be got by it. The young gentle- 
 man, to my knowledge, is brought to a dead halt.'' 
 
 " No, no, my dear friend. No, no, Mr. George. No, no, 
 no, sir," remonstrates Grandfather Smallweed, cunningly 
 rubbing his spare legs. " Not quite a dead halt, I think. 
 He has good friends, and he is good for his pay, and he is 
 good for the selling price of his commission, and he is good 
 for his chance in a lawsuit, and he is good for his chance in 
 a wife, and — oh, do you know, Mr. George, I think my friend 
 would consider the young gentleman good for something 
 yet ? " says Grandfather Smallweed, turning up his velvet cap, 
 and scratching his ear like a monkey. 
 
 Mr. George, who has put aside his pipe and sits with an 
 arm on his chair-back, beats a tattoo on the ground with his 
 right foot, as if he were not particularly pleased with the 
 turn the conversation has taken. 
 
 "But to pass from one subject to another," resumes Mr. 
 Smallweed. "To promote the conversation, as a joker might 
 say. To pass, Mr. George, from the ensign to the captain." 
 
 " What are you up to, now ? " asks Mr. George, pausing 
 with a frown in stroking the recollection of his moustache. 
 "What captain?" 
 
 "Our captain. The captain we know of. Captain 
 Hawdon." 
 
 " O ! that's it, is it ? " says Mr. George, with a low whistle, 
 as he sees both grandfather and grand-daughter looking hard 
 at him; "you are there! Well? what about it? Come, I 
 won't be smothered any more. Speak ! " 
 
 " My dear friend," returns the old man, " I was applied — 
 
454 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Judy, shake me up a little ! — I was applied to, yesterday, 
 about the captain ; and my opinion still is, that the captain 
 is not dead." 
 
 " Bosh ! observes Mr. George. 
 
 " What was your remark, my dear friend ? " inquires the 
 old man with his hand to his ear. 
 "Bosh!" 
 
 " Ho ! " says Grandfather Smallweed. " Mr. George, of my 
 opinion you can judge for yourself, according to the questions 
 asked of me, and the reasons given for asking ''em. Now, 
 what do you think the lawyer making the inquiries wants ? " 
 
 "A job," says Mr. George. 
 
 "Nothing of the kind!" 
 
 "Can't be a lawyer, then," says Mr. George, folding his 
 arms with an air of confirmed resolution. 
 
 "My dear friend, he is a lawyer, and a famous one. He 
 wants to see some fragment in Captain Hawdon's writing. 
 He don*'t want to keep it. He only wants to see it, and 
 compare it with a writing in his possession." 
 
 "Well.?" 
 
 "Well, Mr. George. Happening to remember the adver- 
 tisement concerning Captain Hawdon, and any information 
 that could be given respecting him, he looked it up and 
 came to me — ^just as you did, my dear friend. Will you 
 shake hands ? So glad you came, that day ! I should have 
 missed forming such a friendship, if you hadn't come ! " 
 
 "Well, Mr. Smallweed.?" says Mr. George again, after 
 going through the ceremony with some stiffness. 
 
 "I had no such thing. I have nothing but his signature. 
 Plague pestilence and famine, battle murder and sudden death 
 upon him," says the old man, making a curse out of one of 
 his few remembrances of a prciyer, and squeezing up his velvet 
 cap between his angry hands, " I have half a million of his 
 signatures, I think ! But you," breathlessly recovering his 
 mildness of speech, as Judy readjusts the cap on his skittle- 
 ball of a head; "you, my dear Mr. George, are likely to 
 
CAPTAIN HAWDON^S HANDWRITING. 455 
 
 have some letter or paper that would suit the purpose. 
 Anything would suit the purpose, written in the hand."' 
 
 " Some writing in that hand,'' says the trooper, pondering, 
 "may be, I have." 
 
 " My dearest friend ! " 
 
 " May be, I have not." 
 
 " Ho ! " says Grandfather Smallweed, crest-fallen. 
 
 But if I had bushels of it, I would not show as much as 
 would make a cartridge, without knowing why." 
 
 Sir, I have told you why. My dear Mr. George, I have 
 told you why." 
 
 " Not enough," says the trooper, shaking his head. " I 
 must know more, and approve it." 
 
 "Then, will you come to the lawyer? My dear friend, 
 will you come and see the gentleman ? " urges Grandfather 
 Smallweed, pulling out a lean old silver watch, with hands 
 like the leg of a skeleton. " I told him it was probable I 
 might call upon him, between ten and eleven this forenoon ; 
 and it's now half after ten. Will you come and see the 
 gentleman, Mr. George?" 
 
 " Hum ! " says he, gravely. " I don't mind that. Though 
 why this should concern you so much, I don't know." 
 
 " Everything concerns me, that has a chance in it of bring- 
 ing anything to light about him. Didn't he take us all in ? 
 Didn't he owe us immense sums, all round ? Concern me ? 
 Who can anything about him concern, more than me ? Not, 
 my dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed, lowering his 
 tone, "that I want you to betray anything. Far from it. 
 Are you ready to come, my dear friend ? " 
 
 " Ay ! I'll come in a moment. I promise nothing, you 
 know." 
 
 " No, my dear Mr. George ; no." 
 
 " And you mean to say you're going to give me a lift to 
 this place, wherever it is, without charging for it?" Mr. 
 George inquires, getting his hat, and thick wash-leather 
 gloves. 
 
456 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 This pleasantry so tickles Mr. Smallweed, that he laughs^ 
 long and low, before the fire. But ever while he laughs, he 
 glances over his paralytic shoulder at Mr. George, and eagerly 
 watches him as he unlocks the padlock of a homely cupboard 
 at the distant end of the gallery, looks here and there upon 
 the higher shelves, and ultimately takes something out with a 
 rustling of paper, folds it, and puts it in his breast. Then 
 Judy pokes Mr. Smallweed once, and Mr. Smallweed pokes 
 Judy once. 
 
 " I am ready,**" says the trooper, coming back. " Phil, you 
 can carry this old gentleman to his coach, and make nothing 
 of him." 
 
 " O dear me ! O Lord ! Stop a moment ! says Mr. 
 Smallweed. ^' He's so very prompt ! Are you sure you can 
 do it carefully, my worthy man ? 
 
 Phil makes no reply ; but, seizing the chair and its load, 
 sidles away, tightly hugged by the now speechless Mr. Small- 
 weed, and bolts along the passage, as if he had an acceptable 
 commission to carry the old gentleman to the nearest volcano. 
 His shorter trust, however, terminating at the cab, he deposits 
 him there ; and the fair Judy takes her place beside him, and 
 ^ the chair embellishes the roof, and Mr. George takes the 
 vacant place upon the box. 
 
 Mr. George is quite confounded by the spectacle he beholds 
 from time to time as he peeps into the cab, through the 
 window behind him ; where the grim Judy is always motion- 
 less, and the old gentleman with his cap over one eye is 
 always sliding off the seat into the straw, and looking upward 
 at him, out of his other eye, with a helpless expression of 
 being jolted in the back. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 MORE OLD SOLDIERS THAN ONE. 
 
 Mr. George has not far to ride with folded arms upon the 
 box, for their destination is Lincoln's Inn Fields. When the 
 driver stops his horses, Mr. George alights, and looking in 
 at the window, says : 
 
 " What, Mr. Tulkinghorn's your man, is he ? 
 
 "Yes, my dear friend. Do you know him, Mr. George?" 
 
 " Why, I have heard of him — seen him too, I think. But 
 I don't know him, and he don't know me." 
 
 There ensues the carrying of Mr. Smallweed up-stairs; 
 which is done to perfection with the trooper's help. He is 
 borne into Mr. Tulkinghorn's great room, and deposited on 
 the Turkey rug before the fire. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not 
 within at the present moment, but will be back directly. 
 The occupant of the pew in the hall, having said thus much, 
 stirs the fire, and leaves the triumvirate to warm themselves. 
 
 Mr. George is mightily curious in respect of the room. 
 He looks up at the painted ceiling, looks round at the old 
 law-books, contemplates the portraits of the great clients, 
 reads aloud the names on the boxes. 
 
 " ' Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,' " Mr. George reads 
 thoughtfully. " Ha ! ' Manor of Chesney Wold.' Humph ! " 
 Mr. George stands looking at these boxes a long while — as if 
 they were pictures — and comes back to the fire repeating, 
 " Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and Manor of Chesney 
 Wold, hey?" 
 
458 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 " Worth a mint of money, Mr, George ! whispers Grand- 
 father Smallweed, rubbing his legs. " Powerfully rich ! ^' 
 " Who do you mean ? This old gentleman, or the Baronet ? 
 ^'This gentleman, this gentleman.''^ 
 
 " So I have heard ; and knows a thing or two, I'^ll hold a 
 wager. Not bad quarters, either,'** says Mr. George, looking 
 round again. " See the strong box, yonder ! **' 
 
 This reply is cut short by Mr. Tulkinghorn's arrival. 
 There is no change in him, of covu'se. Rustily drest, w^ith 
 his spectacles in his hand, and their very case worn thread- 
 bare. In manner, close and dry. In voice, husky and low. 
 In face, watchful behind a blind ; habitually not uncensorious 
 and contemptuous perhaps. The peerage may have warmer 
 worshippers and faithfuller believers than Mr. Tulkinghorn, 
 after all, if everything were known. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Smallweed, good morning ! '** he says 
 as he comes in. "You have brought the serjeant, I see. Sit 
 down, Serjeant."' 
 
 As Mr. Tulkinghorn takes off his gloves and puts them in 
 his hat, he looks with half-closed eyes across the room to 
 where the trooper stands, and says within himself perchance, 
 " You 11 do, my friend ! 
 
 " Sit down, Serjeant,'"* he repeats, as he comes to his table, 
 which is set on one side of the fire, and takes his easy-chair. 
 
 Cold and raw this morning, cold and raw ! " Mr. Tulking- 
 horn warms before the bars, alternately, the palms and 
 knuckles of his hands, and looks (from behind that blind 
 which is always down) at the trio sitting in a little semicircle 
 before him. 
 
 " Now, I can feel what I am about ! " (as perhaps he can 
 in two senses) "Mr. Smallweed.''' The old gentleman is 
 newly shaken up by Judy, to bear his part in the conver- 
 sation. "You have brought our good friend the serjeant, 
 I see." 
 
 " Yes, sir," returns Mr. Smallweed, very servile to the 
 lawyer's wealth and influence. 
 
THE LAWYER AND THE TROOPER. 459 
 
 "And what does the serjeant say about this business?*" 
 " Mr. George,'^ says Grandfather Smallweed, with a 
 tremulous wave of his shrivelled hand, "this is the gentle- 
 man, sir.^^ 
 
 Mr. George salutes the gentleman ; but otherwise sits bolt 
 upright and profoundly silent — very forward in his chair, as 
 if the full complement of regulation appendages for a field- 
 day hung about him. 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn proceeds : " Well, George ? — I believe 
 your name is George ? 
 
 "It is so, sir/' 
 
 " What do you say, George ? 
 
 "I ask your pardon, sir,"" returns the trooper, "but I 
 should wish to know what you say ? 
 " Do you mean in point of reward ? 
 "I mean in point of everything, sir.""* 
 
 This is so very trying to Mr. Small weed's temper, that he 
 suddenly breaks out with " You're a Brimstone beast ! " and 
 as suddenly asks pardon of Mr. Tulkinghorn ; excusing him- 
 self for this slip of the tongue, by saying to Judy, " I was 
 thinking of your grandmother, my dear." 
 
 "I supposed, Serjeant," Mr. Tulkinghorn resumes, as he 
 leans on one side of his chair and crosses his legs, " that Mr. 
 Smalhveed might have sufficiently explained the matter. It 
 lies in the smallest compass, however. You served under 
 Captain Hawdon at one time, and were his attendant in 
 illness, and rendered him many little services, and were 
 rather in his confidence, I am told. That is so, is it 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, that is so," says Mr. George, with military 
 brevity. 
 
 "Therefore you may happen to have in your possession 
 something — anything, no matter what — accounts, instructions, 
 orders, a letter, anything — in Captain Hawdon's wTiting. I 
 wish to compare his writing with some that I have. If you 
 can give me the opportunity, you shall be rewarded for your 
 
460 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 trouble. Three, four, five, guineas, you would consider hand- 
 some, I dare say/' 
 
 " Noble, my dear friend ! cries Grandfather Smallweed, 
 screwing up his eyes, 
 
 " If not, say how much more, in your conscience as a 
 soldier, you can demand. There is no need for you to part 
 with the writing, against your inclination — though I should 
 prefer to have it."' 
 
 Mr. George sits squared in exactly the same attitude, looks 
 at the painted ceiling, and says never a word. The irascible 
 Mr. Smallweed scratches the air. 
 
 " The question is,*" says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his methodical, 
 subdued, uninterested way, "fii-st, whether you have any of 
 Captain Hawdon'^s writing P*"' 
 
 "First, whether I have any of Captain Hawdon'^s writing, 
 sir,**' repeats Mr. George. 
 
 Secondly, what will satisfy you for the trouble of 
 producing it ? 
 
 "Secondly, what will satisfy me for the trouble of pro- 
 ducing it, sir,*" repeats Mr. George. 
 
 "Thirdly, you can judge for yourself whether it is at all 
 like that,*"' says Mr. Tulkinghorn, suddenly handing him 
 some sheets of written paper tied together. 
 
 " Whether it is at all like that, sir. Just so,""' repeats 
 Mr. George. 
 
 All three repetitions Mr. George pronounces in a mechanical 
 manner, looking straight at Mr. Tulkinghorn; nor does he 
 so much as glance at the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, 
 that has been given to him for his inspection (though he still 
 holds it in his hand), but continues to look at the lawyer 
 with an air of troubled meditation. 
 
 "Well?'' savs Mr. Tulkinghorn. "What do you 
 say?^^ 
 
 "Well, sir,'' replies Mr. George, rising erect and looking 
 immense, "I would rather, if you'll excuse me, have nothing 
 to do with this." 
 
THE TROOPER NOT RESPONSIVE. 461 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn, outwardly quite undisturbed, demands 
 "Why not?'' 
 
 "Why, sir,'^ returns the trooper. "Except on military 
 compulsion, I am not a man of business. Among civilians I 
 am what they call in Scotland a ne'er-do-weel. I have no 
 head for papers, sir. I can stand any fire better than a fire 
 of cross questions. I mentioned to Mr. Small weed, only an 
 hour or so ago, that when I come into things of this kind I 
 feel as if I was being smothered. And that is my sensation,**' 
 says Mr. George, looking round upon the company, "at the 
 present moment.*''' 
 
 With that, he takes three strides forward to replace the 
 papers on the lawyer's table, and three strides backward to 
 resume his former station : where he stands perfectly upright, 
 now looking at the ground, and now at the painted ceiling, 
 with his hands behind him as if to prevent himself from 
 accepting any other document whatever. 
 
 Under this provocation, Mr. Smallweed's favourite adjective 
 of disparagement is so close to his tongue, that he begins 
 the words " my dear friend *" with the monosyllable " Brim ; 
 thus converting the possessive pronoun into Brimmy, and 
 appearing to have an impediment in his speech. Once past 
 this difficulty, however, he exhorts his dear friend in the 
 tenderest manner not to be rash, but to do what so eminent 
 a gentleman requires, and to do it with a good grace : 
 confident that it must be unobjectionable as well as profitable. 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn merely utters an occasional sentence, as 
 "You are the best judge of your own interest, serjeant.'' 
 "Take care you do no harm by this.'' "Please yourself, 
 please yourself." "If you know what you mean, that's quite 
 enough." These he utters with an appearance of perfect 
 indifference, as he looks over the papers on his table, and 
 prepares to write a letter. 
 
 Mr. George looks distrustfully from the painted ceiling to 
 the ground, from the ground to Mr. Smallweed, from Mr. 
 Smallweed to Mr. Tulkinghorn, and from Mr. Tulkinghorn 
 
462 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 to the painted ceiling again ; often in his perplexity changing 
 the leg on which he rests. 
 
 " I do assure you, sir,'' says Mr. George, " not to say it 
 offensively, that between you and Mr. Smallweed here, I really 
 am being smothered fifty times over. I really am, sir. I am 
 not a match for you gentlemen. Will you allow me to ask, 
 why you want to see the captain's hand, in the case that I 
 could find any specimen of it?" 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly shakes his head. "No. If you 
 were a man of business, serjeant, you would not need to be 
 informed, that there are confidential reasons, very harmless in 
 themselves, for many such wants, in the profession to which 
 I belong. But if you are afraid of doing any injury to 
 Captain Hawdon, you may set your mind at rest about that." 
 
 "Ay ! he is dead, sir.*' 
 
 ''Is he.^" Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly sits down to write. 
 
 " Well, sir," says the trooper, looking into his hat after 
 another disconcerted pause ; " I am sorry not to have given 
 you more satisfaction. If it would be any satisfaction to any 
 one, that I should be confirmed in my judgment that I would 
 rather have nothing to do with this, by a friend of mine, who 
 has a better head for business than I have, and who is an old 
 soldier, I am willing to consult with him. I — I really am so 
 completely smothered myself at present," says Mr. George, 
 passing his hand hopelessly across his brow, "that I don't 
 know but what it might be a satisfaction to me." 
 
 Mr. Smalhveed, hearing that this authority is an old soldier, 
 so strongly inculcates the expediency of the trooper's taking 
 counsel with him, and particularly informing him of its being 
 a question of five guineas or more, that Mr. George engages 
 to go and see him. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing either 
 way. 
 
 " I'll consult my friend, then, by your leave, sir," says the 
 trooper, "and I'll take the liberty of looking in again with 
 the final answer in the course of the day. Mr. Smallweed, 
 if you wish to be carried down-stairs " 
 
HALF A WORD IN PRIVATE. 
 
 463 
 
 "In a moment, my dear friend, in a moment. Will you 
 first let me speak half a word with this gentleman, in 
 private ? ^"^ 
 
 "Certainly, sir. Don't hurry yourself on my account.'' 
 The trooper retires to a distant part of the room, and 
 resumes his curious inspection of the boxes; strong and 
 otherwise. 
 
 " If I wasii't as weak as a Brimstone Baby, sir," whispers 
 Grandfather Smallweed, drawing the lawyer down to his level 
 by the lappel of his coat, and flashing some half-quenched 
 green fire out of his angry eyes, " I'd tear the writing away 
 from him. He's got it buttoned in his breast. I saw him 
 put it there. Judy saw him put it there. Speak up, you 
 crabbed image for the sign of a walking-stick shop, and say 
 you saw him put it there ! " 
 
 This vehement conjuration the old gentleman accompanies 
 with such a thrust at his grand-daughter, that it is too 
 much for his strength, and he slips away out of his chair, 
 drawing Mr. Tulkinghorn with him, until he is arrested by 
 Judy, and well shaken. 
 
 " Violence will not do for me, my friend," Mr. Tulkinghorn 
 then remarks coolly. 
 
 " No, no, I know, I know, sir. But it's chafing and galling 
 — it's — it's worse than your smattering chattering Magpie of 
 a grandmother," to the imperturbable Judy, who only looks 
 at the fire, " to know he has got what's wanted, and won't give 
 it up. He, not to give it up ! He ! A vagabond ! But 
 never mind, sir, never mind. At the most, he has only his 
 own way for a little while. I have him periodically in a 
 vice. I'll twist him, sir. I'll screw him, sir. If he won't 
 do it with a good grace, I'll make him do it with a bad one, 
 sir ! — Now, my dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, 
 winking at the lawyer hideously, as he releases him, " I am 
 ready for your kind assistance, my excellent friend ! " 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn, with some shadowy sign of amusement 
 manifesting itself through his self-possession, stands on the 
 
464 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 hearth-rug with his back to the fire, watching the disappear- 
 ance of Mr. Smallweed, and acknowledging the trooper's 
 parting salute with one slight nod. 
 
 It is more difficult to get rid of the old gentleman, Mr. 
 George finds, than to bear a hand in carrying him down-stairs ; 
 for, when he is replaced in his conveyance, he is so loquacious 
 on the subject of the guineas, and retains such an affectionate 
 hold of his button — having, in truth, a secret longing to rip 
 his coat open, and rob him — that some degree of force is 
 necessary on the trooper's part to effect a separation. It is 
 accomplished at last, and he proceeds alone in quest of his 
 adviser. 
 
 By the cloisterly Temple, and by Whitefriai-s (there, not 
 without a glance at Hanging-Sword Alley, which would seem 
 to be something in his way), and by Blackfriars Bridge, and 
 Blackfriars Road, Mr. George sedately marches to a street of 
 little shops lying somewhere in that ganglion of roads from 
 Kent and Surrey, and of streets from the bridges of London, 
 centring in the far-famed Elephant who has lost his castle 
 formed of a thousand four-horse coaches, to a stronger iron 
 monster than he, ready to chop him into mince-meat any 
 day he dares. To one of the little shops in this street, 
 which is a musician's shop, having a few fiddles in the window, 
 and some Pan's pipes and a tambourine, and a triangle, and 
 certain elongated scraps of nmsic, Mr. George directs his 
 massive tread. And halting at a few paces from it, as he 
 sees a soldierly-looking woman, with her outer skirts tucked 
 up, come forth with a small wooden tub, and in that tub 
 commence a whisking and a splashing on the margin of the 
 pavement, Mr. George says to himself, "She's as usual, 
 washing greens. I never saw her, except upon a baggage- 
 waggon, when she wasn't washing greens ! " 
 
 The subject of this reflection is at all events so occupied 
 in washing greens at present, that she remains unsuspicious 
 of Mr. George's approach; until, lifting up herself and her 
 tub together, when she has poured the water off into the 
 
MRS. BAGNET. 
 
 465 
 
 gutter, she finds him standing near her. Her reception of 
 him is not flattering. 
 
 " George, I never see you but I wish you was a hundred 
 mile away ! ""^ 
 
 The trooper, without remarking on this welcome, follows 
 into the musical instrument shop, where the lady places her 
 tub of greens upon the counter, and having shaken hands 
 with him, rests her arms upon it. 
 
 "I never,*" she says, "George, consider Matthew Bagnet 
 safe a minute when you're near him. You are that restless 
 and that roving " 
 
 " Yes ! I know I am, Mrs. Bagnet. I know I am.'^ 
 
 " You know you are ! says Mrs. Bagnet. " What's the 
 use of that ? Why are you ? " 
 
 " The nature of the animal, I suppose," returns the trooper 
 good-humouredly. 
 
 " Ah ! " cries Mrs. Bagnet, something shrilly, " but Avhat 
 satisfaction will the nature of the animal be to me, when 
 the animal shall have tempted my Mat away from the musical 
 business to New Zealand or Australey ? 
 
 Mrs. Bagnet is not at all an ill-looking woman. Rather 
 large-boned, a little coarse in the grain, and freckled by the 
 sun and wind which have tanned her hair upon the forehead ; 
 but healthy, wholesome, and bright-eyed. A strong, busy, 
 active, honest-faced woman of from forty-five to fifty. Clean, 
 hardy, and so economically dressed (though substantially), 
 that the only article of ornament of which she stands possessed 
 appears to be her wedding-ring ; around which her finger has 
 grown to be so large since it was put on, that it will never 
 come off again until it shall mingle with Mrs. Bagnet's dust. 
 
 " Mrs. Bagnet," says the trooper, " I am on my parole with 
 you. Mat will get no harm from me. You may trust me 
 so far." 
 
 "Well, I think I may. But the very looks of you are 
 unsettling," Mrs. Bagnet rejoins. " Ah, George, George ! If 
 you had only settled down, and married Joe Pouch's widow 
 
 VOL, I. 2 H 
 
466 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 when he died in North America, she'd have combed your hair 
 for you.**' 
 
 "It was a chance for me, certainly j**^ returns the trooper, 
 half-laughingly, half-seriously, " but I shall never settle down 
 into a respectable man now. Joe Pouch's widow might have 
 done me good — there was something in her — and something 
 of her — but I couldn't make up my mind to it. If I had 
 had the luck to meet with such a wife as Mat found ! 
 
 Mrs. Bagnet, who seems in a virtuous way to be under 
 little reserve with a good sort of fellow, but to be another 
 good sort of fellow herself for that matter, receives this com- 
 pliment by flicking Mr. George in the face with a head of 
 greens, and taking her tub into the little room behind the 
 shop. 
 
 "Why, Quebec, my poppet,'' says George, following, on 
 invitation, into that department. " And little Malta, too ! 
 Come and kiss your Bluffy ! " 
 
 These young ladies — not supposed to have been actually 
 christened by the names applied to them, though always so 
 called in the family, from the places of their birth in barracks 
 —are respectively employed on three-legged stools : the 
 younger (some five or six years old), in learning her letters 
 out of a penny primer; the elder (eight or nine perhaps), in 
 teaching her, and sewing with great assiduity. Both hail 
 Mr. George w^th acclamations as an old friend, and after 
 some kissing and romping plant their stools beside him. 
 
 "And how's young Woolwich?" says Mr. George. 
 
 " Ah ! There now ! " cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning about 
 from her saucepans (for she is cooking dinner), with a bright 
 flush on her face. "Would you believe it.^ Got an engage- 
 ment at the Theayter, with his father, to play the fife in a 
 military piece." 
 
 " Well done, my godson ! " cries Mr. George, slapping his 
 thigh. 
 
 "I believe you!" says Mrs. Bagnet. "He's a Briton, 
 That's what Woolwich is. A Briton ! " 
 
THE OLD GIRL. 
 
 467 
 
 "And Mat blows away at his bassoon, and you're respectable 
 civilians one and all,'' says Mr. George. "Family people. 
 Children growing up. Mat's old mother in Scotland, and 
 your old father somewhere else, corresponded with ; and 
 helped a little ; and — well, well ! To be sure, I don't know 
 why I shouldn't be wished a hundred mile away, for I have 
 not much to do with all this ! " 
 
 Mr. George is becoming thoughtful ; sitting before the fire 
 in the whitewashed room, which has a sanded floor, and a 
 barrack smell, and contains nothing superfluous, and has not 
 a visible speck of dirt or dust in it, from the faces of Quebec 
 and Malta to the bright tin pots and pannikins upon the 
 dresser shelves; — Mr. George is becoming thoughtful, sitting 
 here while Mrs. Bagnet is busy, when Mr. Bagnet and young 
 Woolwich opportunely come home. Mr. Bagnet is an ex- 
 artilleryman, tall and upright, with shaggy eyebrows, and 
 whiskers like the fibres of a cocoa-nut, not a hair upon his 
 head, and a torrid complexion. His voice, short, deep, and 
 resonant, is not at all unlike the tones of the instrument to 
 which he is devoted. Indeed there may be generally observed 
 in him an unbending, unyielding, brass-bound air, as if he 
 were himself the bassoon of the human orchestra. Young 
 Woolwich is the type and model of a young drummer. 
 
 Both father and son salute the trooper heartily. He 
 saying, in due season, that he has come to advise with Mr. 
 Bagnet, Mr. Bagnet hospitably declares that he will hear of 
 no business until after dinner ; and that his friend shall not 
 partake of his counsel, without first partaking of boiled pork 
 and greens. The trooper yielding to this invitation, he and 
 Mr. Bagnet, not to embarrass the domestic preparations, go 
 forth to take a turn up and down the little street, which they 
 promenade with measured tread and folded arms, as if it 
 were a rampart. 
 
 " George," says Mr. Bagnet. " You know me. It's my old 
 mrl that advises. She has the head. But I never own to it 
 before her. Discipline must be maintained. Wait till the 
 
468 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 greens is off her mind. Then, we'll consult. Whatever the 
 old girl says, do — do it ! 
 
 " I intend to, Mat,'" replies the other. " I would sooner 
 take her opinion than that of a college.'' 
 
 " College," returns Mr. Bagnet, in short sentences, bassoon- 
 like. " What college could you leave — in another quarter of 
 the world — with nothing but a grey cloak and an umbrella — 
 to make its way home to Europe ? The old girl would do it 
 to-morrow. Did it once ! " 
 
 You are right," says Mr. George. 
 
 " What college," pursues Bagnet, " could you set up in life 
 — with two penn'orth of white lime — a penn'orth of fuller's 
 earth — a ha'porth of sand — and the rest of the change out of 
 sixpence, in money ? That's what the old girl started on. 
 In the present business." 
 
 " I am rejoiced to hear it's thriving, Mat." 
 
 " The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, acquiescing, " saves. Has 
 a stocking somewhere. With money in it. I never saw it. 
 But I know she's got it. Wait till the greens is off* her mind. 
 Then she'll set you up." 
 
 " She is a treasure ! " exclaims Mr. George. 
 
 " She's more. But I never own to it before her. Discipline 
 must be maintained. It was the old girl that brought out 
 my musical abilities. I should have been in the artillery now, 
 but for the old girl. Six yeai's I hammered at the fiddle. 
 Ten at the flute. The old girl said it wouldn't do ; intention 
 good, but want of flexibility ; try the bassoon. The old girl 
 borrowed a bassoon from the bandmaster of the Rifle Regi- 
 ment. I practised in the trenches. Got on,' got another, 
 get a living by it ! " 
 
 George remarks that she looks as fresh as a rose, and as 
 sound as an apple. 
 
 " The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet in reply, " is a thoroughly 
 fine woman. Consequently, she is like a thoroughly fine day. 
 Gets finer as she gets on. I never saw the old girl's equal. But 
 I never own to it before her. Discipline must be maintained ! " 
 
THE TROOPER STATES HIS CASE. 469 
 
 Proceeding to converse on indifferent matters, they walk 
 up and down the little street, keeping step and time, until 
 summoned by Quebec and Malta to do justice to the pork 
 and greens ; over which Mrs. Bagnet, like a military chaplain, 
 says a short grace. In the distribution of these comestibles, 
 as in every other household duty, Mrs. Bagnet develops an 
 exact system ; sitting with every dish before her ; allotting to 
 every portion of pork its own portion of pot-liquor, greens, 
 potatoes, and even mustard ! and serving it out complete. 
 Having likewise served out the beer from a can, and thus 
 supplied the mess with all things necessary, Mrs. Bagnet 
 proceeds to satisfy her own hunger, which is in a healthy 
 state. The kit of the mess, if the table furniture may be so 
 denominated, is chiefly composed of utensils of horn and tin, 
 that have done duty in several parts of the world. Young 
 Woolwich's knife, in particular, which is of the oyster kind, 
 with the additional feature of a strong shutting-up movement 
 which frequently balks the appetite of that young musician, 
 is mentioned as having gone in various hands the complete 
 round of foreign service. 
 
 The dinner done, Mrs. Bagnet, assisted by the younger 
 branches (who polish their own cups and platters, knives and 
 forks), makes all the dinner garniture shine as brightly as 
 before, and puts it all away ; first sweeping the hearth, to the 
 end that Mr. Bagnet and the visitor may not be retarded in 
 the smoking of their pipes. These household cares involve 
 much pattening and counter-pattening in the back yard, and 
 considerable use of a pail, which is finally so happy as to assist 
 in the ablutions of Mrs. Bagnet herself That old girl re- 
 appearing by-and-by, quite fresh, and sitting down to her 
 needlework, then and only then — the greens being only then 
 to be considered as entirely ofl* her mind — Mr. Bagnet 
 requests the trooper to state his case. 
 
 This, Mr. George does with great discretion; appearing 
 to address himself to Mr. Bagnet, but having an eye solely 
 on the old gii-1 all the time, as Bagnet has himself. She, 
 
470 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 equally discreet, busies herself with her needlework. The 
 case fully stated, Mr. Bagnet resorts to his standard artifice 
 for the maintenance of discipline. 
 
 '* That's the whole of it, is it, George ? '''' says he. 
 
 " Thaf s the whole of it.'' 
 You act according to my o})inion ? " 
 
 "I shall be guided," replies George, ^'entirely by it." 
 
 " Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, " give him my opinion. You 
 know it. Tell him what it is." 
 
 It is, that he cannot have too little to do with people who 
 are too deep for him, and cannot be too careful of interference 
 with matters he does not understand ; that the plain rule, is 
 to do nothing in the dark, to be a party to nothing under- 
 handed or mysterious, and never to put his foot where he 
 cannot see the ground. This, in effect, is Mr. Bagnet's 
 opinion, as delivered through the old girl ; and it so relieves 
 Mr. George's mind, by confirming his own opinion and 
 banishing his doubts, that he composes himself to smoke 
 another pipe on that exceptional occasion, and to have a talk 
 over old times with the whole Bagnet family, according to 
 their various ranges of experience. 
 
 Through these means it comes to pass, that Mr. George 
 does not again rise to his full height in that parlour until the 
 time is drawing on when the bassoon and fife are expected 
 by a British public at the theatre ; and as it takes time even 
 then for Mr. George, in his domestic character of Bluffy, to 
 take leave of Quebec and Malta, and insinuate a sponsorial 
 shilling into the pocket of his godson, with felicitations on 
 his success in life, it is dark w^hen Mr. George again turns 
 his face tov/ards Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 
 "A family home," he ruminates, as he marches along, 
 "however small it is, makes a man like me look lonely. But 
 it's well I never made that evolution of matrimony. I 
 shouldn't have been fi.t for it. I am such a vagabond still, 
 even at my present time of life, that I couldn't hold to the 
 gallery a month together, if it was a regular pursuit, or if I 
 
THE TROOPER IN THE SAME MIND. 471 
 
 didn't camp there, gipsy fashion. Come ! I disgrace nobody 
 and cumber nobody; that's something. I have not done 
 that, for many a long year ! '' 
 
 So he whistles it oft*, and marches on. 
 
 Arrived in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and mounting Mr. Tulking- 
 horn's stair, he finds the outer door closed, and the chambers 
 shut ; but the trooper not knowing much about outer doors, 
 and the staircase being dark besides, he is yet fumbling and 
 groping about, hoping to discover a bell-handle or to open 
 the door for himself, when Mr. Tulkingliorn comes up the 
 stairs (quietly, of course), and angrily asks : 
 
 "Who is that? What are you doing there?'' 
 
 "I ask your pardon, sir. It's George. The serjeant." 
 
 "And couldn't George, the serjeant, see that my door was 
 locked?" 
 
 "Why, no, sir, I couldn't. At any rate, I didn't," says 
 the trooper, rather nettled. 
 
 "Have you changed your mind? or are you in the same 
 mind ? " Mr. Tulkinghorn demands. But he knows well 
 enough at a glance. 
 
 " In the same mind, sir." 
 
 "I thought so. That's sufficient. You can go. So, you 
 are the man," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, opening his door with 
 the key, "in whose hiding-place Mr. Gridley was found?" 
 
 "Yes, I am the man," says the trooper, stopping two or 
 three stairs down. "What then, sir?" 
 
 " What then ? I don't like your associates. You should 
 not have seen the inside of my door this morning, if I had 
 thought of your being that man. Gridley ? A threatening, 
 murderous, dangerous fellow." 
 
 With these words, spoken in an unusually high tone for 
 him, the lawyer goes into his rooms, and shuts the door with 
 a thundering noise. 
 
 Mr. George takes his dismissal in great dudgeon; the 
 greater, because a clerk coming up the stairs has heard the 
 last words of all, and evidently applies them to him. "A 
 
472 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 pretty character to bear,"' the trooper growls with a hasty 
 oath, as he strides down-stairs. "A threatening, murderous, 
 dangerous fellow ! and looking up, he sees the clerk looking 
 down at him, and marking him as he passes a lamp. This 
 so intensifies his dudgeon, that for five minutes he is in an 
 ill-humour. But he whistles that oft*, like the rest of it; 
 and marches home to the Shooting Gallery. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE IRONMASTER. 
 
 Sir Leicester Deblock has got the better, for the time 
 bemg, of the family gout; and is once more, in a Hteral no 
 less than in a figurative point of view, upon his legs. He is 
 at his place in Lincolnshire ; but the waters are out again 
 on the low-lying grounds, and the cold and damp steal 
 into Chesney Wold, though well defended, and eke into Sir 
 Leicester's bones. The blazing fires of faggot and coal — 
 Dedlock timber and antediluvian forest — that blaze upon the 
 broad wide hearths, and wink in the twilight on the frowning 
 woods, sullen to see how trees are sacrificed, do not exclude 
 the enemy. The hot-water pipes that trail themselves all 
 over the house, the cushioned doors and windows, and the 
 screens and curtains, fail to supply the fires'* deficiencies, and 
 to satisfy Sir Leicester's need. Hence the fashionable in- 
 telligence proclaims one morning to the listening earth, that 
 Lady Dedlock is expected shortly to return to town for a 
 few weeks. 
 
 It is a melancholy truth that even great men have their 
 poor relations. Indeed great men have often more than their 
 fair share of poor relations; inasmuch as very red blood of 
 the superior quality, like inferior blood unlawfully shed, xvill 
 cry aloud, and zvill be heard. Sir Leicester's cousins, in the 
 remotest degree, are so many Murders, in the respect that 
 they "will out.*''* Among whom there are cousins who ai-e 
 
474 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 so poor, that one might almost dare to think it would have 
 been the happier for them never to have been plated links 
 upon the Dedlock chain of gold, but to have been made of 
 common iron at first, and done base service. 
 
 Service, however (with a few limited reservations ; genteel 
 but not profitable), they may not do, being of the Dedlock 
 dignity. So they visit their richer cousins, and get into debt 
 when they can, and live but shabbily when they can"'t, and 
 fJnd — the women no husbands, and the men no wives — and 
 ride in borrowed carriages, and sit at feasts that are never of 
 their own making, and so go through high life. The rich 
 family sum has been divided by so many figures, and they 
 are the something over that nobody knows what to do with. 
 
 Everybody on Sir I^icester Dedlock's side of the question, 
 and of his way of thinking, would appear to be his cousin 
 more or less. From my Lord Boodle, through the Duke of 
 Foodie, down to Noodle, Sir Leicester, like a glorious spider, 
 stretches his threads of relationship. But while he is stately 
 in the cousinship of the Everybodys, he is a kind and 
 generous man, according to his dignified way, in the cousin- 
 ship of the Nobodys ; and at the present time, in despite of 
 the damp, he stays out the visit of several such cousins at 
 Chesney Wold, with the constancy of a martyr. 
 
 Of these, foremost in the front rank stands Volumnia Dedlock, 
 a young lady (of sixty), who is doubly highly related ; having 
 the honour to be a poor relation, by the mother's side, to 
 another great family. Miss Volumnia, displaying in early 
 life a pretty talent for cutting ornaments out of coloured 
 paper, and also for singing to the guitar in the Spanish 
 tongue, and propounding French conundrums in country 
 houses, passed the twenty years of her existence between 
 twenty and forty in a sufficiently agreeable manner. Lapsing 
 then out of date, and being considered to bore mankind by 
 her vocal performances in the Spanish language, she retired to 
 Bath; w^here she lives slenderly on an annual present from 
 Sir Leicester, and whence she m.akes occasional resurrections 
 
COMPANY AT CHESNEY WOLD. 
 
 475 
 
 in the country houses of her cousins. She has an extensive 
 acquaintance at Bath among appalling old gentlemen with 
 thin legs and nankeen trousers, and is of high standing in 
 that dreary city. But she is a little dreaded elsewhere, in 
 consequence of an indiscreet profusion in the article of rouge, 
 and persistency in an obsolete pearl necklace like a rosary of 
 little bird's-eggs. 
 
 In any country in a wholesome state, Volumnia would be 
 a clear case for the pension list. Efforts have been made to 
 get her on it ; and when William Buffy came in, it was fully 
 expected that her name would be put down for a couple of 
 hundred a-year. But William Buffy somehow discovered, 
 contrary to all expectation, that these were not the times 
 when it could be done ; and this was the first clear indication 
 Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed to him, that the country 
 was going to pieces. 
 
 There is likewise the Honourable Bob Stables, who can 
 make warm mashes with the skill of a veterinary surgeon, 
 and is a better shot than most gamekeepers. He has been 
 for some time particularly desirous to serve his country in a 
 post of good emoluments, unaccompanied by any trouble or 
 responsibility. In a well-regulated body politic, this natural 
 desire on the part of a spirited young gentleman so highly 
 connected, would be speedily recognised ; but somehow 
 William Buffy found when he came in, that these were not 
 times in which he could manage that little matter, either ; 
 and this was the second indication Sir Leicester Dedlock had 
 conveyed to him, that the country was going to pieces. 
 
 The rest of the cousins are ladies and gentlemen of various 
 ages and capacities ; the major part, amiable and sensible, and 
 likely to have done well enough in life if they could have 
 overcome their cousinship ; as it is, they are almost all a 
 little worsted by it, and lounge in purposeless and listless 
 paths, and seem to be quite as much at a loss how to dispose" 
 of themselves, as anybody else can be how to dispose of them. 
 
 In this society, and where not, my Lady Dedlock reigns 
 
476 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 supreme. Beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and powerful in 
 her little world (for the world of fashion does not stretch all 
 the way from pole to pole), her influence in Sir Leicester's 
 house, however haughty and indifferent her manner, is greatly 
 to improve it and refine it. The cousins, even those older 
 cousins who were paralysed when Sir Leicester married her, 
 do her feudal homage ; and the Honourable Bob Stables daily 
 repeats to some chosen person, between breakfast and lunch, 
 his favourite original remark, that she is the best-groomed 
 woman in the whole stud. 
 
 Such the guests in the long drawing-room at Chesney Wold 
 this dismal night, when the step on the Ghost's Walk (in- 
 audible here, however), might be the step of a deceased 
 cousin shut out in the cold. It is near bed-time. Bedroom 
 fires blaze brightly all over the house, raising ghosts of grim 
 furniture on wall and ceiling. Bedroom candlesticks bristle 
 on the distant table by the door, and cousins yawn on otto- 
 mans. Cousins at the piano, cousins at the soda-water tray, 
 cousins rising from the card-table, cousins gathered round the 
 fire. Standing on one side of his own peculiar fire (for there 
 are two), Sir Leicester. On the opposite side of the broad 
 hearth, my Lady at her table. Volumnia, as one of the more 
 privileged cousins, in a luxurious chair between them. Sir 
 Leicester glancing, with magnificent displeasure, at the rouge 
 and the pearl necklace. 
 
 " I occasionally meet on my staircase here,'' drawls Volumnia, 
 whose thoughts perhaps are already hopping up it to bed, 
 after a long evening of very desultory talk, " one of the 
 prettiest girls, I think, that I ever saw in my life." 
 
 " A protegee of my Lady's," observes Sir Leicester. 
 
 " I thought so. I felt sure that some uncommon eye must 
 have picked that girl out. She really is a marvel. A dolly 
 sort of beauty perhaps," says Miss Volumnia, reserving her 
 own sort, " ilut in its way, perfect ; such bloom I never saw ! " 
 
 Sir Leicester, with his magnificent glance of displeasure at 
 the rouge, appears to say so too. 
 
MISS VOLUMNIA. 
 
 477 
 
 "Indeed,'' remarks my Lady, languidly, "if there is any 
 uncommon eye in the case, it is Mrs. Rouncewell's, and not 
 mine. Rosa is her discovery." 
 
 " Your maid, I suppose ? " 
 
 "No. My anything; pet — secretary — messenger — I don't 
 know what." 
 
 " You like to have her about you, as you would like to 
 have a flower, or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle — no, not a 
 poodle, though — or anything else that was equally pretty.^" 
 says Volumnia, sympathising. " Yes, how charming now ! 
 and how well that delightful old soul Mrs. Rouncewell is 
 looking. She must be an immense age, and yet she is as 
 active and handsome ! — She is the dearest friend I have, 
 positively ! " 
 
 Sir Leicester feels it to be right and fitting that the house- 
 keeper of Chesney Wold should be a remarkable person. 
 Apart from that, he has a real regard for Mrs. Rouncewell, 
 and likes to hear her praised. So he says, " You are right, 
 Volumnia;" which Volumnia is extremely glad to hear. 
 
 " She has no daughter of her own, has she ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Rouncewell ? No, Volumnia. She has a son. Indeed, 
 she had two." 
 
 My Lady, whose chronic malady of boredom has been sadly 
 aggravated by Volumnia this evening, glances wearily towards 
 the candlesticks and heaves a noiseless sigh. 
 
 " And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into 
 which the present age has fallen ; of the obliteration of 
 landmarks, the opening of floodgates, and the uprooting of 
 distinctions," says Sir Leicester with stately gloom ; " that I 
 have been informed, by Mr. Tulkinghom, that Mrs. Rounce- 
 welPs son has been invited to go into Parliament." 
 
 Miss Volumnia utters a little sharp scream. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," repeats Sir Leicester. " Into Parliament." 
 
 " I never heard of such a thing ! Good gracious, what is 
 the man ? " exclaimed Volumnia. 
 
 " He is called, I believe — an — Ironmaster." Sir Leicester 
 
478 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 says it slowly, and with gravity and doubt, as not being sure 
 but that he is called a Lead-mistress ; or that the right word 
 may be some other word expressive of some other relationship 
 to some other metal. 
 
 Volumnia utters another little scream. 
 
 " He has declined the proposal, if my information from 
 Mr. Tulkinghom be correct, as I have no doubt it is, Mr. 
 Tulkinghorn being always correct and exact ; still that does 
 not,**^ says Sir Leicester, " that does not lessen the anomaly ; 
 which is fraught with strange considerations — startling con- 
 siderations, as it appears to me.""* 
 
 Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wards. Sir 
 Leicester politely performs the grand tour of the drawing- 
 room, brings one, and lights it at my Lady's shaded lamp. 
 
 " I must beg you, my Lady,'' he says while doing so, " to 
 remain a few moments ; for this individual of whom I speak, 
 arrived this evening shortly before dinner, and requested — in 
 a very becoming note ; Sir Leicester, with his habitual regard 
 to truth, dwells upon it ; "I am bound to say, in a very be- 
 coming and well -expressed note — the favour of a short inter- 
 view with yourself and 7;//z/self, on the subject of this young 
 girl. As it appeared that he wished to depart to-night, I 
 replied that we would see him before retiring.'' 
 
 Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight, wish- 
 ing her hosts — O Lud ! — well rid of the — what is it.^^ — L^on- 
 master ! 
 
 The other cousins soon disperse, to the last cousin there. 
 Sir Leicester rings the bell. "Make my compliments to 
 Mr. Rouncewell, in the housekeeper's apartments, and say I 
 can receive him now." 
 
 My Lady, who has heard all this with slight attention 
 outwardly, looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in. He 
 is a little over fifty perhaps, of a good figure, like his mother ; 
 and has a clear voice, a broad forehead from which his dark 
 hair has retired, and a shrewd, though open face. He is a 
 responsible-looking gentleman dressed in black, portly enough, 
 
MR. ROUNCEWELL. 
 
 479 
 
 but strong and active. Has a perfectly natural and easy air, 
 and is not in the least embarrassed by the great presence 
 into which he comes. 
 
 " Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, as I have already apolo- 
 gised for intruding on you, I cannot do better than be very 
 brief. I thank you. Sir Leicester. 
 
 The head of the Dedlocks has motioned towards a sofa 
 between himself and my Lady. Mr. Rouncewell quietly takes 
 his seat there. 
 
 ''In these busy times, when so many great undertakings 
 are in progress, people like myself have so many workmen in 
 so many places, that w^e are alw^ays on the flight.*" 
 
 Sir Leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should 
 feel that there is no hurry there ; there, in that ancient house, 
 rooted in that quiet park, where the ivy and the moss have 
 had time to mature, and the gnarled and warted elms, and 
 the umbrageous oaks, stand deep in the fern and leaves of a 
 hundred years; and where the sun-dial on the terrace has 
 dumbly recorded for centuries that Time, which was as much 
 the property of every Dedlock — while he lasted — as the house 
 and lands. Sir Leicester sits down in an easy-chair, opposing 
 his repose and that of Chesney Wold to the restless flights 
 of ironmasters. 
 
 "Lady Dedlock has been so kind," proceeds Mr. Rouncewell, 
 with a respectful glance and a bow that way, "as to place 
 near her a young beauty of the name of Rosa. Now, my 
 son has fallen in love with Rosa; and has asked my consent 
 to his proposing marriage to her, and to their becoming 
 engaged if she will take him — which I suppose she will. I 
 have never seen Rosa until to-day, but I have some con- 
 fidence in my son's good sense — even in love. I find her 
 what he represents her, to the best of my judgment ; and my 
 mother speaks of her with great commendation." 
 
 "She in all respects deserves it," says my Lady. 
 
 " I am happy. Lady Dedlock, that you say so ; and I need 
 not comment on the value to me of your kind opinion of her." 
 
480 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE, 
 
 " That,'' observes Sir Leicester, with unspeakable grandeur i 
 for he thinks the ironmaster a little too glib ; " must be quite 
 unnecessary/' 
 
 Quite unnecessary, Sir Leicester. Now, my son is a very 
 young man, and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made 
 my way, so my son must make his ; and his being married 
 at present is out of the question. But supposing I gave my 
 consent to his engaging himself to this pretty girl, if this 
 pretty girl will eng^e herself to him, I think it a piece of 
 candour to say at once — I am sure. Sir Leicester and Lady 
 Dedlock, you will understand and excuse me — I should make 
 it a condition that she did not remain at Chesney Wold. 
 Therefore, before communicating further with my son, I take 
 the liberty of saying that if her removal would be in any 
 way inconvenient or objectionable, I will hold the matter 
 over with him for any reasonable time, and leave it precisely 
 where it is/' 
 
 Not remain at Chesney Wold ! Make it a condition ! All 
 Sir Leicester's old misgivings relative to Wat Tylei', and the 
 people in the iron districts who do nothing but turn out by 
 torchlight, come in a shower upon his head : the fine grey 
 hair of which, as well as of his whiskers, actually stirs with 
 indignation. 
 
 *'Am I to understand, sir," says Sir Leicester, "and is my 
 Lady to understand ; " he brings her in thus specially, first, as 
 a point of gallantry, and next as a point of prudence, having 
 great reliance on her sense ; " am I to understand, Mr. 
 Rouncewell, and is my Lady to understand, sir, that you 
 consider this young woman too good for Chesney Wold, or 
 likely to be injured by remaining here?" 
 
 "Certainly not. Sir Leicester." 
 
 "I am glad to hear it." Sir Leicester very lofty 
 indeed. 
 
 ' " Pray, Mr. Rouncewell," says my Lady, warning Sir Leicester 
 off with the slightest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he 
 were a fly, "explain to me what you mean." 
 
THE IRONMASTER EXPLAINS. 
 
 481 
 
 "Willingly, Lady Dedlock. There is nothing I could 
 desire more."" 
 
 Addressing her composed face, whose intelligence, however, 
 is too quick and active to be concealed by any studied 
 impassiveness, however habitual, to the strong Saxon face of 
 the visitor, a picture of resolution and perseverance, my Lady 
 listens with attention, occasionally slightly bending her head. 
 
 "I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and 
 passed my childhood about this house. My mother has lived 
 here half a century, and will die here I have no doubt. She 
 is one of those examples — perhaps as good a one as there is 
 — of love, and attachment, and fidelity in such a station, 
 which England may well be proud of ; but of which no order 
 can appropriate the whole pride or the whole merit, because 
 such an instance bespeaks high worth on two sides ; on the 
 great side assuredly ; on the small one, no less assuredly.**** 
 
 Sir Leicester snorts a little to hear the law laid down in 
 this way ; but in his honour and his love of truth, he freely, 
 though silently, admits the justice of the ironmaster's pro- 
 position. 
 
 "Pardon me for saying what is so obvious, but I wouldn't 
 have it hastily supposed,"' with the least turn of his eyes 
 towards Sir Leicester, "that I am ashamed of my mother's 
 position here, or wanting in all just respect for Chesney 
 Wold and the family. I certainly may have desired — I 
 certainly have desired. Lady Dedlock — that my mother should 
 retire after so many years, and end her days with me. But, 
 as I have found that to sever this strong bond would be to 
 break her heart, I have long abandoned that idea." 
 
 Sir Leicester very magnificent again, at the notion of Mrs, 
 Rouncewell being spirited off from her natural home, to end 
 her days with an ironmaster. 
 
 " I have been," proceeds the visitor, in a modest clear way, 
 "an apprentice, and a workman. I have lived on workman's 
 wages, years and years, and beyond a certain point have had 
 to educate myself. My wife was a foreman's daughter, and 
 
 VOL. I. 2 I 
 
482 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 plainly brought up. We have three daughters, besides this 
 son of whom I have spoken ; and being fortunately able to 
 give them greater advantages than we have had ourselves, we 
 have educated them well ; very well. It has been one of 
 our great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of any 
 station.'' 
 
 A little boastfulness in his fatherly tone here, as if he added 
 in his heart, " even of the Chesney Wold station.'' Not a little 
 more magnificence, therefore, on the part of Sir I^eicester. 
 
 " All this is so frequent, Lady Dedlock, where I live, 
 and among the class to which I belong, that what would 
 be generally called unequal marriages are not of such rare 
 occurrence with us as elsewhere. A son will sometimes make 
 it known to his father that he has fallen in love, say with a 
 young woman in the factory. The father, who once worked 
 in a factory himself, will be a little disappointed at first, very 
 possibly. It may be that he had other views for his son. 
 However, the chances are, that having ascertained the young 
 woman to be of unblemished character, he will say to his son, 
 *I must be quite sure you are in earnest here. This is a 
 serious matter for both of you. Therefore I shall have this 
 girl educated for two years ' — or, it may be — ' I shall place 
 this girl at the same school with your sisters for such a time, 
 during which you will give me your word and honour to see 
 her only so often. If, at the expiration of that time, when she 
 has so far profited by her advantages as that you may be 
 upon a fair equality, you are both in the same mind, I will 
 do my part to make you happy.' I know of several cases 
 such as I describe, my Lady, and I think they indicate to me 
 my own course now." 
 
 Sir Leicester's magnificence explodes. Calmly, but terribly. 
 
 " Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester, with his right hand 
 in the breast of his blue coat — the attitude of state in which 
 he is painted in the gallery : " do you draw a parallel between 
 
 Chesney Wold, and a " here he resists a disposition to 
 
 choke — "a factory?" 
 
SIR LEICESTER DEBLOCK ASTONISHED. 483 
 
 . "I need not reply, Sir Leicester, that the two places are 
 very different; but, for the purposes of this case, I think a 
 parallel may be justly drawn between them." 
 
 Sir Leicester directs his majestic glance down one side of 
 the long drawing-room, and up the other, before he can 
 believe that he is awake. 
 
 "Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my 
 Lady — my Lady — has placed near her person, was brought 
 up at the village school outside the gates ? " 
 
 " Sir Leicester, I am quite aware of it. A very good school 
 it is, and handsomely supported by this family." 
 
 " Then, Mr. Rouncewell," returns Sir Leicester, the appli- 
 cation of what you have said is, to me, incomprehensible." 
 
 " Will it be more comprehensible. Sir Leicester, if I say," 
 the ironmaster is reddening a little, "that I do not regard 
 the village school as teaching everything desirable to be known 
 by my son's wife ? " 
 
 From the village school of Chesney Wold, intact as it is 
 this minute, to the whole framework of society : from the 
 whole framework of society, to the aforesaid framework re- 
 ceiving tremendous cracks in consequence of people (iron- 
 masters, lead-mistresses, and what not) not minding their 
 catechism, and getting out of the station unto which they are 
 called — necessarily and for ever, according to Sir Leicester's 
 rapid logic, the first station in which they happen to find 
 themselves; and from that, to their educating other people 
 out of their stations, and so obliterating the landmarks, and 
 opening the floodgates, and all the rest of it ; this is the sw ift 
 progress of the Dedlock mind. 
 
 "My Lady, I beg your pardon. Permit me, for one 
 moment ! " She has given a faint indication of intending to 
 speak. "Mr. Rouncewell, our views of duty, and our views 
 of station, and our views of education, and our views of — in 
 short, all our views — are so diametrically opposed, that to 
 prolong this discussion must be repellant to your feelings, 
 and repellant to my own. This young woman is honoured 
 
484 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 with my Lady^'s notice and favour. If she wishes to with- 
 draw herself from that notice and favour, or if she chooses 
 to place herself under the influence of any one who may in 
 his peculiar opinions — you will allow me to say, in his 
 peculiar opinions, though I readily admit that he is not ac- 
 countable for them to me — who may, in his peculiar opinions, 
 withdraw her from that notice and favour, she is at any time 
 at liberty to do so. We are obliged to you for the plainness 
 with which you have spoken. It will have no effect of itself, 
 one way or other, on the young woman's position here. 
 Beyond this, we can make no terms ; and here we beg — if 
 you will be so good — to leave the subject.""* 
 
 The visitor pauses a moment to give my Lady an oppor- 
 tunity, but she says nothing. He then rises and replies : 
 
 "Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, allow me to thank you 
 for your attention, and only to observe that I shall very 
 seriously recommend my son to conquer his present inclina- 
 tions. Good night ! 
 
 "Mr. Rouncewell,**' says Sir Leicester, with all the nature 
 of a gentleman shining in him, " it is late, and the roads are 
 dark. I hope your time is not so precious but that you will 
 allow my Lady and myself to offer you the hospitality of 
 Chesney Wold, for to-night at least."' 
 
 " I hope so,*" adds my Lady. 
 
 " I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night, 
 in order to reach a distant part of the country, punctually at 
 an appointed time in the morning."' 
 
 Therewith the ironmaster takes his departure ; Sir Leicester 
 ringing the bell, and my Lady rising as he leaves the room. 
 
 When my Lady goes to her boudoir, she sits down 
 thoughtfully by the fire; and, inattentive to the Ghost's 
 Walk, looks at Rosa, writing in an inner room. Presently 
 my Lady calls her. 
 
 "Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in 
 love?" 
 
 "O! My Lady! 
 
MY LADY FALLS INTO A REVERIE. 485 
 
 My Lady, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says 
 smiling : 
 
 " Who is it ? Is it Mrs. RouncewelPs grandson ? 
 
 "Yes, if you please, my Lady. But I don't know that I 
 am in love with him — ^yet."" 
 
 " Yet, you silly little thing ! Do you know that he loves 
 you, yet?'' 
 
 " I think he likes me a little, my Lady." And Rosa burst 
 into tears. 
 
 Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beauty, 
 smoothing her dark hair with that motherly touch, and 
 watching her with eyes so full of musing interest? Aye, 
 indeed it is ! 
 
 "Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I 
 believe you are attached to me." 
 
 "Indeed I am, my Lady. Indeed there is nothing in the 
 world I wouldn't do, to show how much." 
 
 "And I don't think you would wish to leave me just yet, 
 Rosa, even for a lover ? " 
 
 " No, my Lady ! O no ! " Rosa looks up for the first time, 
 quite frightened at the thought. 
 
 " Confide in me, my child. Don't fear me. I wish you to 
 be happy, and will make you so — if I can make anybody 
 happy on this earth." 
 
 Rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her 
 hand. My Lady takes the hand with which she has caught 
 it, and, standing with her eyes fixed on the fire, puts it about 
 and about between her own two hands, and gradually lets it 
 fall. Seeing her so absorbed, Rosa softly withdraws ; but 
 still my Lady's eyes are on the fire. 
 
 In search of what? Of any hand that is no more, of any 
 hand that never was, of any touch that might have magically 
 changed her life? Or does she listen to the Ghost's Walk, 
 and think what step does it most resemble ? A man's ? A 
 woman's? The pattering of a little child's feet, ever coming 
 pi) — on — on ? Some xnelancholy influence is upon her ; or 
 
486 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 why should so proud a lady close the doors, and sit alone 
 upon the hearth so desolate? 
 
 Volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered 
 before dinner. Not a cousin of the batch but is amazed to 
 hear from Sir Leicester, at breakfast-time, of the obliteration 
 of landmarks, and opening of floodgates, and cracking of the 
 framework of society, manifested through Mrs. RouncewelFs 
 son. Not a cousin of the batch but is really indignant, and 
 connects it with the feebleness of William BufFy when in office, 
 and really does feel deprived of a stake in the country — or 
 the pension list — or something — by fraud and wrong. As to 
 Volumnia, she is handed down the great staircase by Sir 
 Leicester, as eloquent upon the theme, as if there were a 
 general rising in the North of England to obtain her rouge- 
 pot and pearl necklace. And thus, with a clatter of maids 
 and valets — for it is one appurtenance of their cousinship, 
 that, however difficult they may find it to keep themselves, 
 they must keep maids and valets — the cousins disperse to the 
 four winds of heaven; and the one wintry wind that blows 
 to-day shakes a shower from the trees near the deserted 
 house, as if all the cousins had been changed into leaves. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN. 
 
 Chesney Wold is shut up, carpets are rolled into great scrolls 
 in corners of comfortless rooms, bright damask does penance 
 in brown hoUand, carving and gilding puts on mortification, 
 and the Dedlock ancestors retire from the light of day again. 
 Around and around the house the leaves fall thick — but never 
 fast, for they come circling down with a dead lightness that 
 is sombre and slow. Let the gardener sweep and sweep the 
 turf as he will, and press the leaves into full barrows, and 
 wheel them off, still they lie ankle-deep. Howls the shrill 
 wind round Chesney Wold ; the sharp rain beats, the windows 
 I'attle, and the chimneys growl. Mists hide in the avenues, 
 veil the points of view, and move in funeral-wise across the 
 rising grounds. On all the house there is a cold, blank smell, 
 like the smell of a little church, though something dryer : 
 suggesting that the dead and buried Dedlocks walk there in 
 the long nights, and leave the flavour of their graves behind 
 them. 
 
 But the house in town, which is rarely in the same mind 
 as Chesney Wold at the same time; seldom rejoicing when 
 it rejoices, or mourning when it mourns, excepting when a 
 Dedlock dies ; the house in town shines out awakened. As 
 warm and bright as so much state may be, as delicately 
 redolent of pleasant scents that bear no trace of winter as 
 hothouse flowers can make it; soft and hushed, so that the 
 ticking of the clocks and the crisp burning of the fires alone 
 
488 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 disturb the stillness in the rooms; it seems to wrap those 
 chilled bones of Sir Leicester''s in rainbow-coloured wool. 
 And Sir Leicester is glad to repose in dignified contentment 
 before the great fire in the library, condescendingly perusing 
 the backs of his books, or honouring the fine arts with a 
 glance of approbation. For he has his pictures, ancient and 
 modern. Some of the Fancy Ball School in which Art 
 occasionally condescends to become a master, which would be 
 best catalogued like the miscellaneous articles in a sale. As, 
 "Three high-backed chairs, a table and cover, long-necked 
 bottle (containing wine), one flask, one Spanish female's 
 costume, three-quarter face portrait of Miss Jogg the model, 
 and a suit of armour containing Don Quixote."'' Or, One 
 stone terrace (cracked), one gondola in distance, one Venetian 
 senator's dress complete, richly embroidered white satin 
 costume with profile portrait of Miss Jogg the model, one 
 scimetar superbly mounted in gold with jewelled handle, 
 elaborate Moorish dress (very rare), and Othello.'' 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn comes and goes pretty often ; there being 
 estate business to do, leases to be renewed, and so on. He 
 sees my Lady pretty often, too; and he and she are as com- 
 posed, and as indifferent, and take as little heed of one 
 another, as ever. Yet it may be that my Lady fears this 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn, and that he knows it. It may be that he 
 pursues her doggedly and steadily, with no touch of compunc- 
 tion, remorse, or pity. It may be that her beauty, and all 
 the state and brilliancy surrounding her, only gives him the 
 greater zest for what he is set upon, and makes him the more 
 inflexible in it. Whether he be cold and cruel, whether 
 immovable in what he has made his duty, whether absorbed 
 in love of power, whether determined to have nothing hidden 
 from him in ground where he has burrowed among secrets 
 all his life, whether he in his heart despises the splendour of 
 which he is a distant beam, whether he is always treasuring 
 up slights and offences in the affability of his gorgeous clients 
 — whether he be any of this, or all of this, it may be that 
 
THE YOUNG MAN OF THE NAME OF GUPPY. 489 
 
 my Lady had better have five thousand pairs of fashionable 
 eyes upon her, in distrustful vigilance, than the two eyes of 
 this rusty lawyer, with his wisp of neckcloth and his dull 
 black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees. 
 
 Sir Leicester sits in my Lady''s room — that room in which 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn read the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce 
 — ^particularly complacent. My Lady — as on that day — sits 
 before the fire with her screen in her hand. Sir Leicester is 
 particularly complacent, because he has found in his news- 
 paper some congenial remarks bearing directly on the flood- 
 gates and the framework of society. They apply so happily 
 to the late case, that Sir Leicester has come from the library 
 to my Lady's room expressly to read them aloud. "The 
 man who wrote this article,**' he observes by way of preface, 
 nodding at the fire as if he were nodding down at the man 
 from a Mount, "has a well-balanced mind.'' 
 
 The man's mind is not so well balanced but that he bores 
 my Lady, who, after a languid effort to listen, or rather a 
 languid resignation of herself to a show of listening, becomes 
 distraught, and falls into a contemplation of the fire as if it 
 were her fire at Chesney Wold, and she had never left it. 
 Sir Leicester, quite unconscious, reads on through his double 
 eye-glass, occasionally stopping to remove his glass and express 
 approval, as " Very true indeed," " Very properly put," " I 
 have frequently made the same remark myself;" invariably 
 losing his place after each observation, and going up and 
 down the column to find it again. 
 
 Sir Leicester is reading, with infinite gravity and state, 
 when the door opens, and the Mercury in powder makes this 
 strange announcement : 
 
 "The young man, my Lady, of the name of Guppy." 
 
 Sir Leicester pauses, stares, repeats in a killing voice : 
 
 " The young man of the name of Guppy ? " 
 
 Looking round, he beholds the young man of the name of 
 Guppy, much discomfited, and not presenting a very impressive 
 letter of introduction in his manner and appearance, 
 
490 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Pray,'' says Sir Leicester to Mercury, " what do you mean 
 by announcing with this abruptness a young man of the name 
 of Guppy?^' 
 
 "I beg your pardon. Sir Leicester, but my Lady said she 
 would see the young man whenever he called. I was not 
 aware that you were here, Sir Leicester.'"' 
 
 With this apology. Mercury directs a scornful and indig- 
 nant look at the young man of the name of Guppy, which 
 plainly says, " What do you come calling here for, and 
 getting me into a row?'- 
 
 "It's quite right. I gave him those directions,^' says my 
 Lady. "Let the young man wait." 
 
 "By no means, my Lady. Since he has your ordei^s to 
 come, I will not interrupt you." Sir Leicester in his gallantry 
 retires, rather declining to accept a bow from the young man 
 as he goes out, and majestically supposing him to be some 
 shoemaker of intrusive appearance. 
 
 Lady Dedlock looks imperiously at her visitor, when the 
 servant has left the room ; casting her eyes over him from 
 head to foot. She suffers him to stand by the door, and asks 
 him what he wants ? 
 
 " That your ladyship would have the kindness to oblige me 
 with a little conversation," returns Mr. Guppy, embarrassed. 
 
 "You are, of course, the person who has written me so 
 many letters?" 
 
 "Several, your ladyship. Several, before your ladyship 
 condescended to favour me with an answer." 
 
 "And could you not take the same means of rendering a 
 conversation unnecessary ? Can you not still ? " 
 
 Mr. Guppy screws his mouth into a silent " No ! " and 
 shakes his head, 
 
 "You have been strangely importunate. If it should 
 appear, after all, that what you have to say does not concern 
 me — and I don't know how it can, and don't expect that it 
 will — you will allow me to cut you short with but little cere- 
 mony. Say what you have to say, if you please." 
 
Ot THE 
 
 UNIVERSi rV of ILLINOIS. 
 
THE YOUNG MAN^S BUSINESS. 491 
 
 My Lady, with a careless toss of her screen, turns herself 
 towards the fire again, sitting almost with her back to the 
 young man of the name of Guppy. 
 
 "With your ladyship's permission, then,'' says the young 
 m.an, " I will now enter on my business. Hem ! I am, as I 
 told your ladyship in my first letter, in the law. Being in 
 the law, I have learnt the habit of not committing myself in 
 writing, and therefore I did not mention to your ladyship 
 the name of the firm with which I am connected, and in 
 which my standing — and I may add income — is tolerably 
 good. I may now state to yom- ladyship, in confidence, that 
 the name of that firm is Kenge and Carboy, of Lincoln's 
 Inn ; which may not be altogether unknown to your ladyship 
 in connexion with the case in Chancery of Jarndyce and 
 Jarndyce." 
 
 My I^ady's figure begins to be expressive of some attention. 
 She has ceased to toss the screen, and holds it as if she were 
 listening. 
 
 "Now, I may say to your ladyship at once," says Mr. 
 Guppy, a little emboldened, "it is no matter arising out of 
 Jarndyce and Jarndyce that made me so desirous to speak to 
 your ladyship, which conduct I have no doubt did appear, 
 and does appear, obtrusive — in fact, almost blackguardly." 
 After waiting for a moment to receive some assurance to the 
 contrary, and not receiving any, Mr. Guppy proceeds. " If 
 it had been Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I should have gone at 
 once to your ladyship's solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn of the 
 Fields. I have the pleasure of being acquainted with Mr. 
 Tulkinghorn — at least we move when we meet one another 
 — and if it had been any business of that sort, I should have 
 gone to him." 
 
 My Lady turns a little round, and says, " You had better 
 sit down." 
 
 "Thank your ladyship." Mr. Guppy does so. "Now, 
 your ladyship ; " Mr. Guppy refers to a little slip of paper 
 on which he has made small notes of his line of argument^ 
 
492 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 and which seems to involve him in the densest obscurity 
 whenever he looks at it ; " I — O yes ! — I place myself entirely 
 in your ladyship's hands. If your ladyship was to make any 
 complaint to Kenge and Carboy, or to Mr. Tulkinghorn, of 
 the present visit, I should be placed in a very disagreeable 
 situation. That, I openly admit. Consequently, I rely upon 
 your ladyship's honour.'"' 
 
 My Lady, with a disdainful gesture of the hand that 
 holds the screen, assures him of his being worth no complaint 
 from her. 
 
 "Thank your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "quite satis- 
 factory. Now — I — dash it ! — The fact is, that I put down a 
 head or two here of the order of the points I thought of 
 touching upon, and they're written short, and I can't quite 
 make out what they mean. If your ladyship will excuse me 
 taking it to the window half a moment, I " 
 
 Mr. Guppy going to the window, tumbles into a pair of 
 love-birds, to whom he says in his confusion, " I beg your 
 pardon, I am sure." This does not tend to the greater 
 legibility of his notes. He murmurs, growing warm and red, 
 and holding the slip of paper now close to his eyes, now a 
 long way off, " C. S. What's C. S. for.? O! ^E. S.!^ O, I 
 know ! Yes, to be sure ! " And comes back enlightened. 
 
 "I am not aware," says Mr. Guppy, standing midway 
 between my Lady and his chair, " whether your ladyship ever 
 happened to hear of, or to see, a young lady of the name of 
 Miss Esther Summerson." 
 
 My Lady's eyes look at him full. " I saw a young lady of 
 that name not long ago. This past autumn." 
 
 "Now, did it strike your ladyship that she was like any- 
 body ? " asks Mr. Guppy, crossing his arms, holding his head 
 on one side, and scratching the corner of his mouth with his 
 memoranda. 
 
 My Lady removes her eyes from him no more. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Not like your ladyship's family .? " 
 
ON DANGEROUS GROUND. 
 
 "I think your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, '^can hardly 
 remember Miss Summerson's face ? 
 
 " I remember the young lady very well. What has this to 
 do with me ? 
 
 " Your ladyship, I do assure you, that having Miss 
 Summerson's image imprinted on my art — which I mention in 
 confidence — I found, when I had the honour of going over 
 your ladyship's mansion of Chesney Wold, while on a short 
 out in the county of Lincolnshire with a friend, such a 
 resemblance between Miss Esther Summerson and your lady- 
 ship's own portrait, that it completely knocked me over; so 
 much so, that I didn't at the moment even know what it was 
 that knocked me over. And now I have the honour of 
 beholding your ladyship near, (I have often, since that, taken 
 the liberty of looking at your ladyship in your carriage in 
 the park, when I dare say you was not aware of me, but I 
 never saw your ladyship so near,) it's really more surprising 
 than I thought it." 
 
 Young man of the name of Guppy ! There have been 
 times, when ladies lived in strongholds, and had unscrupulous 
 attendants within call, when that poor life of yours would 
 not have been worth a minute's purchase, with those beautiful 
 eyes looking at you as they look at this moment. 
 
 My Lady, slowly using her little hand-screen as a fan, asks 
 him again, what he supposes that his taste for likenesses has 
 to do with her? 
 
 "Your ladyship," replies Mr. Guppy, again referring to 
 his paper, " I am coming to that. Dash these notes ! O ! 
 'Mrs. Chadband.' Yes." Mr. Guppy draws his chair a 
 little forward, and seats himself again. My Lady reclines 
 in her chair composedly, though with a trifle less of graceful 
 ease than usual, perhaps ; and never falters in her steady 
 gaze. " A — stop a minute, though ! " Mr. Guppy refei^ 
 again. " E. S. twice ? O yes ! yes, I see my way now, 
 right on." 
 
494 BLEAK HOUS 
 
 Rolling up the slip of paper as an ins^^^J|jj|jt^oint his 
 
 speech with, Mr. Guppy proceeds. 
 
 "Your ladyship, there is a mystery about MBWEsther 
 Summerson'^s birth and bringing up. I am informed of that 
 fact, because — which I mention in ^^HBnce — I know it 
 the way of my profession at Kenge an^rarboy's. Now, as 
 have already mentioned to your ladyship, Miss Summerson's 
 image is imprinted on my art. If I could clear this mystery 
 for her, or prove her to be well related, or find that having 
 the honour to be a remote branch of your ladyship's family 
 she had a right to be made a party in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, 
 why, I might make a sort of a claim upon Miss Summerson to 
 look with an eye of more decided favour on my proposals 
 than she has exactly done as yet. In fact, as yet she hasn't 
 favoured them at all.'' 
 
 A kind of angry smile just dawns upon my Lady's face. 
 
 "Now, it's a very singular circumstance, your ladyship," 
 says Mr. Guppy, "though one of those circumstances that 
 do fall in the way of us professional men — which I may call 
 myself, for though not admitted, yet I have had a present 
 of my articles made to me by Kenge and Carboy, on my 
 mother's advancing from the principal of her little income 
 the money for the stamp, which comes heavy — that I have 
 encountered the person who lived as servant with the lady 
 who brought Miss Summerson up, before Mr. Jarndyce took 
 charge of her. That lady was a Miss Barbary, your lady- 
 ship." 
 
 Is the dead colour on my Lady's face, reflected from the 
 screen which has a green silk ground, and which she holds in 
 her raised hand as if she had forgotten it ; or is it a dreadful 
 paleness that has fallen on her ? 
 
 " Did your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, " ever happen to 
 hear of Miss Barbary ? " 
 
 "I don't know. I think so. Yes." 
 
 " Was Miss Barbary at all connected with your ladyship's 
 family .?'" 
 
 1^ 
 
ladyship s knowledge, perha] 
 f^wy*ter each of these4^B|)o 
 ^^ery good ! Now^^i^ IN 
 
 A Ua^^ GIRUS REAL NAME. 495 
 
 My ladj^^j^HJ^, but they utter nothing. She shakes 
 her 
 
 " iV^S^^nnected ? " says Mr. Guppy. " () ! Not to your 
 ladyship's knowledge, perhaps ? Ah ! But might be ? Yes.'' 
 
 ogatories, she has incHned her head. 
 Miss Barbary was extremely close 
 — seems to have been extraordinarily close for a female, 
 females being generally (in common life at least) rather given 
 to conversation — and my witness never had an idea whether 
 she possessed a single relative. On one occasion, and only 
 one, she seems to have been confidential to my witness, on a 
 single point; and she then told her that the little girl's real 
 name was not Esther Summerson, but Esther Hawdon." 
 "My God!" 
 
 Mr. Guppy stares. Lady Dedlock sits before him, looking 
 him through, wdth the same dark shade upon her face, in the 
 same attitude even to the holding of the screen, with her 
 lips a little apart, her brow a little contracted, but, for the 
 moment, dead. He sees her consciousness return, sees a tremor 
 pass across her frame like a ripple over water, sees her lips 
 shake, sees her compose them by a great effort, sees her force 
 herself back to the knowledge of his presence, and of what he 
 has said. All this, so quickly, that her exclamation and her 
 dead condition seem to have passed away like the features of 
 those long-preserved dead bodies sometimes opened up in 
 tombs, which, struck by the air like lightning, vanish in a 
 breath. 
 
 " Your ladyship is acquainted with the name of Hawdon ? " 
 " I have heard it before." 
 
 " Name of any collateral, or remote, branch of your lady- 
 ship's family ? " 
 "No." 
 
 " Now, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, " I come to the 
 last point of the case, so far as 1 have got it up. It's going 
 on, and I shall gather it up closer and closer as it goes on. 
 Your ladyship must know^ — if your ladyship don't happen, by 
 
496 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 any chance, to know already — that there was found dead at 
 the house of a person named Krook, near Chancery Lane, 
 some time ago, a law-writer in great distress. Upon which 
 law-writer there was an inquest; and which law-writer was 
 an anonymous character, his name being unknown. But, your 
 ladyship, I have discovered very lately, that that law-writer's 
 name was Hawdon.'*'* 
 
 " And what is that to me ? '''' 
 
 " Aye, your ladyship, that's the question ! Now, your lady- 
 ship, a queer thing happened after that man's death. A lady 
 started up ; a disguised lady, your ladyship, who went to look 
 at the scene of action, and went to look at his grave. She 
 hired a crossing-sweeping boy to show it her. If your lady- 
 ship would wish to have the boy produced in corroboration 
 of this statement, I can lay my hand upon him at any time." 
 
 The wretched boy is nothing to my Lady, and she does not 
 wish to have him produced. 
 
 " Oh, I assure your ladyship it's a very queer start indeed," 
 says Mr. Guppy. " If you was to hear him tell about the 
 rings that sparkled on her fingers when she took her glove 
 off, you'd think it quite romantic." 
 
 There are diamonds glittering on the hand that holds the 
 screen. My Lady trifles with the screen, and makes them 
 glitter more ; again with that expression which in other times 
 might have been so dangerous to the young man of the name 
 of Guppy. 
 
 " It was supposed, your ladyship, that he left no rag or 
 scrap behind him by which he could be possibly identified. 
 But he did. He left a bundle of letters." 
 
 The screen still goes, as before. All this time, her eyes 
 never once release him. 
 
 "They were taken and secreted. And to-morrow night, 
 your ladyship, they will come into my possession." 
 
 "Still I ask you, what is this to me?" 
 
 "Your ladyship, I conclude with that." Mr. Guppy rises* 
 " If you think there's enough, in this chain of circumstances 
 
A MATCH FOR MY LADY. 497 
 
 put together — in the undoubted strong Hkeness of this young 
 lady to your ladyship, which is a positive fact for a jury — 
 in her having been brought up by Miss Barbary — in Miss 
 Barbary stating Miss Summerson's real name to be Hawdon 
 — in your ladyship'^s knowing both these names very xmll — 
 and in Hawdon's dying as he did — to give your ladyship a 
 family interest in going further into the case, I will bring 
 these papers here. I don''t know what they are, except that 
 they are old letters : I have never had them in my possession 
 yet. I will bring those papers here, as soon as I get them; 
 and go over them for the first time with your ladyship. I 
 have told your ladyship my object. I have told your lady- 
 ship that I should be placed in a very disagreeable situation, 
 if any complaint was made ; and all is in strict confidence.^'' 
 
 Is this the full purpose of the young man of the name 
 of Guppy, or has he any other ? Do his words disclose the 
 length, breadth, depth, of his object and suspicion in coming 
 here ; or, if not, what do they hide He is a match for my 
 Lady there. She may look at him, but he can look at the 
 table, and keep that witness-box face of his from telling 
 anything. 
 
 "You may bring the letters,*" says my Lady, "if you 
 choose."*' 
 
 " Your Ladyship is not very encouraging, upon my word 
 and honour,'' says Mr. Guppy, a little injured. 
 
 " You may bring the letters," she repeats, in the same tone, 
 " if you please." 
 
 " It shall be done. I wish your ladyship good day." 
 On a table near her is a rich bauble of a casket, barred 
 and clasped .like an old strong chest. She, looking at him 
 still, takes it to her and unlocks it. 
 
 "Oh! I assure your ladyship I am not actuated by any 
 motives of that sort," says Mr. Guppy; "and I couldn't 
 accept anything of the kind. I wish your ladyship good day, 
 and am much obliged to you all the same." 
 
 So the young man makes bis bow, and goes down-stairs; 
 
 VOL. I, 2 K 
 
498 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 where the supercilious Mercury does not consider himself 
 called upon to leave his Olympus by the hall-fire, to let the 
 young man out. 
 
 As Sir Leicester basks in his library, and dozes over his 
 newspaper, is there no influence in the house to startle him ; 
 not to say, to make the very trees at Chesney Wold fling 
 up their knotted arms, the very portraits frown, the very 
 armour stir ? 
 
 No. Words, sobs, and cries, are but air; and air is so 
 shut in and shut out throughout the house in town, that 
 sounds need be uttered trumpet-tongued indeed by my I^dy 
 in her chamber, to carry any faint vibration to Sir Leicester's 
 ears; and yet this cry is in the house, going upward from a 
 wild figure on its knees. 
 
 " O my child, my child ! Not dead in the first hours of 
 her life, as my cruel sister told me ; but sternly nurtured by 
 her, after she had renounced me and my name ! O my child, 
 O my child ! 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 esther'^s narrative. 
 
 Richard had been gone away some time, when a visitor 
 came to pass a few days with us. It was an elderly lady. 
 It was Mrs. Woodcourt, who, having come from Wales to 
 stay with Mrs. Bayham Badger, and having written to my 
 guardian, ^'by her son Allan's desire,'"* to report that she 
 had heard from him and that he was well, "and sent his 
 kind remembrances to all of us,'' had been invited by my 
 guardian to make a visit to Bleak House. She stayed with 
 us nearly three weeks. She took very kindly to me, and was 
 extremely confidential : so much so that sometimes she almost 
 made me uncomfortable. I had no right, I knew very well, to 
 be uncomfortable because she confided in me, and I felt it was 
 unreasonable; still, with all I could do, I could not quite 
 help it. 
 
 . She was such a sharp little lady, and used to sit with her 
 hands folded in each other, looking so very watchful while 
 she talked to me, that perhaps I found that rather irksome. 
 Or perhaps it was her being so upright and trim ; though I 
 don't think it was that, because I thought that quaintly 
 pleasant. Nor can it have been the general expression of her 
 face, which was very sparkling and pretty for an old lady. 
 I don't know what it was. Or at least if I do, now, I thought 
 I did not then. Or at least — but it don't matter. 
 
 Of a night when I Avas going up-stairs to bed, she would 
 
500 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 invite me into her room, where she sat before the fire in a 
 great chair; and, dear me, she would tell me about Morgan 
 ap Kerrig until I was quite low-spirited ! Sometimes she 
 recited a few verses from Crumlinwallinwer and the Mewlin- 
 willinwodd (if those are the right names, which I dare say 
 they are not), and would become quite fiery with the 
 sentiments they expressed. Though I never knew what they 
 were (being in Welsh), further than that they were highly 
 eulogistic of the lineage of Morgan ap Kerrig. 
 
 ''So, Miss Summerson,"' she would say to me with stately 
 triumph, "this you see, is the fortune inherited by my son. 
 Wherever my son goes, he can claim kindred with Ap Kerrig. 
 He may not have money, but he always has what is much 
 better — family, my dear.'" 
 
 I had my doubts of their caring so very much for Morgan 
 ap Kerrig, in India and China; but of course I never ex- 
 pressed them. I used to say it was a great thing to be so 
 highly connected. 
 
 "It is^ my dear, a great thing,'' Mrs. Woodcourt would 
 reply. " It has its disadvantages ; my son's choice of a 
 wife, for instance, is limited by it; but the matrimonial 
 choice of the Royal family is limited, in much the same 
 manner." 
 
 Then she would pat me on the arm and smooth my dress, 
 as much as to assure me that she had a good opinion of me, 
 the distance between us notwithstanding. 
 
 "Poor Mr. Woodcourt, my dear," she would say, and 
 always with some emotion, for with her lofty pedigree she had 
 a very affectionate heart, " was descended from a great High- 
 land family, the Mac Coorts of Mac Coort. He served his 
 king and country as an officer in the Royal Highlanders, and 
 he died on the field. My son is one of the last representatives 
 of two old families. With the blessing of Heaven he will 
 set them up again, and unite them with another old family." 
 
 It was in vain for me to try to change the subject, as I 
 used to try — only for the sake of novelty — or perhaps because 
 
MRS. WOODCOURTS WHEEDLING. 
 
 501 
 
 — but I need not be so particular. Mrs. Wocdcourt never 
 would let me change it. 
 
 "My dear/** she said one night, "you have so much sense, 
 and you look at the world in a quiet manner so superior to 
 your time of life, that it is a comfort to me to talk to you 
 about these family matters of mine. You don't know much 
 of my son, my dear; but you know enough of him, I dare 
 say, to recollect him ? 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. I recollect him.'' 
 
 " Yes, my dear. Now, my dear, I think you are a judge 
 of character, and I should like to have your opinion of him.^*" 
 
 " O, Mrs. Woodcourt ! " said I, " that is so difficult." 
 
 " Why is it so difficult, my dear," she returned. " I don't 
 see it myself." 
 
 "To give an opinion " 
 
 " On so slight an acquaintance, my dear. Thafs true." 
 
 I didn't mean that; because Mr. Woodcourt had been at 
 our house a good deal altogether, and had become quite 
 intimate with my guardian. I said so, and added that he 
 seemed to be very clever in his profession — we thought — and 
 that his kindness and gentleness to Miss Flite were above all 
 praise. 
 
 " You do him justice ! " said Mrs. Woodcourt, pressing my 
 hand. " You define him exactly. Allan is a dear fellow, and 
 in his profession faultless. I say it, though I am his mother. 
 Still, I must confess he is not without faults, love." 
 
 "None of us are," said I. 
 
 " Ah ! But his really are faults that he might correct, 
 and ought to correct," returned the sharp old lady, sharply 
 shaking her head. "I am so much attached to you, that I 
 may confide in you, my dear, as a third party Avholly dis- 
 interested, that he is fickleness itself." 
 
 I said, I should have thought it hardly possible that he 
 could have been otherwise than constant to his profession, 
 and zealous in the pursuit of it, judging from the reputation 
 he had earned. 
 
502 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "You are right again, my dear," the old lady retorted; 
 "but I don't refer to his profession, look you.**' 
 " O ! '' said I. 
 
 "No,'' said she. "I refer, my dear, to his social conduct. 
 He is always paying trivial attentions to young ladies, and 
 always has been, ever since he was eighteen. Now, my dear, 
 he has never really cared for any one of them, and has never 
 meant in doing this to do any harm, or to express anything 
 but politeness and good nature. Still, it's not right, you 
 know ; is it ? " 
 
 "No," said I, as she seemed to wait for me. 
 
 "And it might lead to mistaken notions, you see, my 
 dear." 
 
 I supposed it might. 
 
 "Therefore, I have told him, many times, that he really 
 should be more careful, both in justice to himself and in 
 justice to others. And he has always said, ' Mother, I will 
 be; but you know me better than anybody else does, and 
 you know I mean no harm — in short, mean nothing.' All of 
 which is very true, my dear, but is no justification. However, 
 as he is now gone so far away, and for an indefinite time, 
 and as he will have good opportunities and introductions, we 
 may consider this past and gone. And you, my dear," said 
 the old lady, who was now all nods and smiles ; " regarding 
 your dear self, my love ? " 
 
 "Me, Mrs. Woodcourt?" 
 
 " Not to be always selfish, talking of my son, who has gone 
 to seek his fortune, and to find a wife — when do you mean 
 to seek your fortune and to find a husband. Miss Summerson ? 
 Hey, look you ! Now you blush ! " 
 
 I don't think I did blush — at all events, it was not im- 
 portant if I did — and I said, my present fortune perfectly 
 contented me, and I had no wish to change it. 
 
 "Shall I tell you what I always think of you, and the 
 fortune yet to come for you, my love .?^" said Mrs. Woodcourt. 
 
 " If you believe you are a good prophet," said I. 
 
FORTUNE-TELLING. 
 
 503 
 
 " Why, then, it is that you will marry some one, very rich 
 and very worthy, much older— flve-and-twenty years, perhaps 
 —than yourself. And you will be an excellent wife, and 
 much beloved, and very happy.'' 
 
 " That is a good fortune,'' said I. " But why is it to be 
 mine ? " 
 
 *^My dear," she returned, "there's suitability in it— you 
 are so busy, and so neat, and so peculiarly situated altogether, 
 that there's suitability in it, and it will come to pass. And 
 nobody, my love, will congratulate you more sincerely on 
 such a marriage than I shall." 
 
 It was curious that this should make me uncomfortable, 
 but I think it did. I know it did. It made me for some 
 part of that night uncomfortable. I was so ashamed of my 
 folly, that I did not like to confess it even to Ada; and 
 that made me more uncomfortable still. I would have given 
 anything not to have been so much in the bright old lady's 
 confidence, if I could have possibly declined it. It gave me 
 the most inconsistent opinions of her. At one time I thought 
 she was a story-teller, and at another that she was the pink 
 of truth. Now, I suspected that she was very cunning ; next 
 moment, I believed her honest Welsh heart to be perfectly 
 innocent and simple. And, after all, what did it matter to 
 me, and why did it matter to me ? Why could not I, going 
 up to bed with my basket of keys, stop to sit down by her 
 fire, and accommodate myself for a little while to her, at least 
 as well as to anybody else ; and not trouble myself about the 
 harmless things she said to me? Impelled towards her, as I 
 certainly was, for I was very anxious that she should like me, 
 and was very glad indeed that she did, why should I harp 
 afterwards, with actual distress and pain, on every word she 
 said, and Tveigh it over and over again in twenty scales.^ 
 Why was it so worrying to me to have her in our house, 
 and confidential to me every night, when I yet felt that it 
 was better and safer, somehow, that she should be there than 
 anywhere else? These were perplexities and contradictions 
 
Hoi 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 that I could not account for. At least, if I could — but I 
 shall come to all that by-and-by, and it is mere idleness to 
 go on about it now. 
 
 So, when Mrs. Woodcourt went away, I was sorry to lose 
 her, but was relieved too. And then Caddy Jelly by came 
 down; and Caddy brought such a packet of domestic news, 
 that it gave us abundant occupation. 
 
 First, Caddy declared (and would at first declare nothing 
 else) that I was the best adviser that ever was known. This, 
 my pet said, was no news at all ; and this, / said, of course, was 
 nonsense. Then Caddy told us that she was going to be 
 married in a month; and that if Ada and I would be her 
 bridesmaids, she was the happiest girl in the world. To be 
 sure, this was news indeed; and I thought we never should 
 have done talking about it, we had so much to say to Caddy, 
 and Caddy had so much to say to us. 
 
 It seemed that Caddy's unfortunate papa had got over his 
 bankruptcy — " gone through the Gazette,*' was the expression 
 Caddy used, as if it were a tunnel, — with the general clemency 
 and commiseration of his creditors ; and had got rid of his 
 affairs in some blessed manner, without succeeding in under- 
 standing them ; and had given up everything he possessed 
 (which was not worth much, I should think, to judge from 
 the state of the furniture), and had satisfied every one con- 
 cerned that he could do no more, poor man. So, he had 
 been honourably dismissed to " the office,'' to begin the world 
 again. What he did at the office, I never knew : Caddy said 
 he was a " Custom-House and General Agent," and the only 
 thing I ever understood about that business was, that when 
 he wanted money more than usual he went to the Docks to 
 look for it, and hardly ever found it. 
 
 As soon as her papa had tranquillised his mind by becoming 
 this shorn lamb, and they had removed to a furnished lodging 
 in Hatton Garden (where I found the children, when I after- 
 wards went there, cutting the horsehair out of the seats of the 
 chairs, and choking themselves with it), Caddy had brought 
 
WILD INDIANS. 
 
 ^bout a meeting between him and old Mr. Turveydrop ; and 
 poor Mr. Jelly by, being very humble and meek, had deferred 
 to Mr. Turveydrop^s Deportment so submissively, that they 
 had become excellent friends. By degrees, old Mr. Turveydrop, 
 thus familiarised with the idea of his son'^s marriage, had 
 worked up his parental feelings to the height of contemplating 
 that event as being near at hand ; and had given his gracious 
 consent to the young couple commencing housekeeping at 
 the Academy in Newman Street, when they would. 
 " And your papa, Caddy. What did he say ? ''^ 
 " O ! poor Pa,**' said Caddy, " only cried, and said he hoped 
 we might get on better than he and Ma had got on. He 
 didn'^t say so before Prince, he only said so to me. And he 
 said, ^My poor girl, you have not been very well taught how 
 to make a home for your husband ; but unless you mean witlt 
 all your heart to strive to do it, you had better murder him 
 than marry him — if you really love him.'"*' 
 
 " And how did you reassure him, Caddy ? '''' "^""""^ 
 "Why, it was very distressing, you know, to see poor Pa 
 so low, and hear him say such terrible things, and I couldn't 
 help crying myself. But I told him that I did mean it with 
 all my heart; and that I hoped our house would be a 
 place for him to come and find some comfort in, of an 
 evening; and that I hoped and thought I could be a better 
 daughter to him there, than at home. Then I mentioned 
 Peepy's coming to stay with me ; and then Pa began to cry 
 again, and said the children were Indians.''^ 
 "Indians, Caddy?'' 
 
 "Yes,'' said Caddy, "Wild Indians. And Pa said,^'— 
 (here she began to sob, poor girl, not at all like the happiest 
 girl in the world) — "that he was sensible the best thing 
 that could happen to them was, their being all Tomahawked 
 together." 
 
 Ada suggested that it was comfortable to know that Mr. 
 Jelly by did not mean these destructive sentiments. 
 
 "No, of course I know Pa wouldn't like his family to be 
 
506 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 weltering in their blood,'' said Caddy; "but he means that 
 they are very unfortunate in being Ma's children, and that 
 he is very unfortunate in being Ma's husband ; and I am sure 
 that's true, though it seems unnatural to say so." 
 
 I asked Caddy if Mrs. Jelly by knew that her wedding-day 
 was fixed. 
 
 " O ! you know what Ma is, Esther," she returned. " It's 
 impossible to say whether she knows it or not. She has 
 been told it often enough ; and v>^hen she is told it, she only 
 gives me a placid look, as if I was I don't know what — a 
 steeple in the distance," said Caddy, with a sudden idea; 
 "and then she shakes her head, and says Caddy, Caddy, 
 what a tease you are ! ' and goes on with the Borrioboola 
 letters." 
 
 "And about your wardrobe, Caddy .^" said I. For she 
 was under no restraint with us. 
 
 "Well, my dear Esther," she returned, drying her eyes, "I 
 must do the best I can, and trust to my dear Prince never 
 to have an unkind remembrance of my coming so shabbily to 
 him. If the question concerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma 
 would know all about it, and would be quite excited. Being 
 what it is, she neither knows nor cares." 
 
 Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her 
 mother, but mentioned this with tears, as an undeniable fact : 
 which I am afraid it was. We were sorry for the poor dear 
 girl, and found so much to admire in the good disposition 
 which had survived under such discouragement, that we both 
 at once (I mean Ada and I) proposed a little scheme, that 
 made her perfectly joyful. This was, her staying with us for 
 three weeks ; my staying with her for one ; and our all three 
 contriving and cutting out, and repairing, and sewing, and 
 saving, and doing the very best we could think of, to make 
 the most of her stock. My guardian being as pleased with 
 the idea as Caddy was, we took her home next day to 
 arrange the matter; and brought her out again in triumph, 
 with her boxes, and all the purchases that could be squeezed 
 
PREPARATIONS FOR CADDY'S MARRIAGE. 507 
 
 out of a ten-pound note, which Mr. Jellyby had found in 
 the Docks I suppose, but which he at all events gave her. 
 What my guardian would not have given her, if we had 
 encouraged him, it would be difficult to say ; but we thought 
 it right to compound for no more than her wedding-dress 
 and bonnet. He agreed to this compromise ; and if Caddy 
 had ever been happy in her life, she was happy when we sat 
 down to work. 
 
 She was clumsy enough with her needle, poor girl, and 
 pricked her fingers as much as she had been used to ink them. 
 She could not help reddening a little, now and then : partly 
 with the smart, and partly with vexation at being able to do 
 no better ; but she soon got over that, and began to improve 
 rapidly. So, day after day, she, and my darling, and my little 
 maid Charley, and a milliner out of the town, and I, sat hard 
 at work, as pleasantly as possible. 
 
 Over and above this, Caddy was very anxious "to learn 
 housekeeping,^' as she said. Now, Mercy upon us ! the idea 
 of her learning housekeeping of a person of my vast experi- 
 ence was such a joke, that I laughed, and coloured up, and 
 fell into a comical confusion when she proposed it. However, 
 I said, "Caddy, I am sure you are very welcome to learn 
 anything that you can learn of me^ my dear ; '' and I showed 
 her all my books and methods, and all my fidgety ways. You 
 would have supposed that I was showing her some wonderful 
 inventions, by her study of them; and if you had seen her, 
 whenever I jingled my housekeeping keys, get up and attend 
 me, certainly you might have thought that there never was a 
 greater impostor than I, with a blinder follower than Caddy 
 Jellyby. 
 
 So, what with working and housekeeping, and lessons to 
 Charley, and backgammon in the evening with my guardian, 
 and duets with Ada, the three weeks slipped fast away. Then 
 I went home with Caddy, to see what could be done there; 
 and Ada and Charley remained behind, to take care of my 
 guardian. 
 
508 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 When I say I went home with Caddy, I mean to the 
 furnished lodging in Hatton Garden. We went to Newman 
 Street two or three times, where preparations were in progress 
 too ; a good many, I observed, for enhancing the comforts 
 of old Mr. Turveydrop, and a few for putting the newly 
 married couple away cheaply at the top of the house; but 
 our great point was to make the furnished lodging decent for 
 the wedding-breakfast, and to imbue Mrs. Jellyby beforehand 
 with some faint sense of the occasion. 
 
 The latter was the more difficult thing of the two, because 
 Mrs. Jellyby and an unwholesome boy occupied the front 
 sitting-room (the back one was a mere closet), and it was 
 littered down with waste paper and Borrioboolan documents, 
 as an untidy stable might be littered with straw. Mrs. 
 Jellyby sat there all day, drinking strong coffee, dictating, and 
 holding Borrioboolan interviews by appointment. The un- 
 wholesome boy, who seemed to me to be going into a decline, 
 took his meals out of the house. When Mr. Jellyby came 
 home, he usually groaned and went down into the kitchen. 
 There he got something to eat, if the servant would give 
 him anything; and then, feeling that he was in the way, 
 went out and walked about Hatton Garden in the wet. 
 The poor children scrambled up and tumbled down the house, 
 as they had always been accustomed to do. 
 
 The production of these devoted little sacrifices, in any 
 presentable condition, being quite out of the question at a 
 week's notice, I proposed to Caddy that we should make them 
 as happy as we could, on her marriage morning, in the attic 
 where they all slept; and should confine our greatest efforts 
 to her mama and her mama's room, and a clean breakfast. 
 In truth Mrs. Jellyby required a good deal of attention, the 
 lattice-work up her back having widened considerably since I 
 first knew her, and her hair looking like the mane of a dust- 
 man's horse. 
 
 Thinking that the display of Caddy's wardrobe would be 
 the best means of approaching the subject, I invited Mrs. 
 
INSPECTION OF CADDY'S WARDROBE. 509 
 
 Jellyby to come and look at it spread out on Caddy's bed, in 
 the evening after the unwholesome boy was gone. 
 
 " My dear Miss Summerson,'' said she, rising from her desk, 
 with her usual sweetness of temper, "these are really ridicu- 
 lous preparations, though your assisting them is a proof of 
 your kindness. There is something so inexpressibly absurd 
 to me, in the idea of Caddy being married ! O Caddy, you 
 silly, silly, silly puss ! '' 
 
 She came up-stairs with us notwithstanding, and looked at 
 the clothes in her customary far-off manner. They suggested 
 one distinct idea to her; for she said, with her placid smile, 
 and shaking her head, "My good Miss Summerson, at half 
 the cost, this weak child might have been equipped for 
 Africa ! " 
 
 On our going down-stairs again, Mrs. Jellyby asked me 
 whether this troublesome business was really to take place 
 next Wednesday ? AncToiT my replying yes, she said, " Will 
 my room be required, my dear Miss Summerson ? For it's 
 quite impossible that I can put my papers away." 
 
 I took the liberty of saying that the room would certainly 
 be wanted, and that I thought we must put the papers away 
 somewhere. "Well, my dear Miss Summerson," said Mrs. 
 Jellyby, " you know best, I dare say. But by obliging me to 
 employ a boy, Caddy has embarrassed me to that extent, over- 
 whelmed as I am with public business, that I don't know 
 which way to turn. We have a Ramification meeting, too, 
 on Wednesday afternoon, and the inconvenience is very 
 serious." 
 
 " It is not likely to occur again," said I, smiling. " Caddy 
 will be married but once, probably." 
 
 " That's true," Mrs. Jellyby replied, " that's true, my dear. 
 I suppose we must make the best of it ! " 
 
 The next question was, how Mrs. Jellyby should be dressed 
 on the occasion. I thought it very curious to see her looking 
 on serenely from her writing-table, while Caddy and I dis- 
 cussed it ; occasionally shaking her head at us with a half- 
 
510 
 
 BI.EAK HOUSE. 
 
 reproachful smile, like a superior spirit who could just bear 
 with our trifling. 
 
 The state in which her dresses were, and the extraordinary 
 confusion in which she kept them, added not a little to our 
 difficulty ; but at length we devised something not very unlike 
 Avhat a common-place mother might wear on such an occasion. 
 The abstracted manner in which Mrs. Jelly by would deliver 
 herself up to having this attire tried on by the dressmaker, 
 and the sweetness with which she would then observe to me 
 how sorry she was that I had not turned my thoughts to 
 Africa, were consistent with the rest of her behaviour. 
 
 The lodging was rather confined as to space, but I fancied 
 that if Mrs. Jelly by 's household had been the only lodgers in 
 Saint PauPs or Saint Peter's, the sole advantage they would 
 have found in the size of the building would have been its 
 affording a great deal of room to be dirty in. I believe that 
 nothing belonging to the family, which it had been possible 
 to break, was unbroken at the time of those preparations for 
 Caddy's marriage; that nothing w^hich it had been possible 
 to spoil in any way, was unspoilt; and that no domestic 
 object which was capable of collecting dirt, from a dear child's 
 knee to the door-plate, was without as much dirt as could 
 well accumulate upon it. 
 
 Poor Mr. Jellyby, who very seldom spoke, and almost 
 always sat when he w^as at home with his head against the 
 wall, became interested when he saw that Caddy and I were 
 attempting to establish some order among all this waste and 
 ruin, and took off his coat to help. But such wonderful 
 things came tumbling out of the closets when they were 
 opened — bits of mouldy pie, sour bottles, Mrs. Jellyby's caps, 
 letters, tea, forks, odd boots and shoes of children, firewood, 
 wafers, saucepan-lids, damp sugar in odds and ends of paper 
 bags, footstools, blacklead brushes, bread, Mrs. Jellyby's 
 bonnets, books with butter sticking to the binding, guttered 
 candle-ends put out by being turned upside down in broken 
 candlesticks, nutshells, heads and tails of shrimps, dinner-mats, 
 
MR. JELLYBY SPEAKS. 
 
 611 
 
 gloves, coffee-grounds, umbrellas — that he looked frightened, 
 and left off again. But he came regularly every evening, and 
 sat without his coat, with his head against the wall ; as 
 though he would have helped us, if he had known how. 
 
 " Poor Pa ! said Caddy to me, on the night before the 
 great day, when we really had got things a little to rights. 
 ^^It seems unkind to leave him, Esther. But what could I 
 do, if I stayed ! Since I first knew you, I have tidied and 
 tidied over and over again ; but it's useless. Ma and Africa, 
 together, upset the whole house directly. We never have a 
 servant who don't drink. Ma's ruinous to everything." 
 
 Mr. Jellyby could not hear what she said, but he seemed 
 very low indeed, and shed tears, I thought. 
 
 " My heart aches for him ; that it does ! '' sobbed Caddy. 
 " I can't help thinking, to-night, Esther, how dearly I hope 
 to be happy with Prince, and how dearly Pa hoped, I dare 
 say, to be happy with Ma. What a disappointed life ! " 
 
 " My dear Caddy ! " said Mr. Jellyby, looking slowly round 
 from the wall. It was the first time, I think, I ever heard 
 him say three words together. 
 
 " Yes, Pa ! " cried Caddy, going to him and embracing him 
 affectionately. 
 
 '^My dear Caddy," said Mr. Jellyby. "Never have " 
 
 "Not Prince, Pa?" faltered Caddy. "Not have 
 Prince ? " 
 
 "Yes, my dear," said Mr. Jellyby. "Have him, certainly. 
 But, never have " 
 
 I mentioned, in my account of our first visit in Thavies 
 Inn, that Richard described Mr. Jellyby as frequently opening 
 his mouth after dinner without saying anything. It was a 
 habit of his. He opened his mouth now, a great many times, 
 and shook his head in a melancholy manner. 
 
 " What do you wish me not to have ? Don't have what, 
 dear Pa?" asked Caddy, coaxing him, with her arms round 
 his neck. 
 
 " Never have a Mission, my dear child." 
 
512 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Mr. Jelly by groaned, and laid his head against the wall 
 again ; and this was the only time I ever heard him make 
 an approach to expressing his sentiments on the Borrioboolan 
 question. I suppose he had been more talkative and lively, 
 once ; but he seemed to have been completely exhausted long 
 before I knew him. 
 
 I thought Mrs. Jellyby never would have left off serenely 
 looking over her papers, and drinking coffee, that night. It 
 was twelve o'clock before we could obtain possession of 
 the room; and the clearance it required then, was so dis- 
 couraging, that Caddy, who was almost tired out, sat down 
 in the middle of the dust, and cried. But she soon cheered 
 up, and we did wonders with it before we went to bed. 
 
 In the morning it looked, by the aid of a few flowers and 
 a quantity of soap and water, and a little arrangement, quite 
 gay. The plain breakfast made a cheerful show, and Caddy 
 was perfectly charming. But when my darling came, I 
 thought — and I think now — that I never had seen such a 
 dear face as my beautiful pet's. 
 
 We made a little feast for the children up-stairs, and we 
 ..put Peepy at the head of the table, and we showed them 
 Caddy in her bridal dress, and they clapped their hands and 
 hurrahed, and Caddy cried to think that she was going away 
 from them, and hugged them over and over again, until we 
 (wrought Prince up to fetch her away — when, I am sorry to 
 ^ay, Peepy bit him. Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop 
 
 f own-stairs, in a state of Deportment not to be expressed, 
 enignly blessing Caddy, and giving my guardian to under- 
 stand, that his son's happiness was his own parental work, 
 and that he sacrificed personal considerations to ensure it. 
 I My dear sir," said Mr. Turveydrop, " these young people 
 will live with me ; my house is large enough for their 
 accommodation, and they shall not want the shelter of my 
 roof. I could have wished — ^you will understand the illusion, 
 Mr. Jarndyce, for you remember my illustrious patron the 
 Prince Regent — I could have wished that my son had married 
 
THE WEDDING GUESTS. 
 
 513 
 
 into a family where there was more Deportment ; but the 
 will of Heaven be done ! 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Pardiggle were of the party — Mr. Pardiggle, 
 an obstinate-looking man with a large waistcoat and stubbly 
 hair, who was always talking in a loud bass voice about his 
 mite, or Mrs. Pardiggle's mite, or their five boys'* mites. Mr. 
 Quale, with his hair brushed back as usual, and his knobs 
 of temples shining very much, was also there ; not in the 
 character of a disappointed lover, but as the Accepted of a 
 young — at least, an unmarried— lady, a Miss Wisk, who was 
 also there. Miss Wisk's mission, my guardian said, was to 
 show the world that woman's mission was man's mission ; and 
 that the only genuine mission, of both man and woman, was 
 to be always moving declaratory resolutions about things in 
 general at public meetings. The guests were few ; but were, 
 as one might expect at Mrs. Jellyby's, all devoted to public 
 objects only. Besides those I have mentioned, there was an 
 extremely dirty lady, with her bonnet all awry, and the 
 ticketed price of her dress still sticking on it, whose neglected 
 home, Caddy told me, was like a filthy wilderness, but whose 
 church was like a fancy fair. A very contentious gentleman, 
 who said it was his mission to be everybody's brother, but 
 who appeared to be on terms of coolness with the whole of 
 his large family, completed the party. 
 
 A party, having less in common with such an occasion, 
 could hardly have been got together by any ingenuity. Such 
 a mean mission as the domestic mission, was the very last 
 thing to be endured among them ; indeed. Miss Wisk informed 
 us, with great indignation, before we sat down to breakfast, 
 that the idea of woman's mission lying chiefly in the narrow 
 sphere of Home was an outrageous slander on the part of her 
 Tyrant, Man. One other singularity was, that nobody with 
 a mission — except Mr. Quale, whose mission, as I think I 
 have formerly said, was to be in ecstasies with everybody's 
 mission^ — cared at all for anybody's mission. Mrs. Pardiggle 
 being as clear that the only one infallible course was her 
 
 VOL. I. Si, 
 
514 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 course of pouncing upon the poor, and applying benevolence 
 to them like a strait- waistcoat ; as Miss Wisk was that the 
 only practical thing for the world was the emancipation of 
 Woman from the thraldom of her Tyrant, Man. Mrs. 
 Jellyby, all the while, sat smiling at the limited vision that 
 could see anything but Borrioboola-Gha. 
 
 But I am anticipating now the purport of our conversation 
 on the ride home, instead of first marrying Caddy. We all 
 went to church, and Mr. Jellyby gave her away. Of the air 
 with which old Mr. Turveydrop, with his hat under his left 
 arm, (the inside presented at the clergyman like a cannon,) 
 and his eyes creasing themselves up into his wig, stood, stiff 
 and high-shouldered, behind us bridesmaids during the cere- 
 mony, and afterwards saluted us, I could never say enough 
 to do it justice. Miss Wisk, whom I cannot report as pre- 
 possessing in appearance, and whose manner was grim, listened 
 to the proceedings, as part of Woman's wrongs, with a dis- 
 dainful face. Mrs. Jellyby, with her calm smile and her 
 bright eyes, looked the least concerned of all the company. 
 
 We duly came back to breakfast, and Mrs. Jellyby sat at 
 the head of the table, and Mr. Jellyby at the foot. Caddy 
 had previously stolen up-stairs, to hug the children again, 
 and tell them that her name was Turveydrop. But this 
 piece of information, instead of being an agreeable surprise 
 to Peepy, threw him on his back in such transports of 
 kicking grief, that I could do nothing on being sent for, 
 but accede to the proposal that he should be admitted to 
 the breakfast table. So he came down, and sat in my lap ; 
 and Mrs. Jellyby, after saying, in reference to the state of his 
 pinafore, O you naughty Peepy, what a shocking little pig 
 you are ! was not at all discomposed. He was very good, 
 except that he brought down Noah with him (out of an ark I 
 had given him before we went to church), and would dip him 
 head first into the wine-glasses, and then put him in his mouth. 
 
 My guardian, with his sweet temper and his quick per- 
 ception and his amiable face, made something agreeable even 
 
CADDY JELLYBY MARRIED. 
 
 515 
 
 out of the ungenial company. None of them seemed able to 
 talk about anything but his, or her, own one subject, and 
 none of them seemed able to talk about even that, as part 
 of a world in which there was anything else ; but my guardian 
 turned it all to the merry encouragement of Caddy, and the 
 honour of the occasion, and brought us through the break- 
 fast nobly. What we should have done without him, I am 
 afraid to think : for, all the company despising the bride and 
 bridegroom, and old Mr. Turveydrop — and old Mr. Turvey- 
 drop, in virtue of his Deportment, considering himself vastly 
 superior to all the company — it was a very unpromising 
 case. 
 
 At last the time came when poor Caddy was to go, and 
 when all her property was packed on the hired coach and 
 pair that was to take her and her husband to Gravesend. 
 It affected us to see Caddy clinging, then, to her deplorable 
 home, and hanging on her mother's neck with the greatest 
 tenderness. 
 
 " I am very sorry I couldn't go on writing from dictation, 
 Ma,"' sobbed Caddy. "I hope you forgive me now?'** 
 
 " O Caddy, Caddy ! said Mrs. Jellyby, " I have told you 
 over and over again that I have engaged a boy, and there's 
 an end of it."*' 
 
 "You are sure you are not the least angry with me, Ma? 
 Say you are sure before I go away. Ma ? 
 
 "You foolish Caddy," returned Mrs. Jellyby, "do I look 
 angry, or have I inclination to be angry, or time to be angry ? 
 How can you ? " 
 
 " Take a little care of Pa while I am gone, mama ! " 
 
 Mrs. Jellyby positively laughed at the fancy. "You 
 romantic child," said she, lightly patting Caddy's back. 
 "Go along. I am excellent friends with you. Now, good- 
 bye, Caddy, and be very happy ! " 
 
 Then Caddy hung upon her father, and nursed his cheek 
 against hers as if he were some poor dull child in pain. All 
 this took place in the hall. Her father released her, took 
 
516 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 out his pocket-handkerchief, and sat down on the stairs with 
 his head against the wall. I hope he found some consolation 
 in walls. I almost think he did. 
 
 And then Prince took her arm in his, and turned with 
 great emotion and respect to his father, whose Deportment 
 at that moment was overwhelming. 
 
 "Thank you over and over again, father!'''' said Prince, 
 kissing his hand. " I am very grateful for all your kindness 
 and consideration regarding our marriage, and so, I can assure 
 you, is Caddy.'" 
 
 " Yery;' sobbed Caddy. " Ve-ry ! 
 
 " My dear son,''' said Mr. Turveydrop, " and dear daughter, 
 I have done my duty. If the spirit of a sainted Wooman 
 hovers above us, and looks down on the occasion, that, and 
 your constant affection, will be my recompense. You will 
 not fail in t/oii?^ duty, my son and daughter, I believe ? 
 
 " Dear father, never ! "'' cried Prince. 
 
 " Never, never, dear Mr. Turveydrop ! '*'' said Caddy. 
 
 ^'This,'''' returned Mr. Turveydrop, "is as it should be. 
 My children, my home is yours, my heart is yours, my all is 
 yours. I will never leave you ; nothing but Death shall 
 part us. My dear son, you contemplate an absence of a 
 week, I think?'' 
 
 "A week, dear father. We shall return home this day 
 week." 
 
 "My dear child," said Mr. Turveydrop, "let me, even 
 under the present exceptional circumstances, recommend 
 strict punctuality. It is highly important to keep the con- 
 nexion together ; and schools, if at all neglected, are apt to 
 take offence." 
 
 "This day week, father, we shall be sure to be home to 
 dinner." 
 
 "Good !" said Mr. Turveydrop. "You will find fires, my 
 dear Caroline, in your own room, and dinner prepared in my 
 apartment. Yes, yes. Prince ! " anticipating some self-denying 
 objection on his son's part with a great air. " You and our 
 
A COMPLIMENT FROM MR. JELLYBY. 517 
 
 Caroline will be strange in the upper part of the premises, 
 and will, therefore, dine that day in my apartment. Now, 
 bless ye ! ^"^ 
 
 They drove away ; and whether I wondered most at Mrs. 
 Jellyby, or at Mr. Turveydrop, I did not know. Ada and 
 my guardian were in the same condition when we came to 
 talk it over. But before we drove away, too, I received a 
 most unexpected and eloquent compliment from Mr. Jellyby. 
 He came up to me in the hall, took both my hands, pressed 
 them earnestly, and opened his mouth twice. I was so sure 
 of his meaning, that I said, quite flurried, " You are very 
 welcome, sir. Pray don't mention it ! " 
 
 " I hope this marriage is for the best, Guardian ? said I, 
 when we three were on our road home. 
 
 "1 hope it is, little woman. Patience. We shall see." 
 
 "Is the wind in the East to-day I ventured to ask him. 
 
 He laughed heartily, and answered " No."" 
 
 " But it must have been this morning, I think,'*'* said I. 
 
 He answered, " No,"' again ; and this time my dear girl 
 confidently answered " No,"" too, and shook the lovely head 
 which, with its blooming flowers against the golden hair, was 
 like the very Spring. " Much you know of East winds, my 
 ugly darling,"' said I, kissing her in my admiration — I 
 couldn't help it. 
 
 Well ! It was only their love for me, I know very well, 
 and it is a long time ago. I must write it, even if I rub it 
 out again, because it gives me so much pleasure. They said 
 there could be no East wind where Somebody w as ; they said 
 that wherever Dame Burden went, there was sunshine and 
 summer air. 
 
CHAPTER XXXL 
 
 NURSE AND PATIENT. 
 
 I HAD not been at home again many days, when one evening 
 I went up-stairs into my own room to take a peep over 
 Charley'^s shoulder, and see how she was getting on with her 
 copy-book. Writing was a trying business to Charley, who 
 seemed to have no natural power over a pen, but in whose 
 hand every pen appeared to become perversely animated, and 
 to go wrong and crooked, and to stop, and splash, and sidle 
 into corners, like a saddle-donkey. It was very odd, to see 
 what old letters Charley's young hand had made; they, so 
 wrinkled, and shrivelled, and tottering; it, so plump and 
 round. Yet Charley was uncommonly expert at other things, 
 and had as nimble little fingers as I ever watched. 
 
 "Well, Charley,'' said I, looking over a copy of the letter 
 O in which it was represented as square, triangular, pear- 
 shaped, and collapsed in all kinds of ways, " we are im- 
 proving. If we only get to make it round, we shall be 
 perfect, Charley." 
 
 Then I made one, and Charley made one, and the pen 
 wouldn't join Charley's neatly, but twisted it up into a knot. 
 
 " Never mind, Charley. We shall do it in time." 
 
 Charley laid down her pen, the copy being finished; 
 opened and shut her cramped little hand ; looked gravely at 
 the page, half in pride and half in doubt; and got up, and 
 dropped me a curtsey. 
 
THE BRICKMAKER^S WIFE. 519 
 
 "Thank you, miss. If you please, miss, did you know a 
 poor person of the name of Jenny ? 
 
 " A brickmaker's wife, Charley ? Yes." 
 
 "She came and spoke to me when I was out a little while 
 ago, and said you knew her, miss. She asked me if I wasn't 
 the young lady'^s little maid — meaning you for the young 
 lady, miss — and I said yes, miss.'*' 
 
 " I thought she had left this neighbourhood altogether, 
 Charley.'' 
 
 " So she had, miss, but she's come back again to where she 
 used to live — she and Liz. Did you know another poor 
 person of the name of Liz, miss ? " 
 
 " I think I do, Charley, though not by name." 
 
 " That's what she said ! " returned Charley. " They have 
 both come back, miss, and have been tramping high and 
 low." 
 
 " Tramping high and low, have they, Charley ? " 
 
 "Yes, miss." If Charley could only have made the letters 
 in her copy as round as the eyes with which she looked 
 into my face, they would have been excellent. "And this 
 poor person came about the house three or four days, hoping 
 to get a glimpse of you, miss — all she wanted, she said — but 
 you were away. That was when she saw me. She saw me 
 a-going about, miss," said Charley, with a short laugh of 
 the greatest delight and pride, "and she thought I looked 
 like your maid ! " 
 
 "Did she though, really, Charley?" 
 
 " Yes, miss ! " said Charley, " really and truly." And 
 Charley, with another short laugh of the purest glee, made 
 her eyes very round again, and looked as serious as became 
 my maid. I was never tired of seeing Charley in the full 
 enjoyment of that great dignity, standing before me with her 
 youthful face and figure, and her steady manner, and her 
 childish exultation breaking through it now and then in the 
 pleasantest way. 
 
 "And where did you see her, Charley .^^" said I. 
 
520 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 My little maid's countenance fell, as she replied, "By the 
 doctor's shop, miss/' For Charley wore her black frock yet. 
 
 I asked if the brickmaker's wife were ill, but Charley said 
 No. It was some one else. Some one in her cottage who 
 had tramped down to Saint Albans, and was tramping he 
 didn't know where. A poor boy, Charley said. No father, 
 no mother, no any one. " Like as Tom might have been, 
 miss, if Emma and me had died after father," said Charley, 
 her round eyes filling with tears. 
 
 " And she was getting medicine for him, Charley ? " 
 
 " She said, miss," returned Charley, " how that he had once 
 done as much for her." 
 
 My little maid's face was so ^^^^BRHHk q^i^t hands 
 were folded so closely in one anotlj^rSMjlj^^^l looking a1? 
 me, that I had no great difficuldBjj^eadi^Hler thoughts. 
 " Well, Charley," said I, " it a^Krs to raJl^at you and I 
 can do no better than go r^fla to Jenny's and see what's 
 
 The alacrity with whicl^Hprley brought my bonnet and 
 veil, and, having dressed ^BPpiaintly pinned herself into her 
 warm shawl and m|||tolHBelf look like a little old woman, 
 sufficiently expressed heW^idiness. So Charley and I, with- 
 out saying anything to any one, went out. 
 
 It was a cold, wild night, and the trees shuddered in the 
 wind. The rain had been thick and heavy all day, and with 
 little intermission for many days. None was falling just then, 
 however. The sky had partly cleared, but was very gloomy 
 — even above us, where a few stars were shining. In the north 
 and north-west, where the sun had set three hours before, 
 there was a pale dead light both beautiful and awful; and 
 into it long sullen lines of cloud waved up, like a sea stricken 
 immovable as it was heaving. Towards London, a lurid glare 
 overhung the whole dark waste; and the contrast between 
 these two lights, and the fancy which the redder light en- 
 gendered of an unearthly fire, gleaming on all the unseen 
 buildings of the city, and on all the faces of its many 
 
SURPRISE AND TERROR OF THE BOY. 521 
 
 thousands of wondering inhabitants, was as solemn as 
 might be. 
 
 I had no thought, that night — none, I am quite sure — of 
 what was soon to happen to me. But I have always re- 
 membered since, that when we had stopped at the garden-gate 
 to look up at the sky, and when we went upon our way, I 
 had for a moment an undefinable impression of myself as being 
 something different from what I then was. I know it was 
 then, and there, that I had it. I have ever since connected the 
 feeHng with that spot and time, and with everything associated 
 with that spot and time, to the distant voices in the town, 
 the barking of a, do ^ and the sound of wheels coming down 
 
 * It was SaJ^HpHj^^^and most of the people belonging 
 to the plac^^fcere^TO^^Be going, were drinking elsewhere. 
 We found i^lpaeter thaiX[ had previously seen it, though 
 quite as miserable. The were burning, and a stifling 
 
 vapour set towards us with^^mle blue glare. 
 
 We came to the cottage, ^[^^there was a feeble candle in 
 the patched window. We ta^B[^tthe door, and went in. 
 The mother of the little child ^|HBp died, was sitting in 
 a chair on one side of the poor fire oy the bed ; and opposite 
 to her, a wretched boy, supported by the chimney-piece, was 
 cowering on the floor. He held under his arm like a little 
 bundle, a fragment of a fur cap ; and as he tried to warm 
 himself, he shook until the crazy door and window shook. 
 The place was closer than before, and had an unhealthy, and 
 a very peculiar smell. 
 
 I had not lifted my veil when I first spoke to the woman, 
 which was at the moment of our going in. The boy staggered 
 up instantly, and stared at me with a remarkable expression 
 of surprise and terror. 
 
 His action was so quick, and my being the cause of it was 
 so evident, that I stood still, instead of advancing nearer. 
 
 I won't go no more to the berryin ground,'"^ muttered the 
 boy ; " I ain't a-going there, so I tell you ! 
 
522 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 I lifted my veil and spoke to the woman. She said to me 
 in a low voice, " Don'^t mind him, ma^am. He''ll soon come 
 back to his head ; and said to him, " Jo, Jo, what's the 
 matter 
 
 " I know wot she's come for ! '' cried the boy. 
 "Who?^ 
 
 "The lady there. She's come to get me to go along with 
 her to the berryin ground. I won't go to the berryin ground. 
 I don't like the name on it. She might go a-berryin me?'' 
 His shivering came on again, and as he leaned against the 
 wall, he shook the hovel. 
 
 "He has been talking off and on about such like, all day, 
 ma'am," said Jenny, softly. " Why, how you stare ! This is 
 my lady, Jo." 
 
 "Is it?" returned the boy, doubtfully, and surveying me 
 with his arm held out above his burning eyes. "She looks 
 to me the t'other one. It ain't the bonnet, nor yet it ain't 
 the gownd, but she looks to me the t'other one." 
 
 My little Charley, with her premature experience of illness 
 and trouble, had pulled off her bonnet and shawl, and now 
 went quietly up to him with a chair, and sat him down in 
 it like an old sick nurse. Except that no such attendant 
 could have shown him Charley's youthful face, which seemed 
 to engage his confidence. 
 
 " I say ! " said the boy. " You tell me. Ain't the lady 
 the t'other lady?" 
 
 Charley shook her head, as she methodically drew his rags 
 about him and made him as. warm as she could. 
 
 "O !" the boy muttered. "Then I 'spose she ain't." 
 
 "I came to see if I could do you any good," said I. 
 "What is the matter with you?" 
 
 " I'm a-being froze," returned the boy, hoarsely, with his 
 haggard gaze wandering about me, "and then burnt up, and 
 then froze, and then burnt up, ever so many times in a hour. 
 And my head's all sleepy, and all a-going mad-like — and I'm 
 so dry — and my bones isn't half so much bones as pain." 
 
TWO OF TIIEM? 
 
 523 
 
 ^' When did he come here ? I asked the woman. 
 "This morning, ma'am, I found him at the corner of the 
 town. I had known him up in London yonder. Hadn't I, Jo ? 
 " Tom-all- Alone V' the boy replied. 
 
 Whenever he fixed his attention or his eyes, it was only 
 for a very little while. He soon began to droop his head 
 again, and roll it heavily, and speak as if he were half awake, 
 
 "When did he come from London?*" I asked. 
 
 "I come from London yes'day,'' said the boy himself, now 
 flushed and hot. " Fm a-going somewheres.'' 
 
 " Where is he going I asked. 
 
 " Somewheres,*" repeated the boy, in a louder tone. "I 
 have been moved on, and moved on, more nor ever I was afore, 
 since the t'other one giv' me the sov'ring. Mrs. Snagsby, 
 she's always a- watching, and a-driving of me — what have I 
 done to her ? — and they're all a- watching and a-driving of me. 
 Every one of 'em's doing of it, from the time when I don't 
 get up, to the time when I don't go to bed. And I'm 
 a-going somewheres. That's where I'm a-going. She told 
 me, down in Tom-all- Alone's, as she came from Stolbuns, and 
 so I took the Stolbuns Road. It's as good as another." 
 
 He always concluded by addressing Charley. 
 
 "What is to be done with him.^^" said I, taking the 
 woman aside. " He could not travel in this state, even if he 
 had a purpose, and knew where he was going ! " 
 
 " I know no more, ma'am, than the dead," she replied, 
 glancing compassionately at him. "Perhaps the dead know 
 better, if they could only tell us. I've kept him here all day 
 for pity's sake, and I've given him broth and physic, and Liz 
 has gone to try if any one will take him in (here's my pretty 
 in the bed — her child, but I call it mine); but I can't keep 
 him long, for if my husband was to come home and find him 
 here, he'd be rough in putting him out, and might do him 
 a hurt. Hark ! Here comes Liz back ! " 
 
 The other woman came hurriedly in as she spoke, and the 
 boy got up with a half-obscured sense that he was expected 
 
BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 to be going. When the little child awoke, and when and 
 how Charley got at it, took it out of bed, and began to 
 walk about hushing it, I don't know. There she was, doing 
 all this, in a quiet motherly manner, as if she were living in 
 Mrs. Blinder's attic with Tom and Emma again. 
 
 The friend had been here and there, and had been played 
 about from hand to hand, and had come back as she went. 
 At first it was too early for the boy to be received into the 
 proper refuge, and at last it was too late. One official sent 
 her to another, and the other sent her back again to the 
 first, and so backward and forward ; until it appeared to me 
 as if both must have been appointed for their skill in evading 
 their duties, instead of performing them. And now, after 
 all, she said, breathing quickly, for she had been running, 
 and was frightened too, "Jenny, your masters on the road 
 home, and mine's not far behind, and the Lord help the 
 boy, for we can do no more for him ! They put a few half- 
 pence together, and hurried them into his hand, and so, in 
 an oblivious, half-thankful, half-insensible way, he shuffled 
 out of the house. 
 
 " Give me the child, my dear ! '' said its mother to Charley, 
 " and thank you kindly too ! Jenny, w oman dear, good night ! 
 Young lady, if my master don't fall out with me. Til look 
 down by the kiln by-and-by, where the boy will be most 
 like, and again in the morning ! " She hurried off ; and 
 presently w^e passed her hushing and singing to her child at 
 her own door, and looking anxiously along the road for her 
 drunken husband. 
 
 I was afraid of staying then, to speak to either woman, 
 lest I should bring her into trouble. But I said to Charley 
 that we must not leave the boy to die. Charley, who knew 
 what to do much better than I did, and whose quickness 
 equalled her presence of mind, glided on before me, and pre- 
 sently we came up with Jo, just short of the brick-kiln. 
 
 I think he must have begun his journey wdth some small 
 bundle under his arm, and must have had it stolen, or lost 
 
OR THREE OF THEM? 
 
 525 
 
 it. For he still carried his wretched fragment of fur cap like 
 a bundle, though he went bareheaded through the rain, which 
 now fell fast. He stopped when we called to him, and again 
 showed a dread of me when I came up; standing with his 
 lustrous eyes fixed upon me, and even arrested in his shiver- 
 ing fit 
 
 I asked him to come with us, and we would take care that 
 he had some shelter for the night. 
 
 I don't want no shelter,'' he said ; " I can lay amongst the 
 warm bricks." 
 
 ^'But don't you know that people die there replied 
 Charley. 
 
 "They dies every wheres," said the boy. "They dies in 
 their lodgings — she knows where; I showed her — and they 
 dies down in Tom-all- Alone's in heaps. They dies more 
 than they lives, according to what / see." Then he hoarsely 
 whispered Charley. "If she ain't the t'other one, she ain't 
 the forrenner." Is there three of 'em then ? " 
 
 Charley looked at me a little frightened. I felt half 
 frightened at myself when the boy glared on me so. 
 
 But he turned and followed, when I beckoned to him; and 
 finding that he acknowledged that influence in me, I led the 
 way straight home. It was not far ; only at the summit of 
 the hill. We passed but one man. I doubted if we should 
 have got home without assistance ; the boy's steps were so 
 uncertain and tremulous. He" made no complaint, however, 
 and was strangely unconcerned about himself, if I may say 
 so strange a thing 
 
 Leaving him in the hall for a moment, shrunk into the 
 corner of the window-seat, and staring with an indifference 
 that scarcely could be called wonder, at the comfort and 
 brightness about him, I went into the drawing-room to speak 
 to my guardian. .There I found Mr. Skimpole, who had come 
 down by the coach, as he frequently did without notice, and 
 never bringing any clothes with him, but always borrowing 
 everything he wanted. 
 
526 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 They came out with me directly, to look at the boy. The 
 servants had gathered in the hall, too; and he shivered in 
 the window-seat with Charley standing by him, like some 
 wounded animal that had been found in a ditch. 
 
 "This is a sorrowful case,**' said my guardian, after asking 
 him a question or two, and touching him, and examining his 
 eyes. " What do you say, Harold ? '** 
 
 " You had better turn him out,'** said Mr. Skimpole. 
 
 " What do you mean ? inquired my guardian, almost 
 sternly. 
 
 " My dear Jarndyce,**' said Mr. Skimpole, " you know what 
 I am : I am a child. Be cross to me, if I deserve it. But 
 I have a constitutional objection to this sort of thing. I 
 always had, when I was a medical man. He's not safe, you 
 know. There's a very bad sort of fever about him.'^ 
 
 Mr. Skimpole had retreated from the hall to the drawing- 
 room again, and said this in his airy way, seated on the 
 music-stool as we stood by. 
 
 "You'll say it's childish," observed Mr. Skimpole, looking 
 gaily at us. " Well, I dare say it may be ; but I am a chikl, 
 and I never pretend to be anything else. If you put him 
 out in the road, you only put him where he was before. He 
 will be no worse off than he was, you know. Even make 
 him better off*, if you like. Give him sixpence, or five 
 shillings, or five pound ten — you are arithmeticians, and I 
 am not — and get rid of him ! '' 
 
 " And what is he to do then ? " asked my guardian. 
 
 "Upon my life," said Mr. Skimpole, shrugging his 
 shoulders with his engaging smile, "I have not the least 
 idea what he is to do then. But I have no doubt he'll 
 do it." 
 
 " Now, is it not a horrible reflection," said my guardian, to 
 whom I had hastily explained the unavailing efforts of the 
 two women, " is it not a horrible reflection," walking up and 
 down and rumpling his hair, "that if this wretched creature 
 were a convicted prisoner, his hospital would be wide open 
 
WHAT IS TO BE DONE? 
 
 527 
 
 to him, and he would be as well taken care of as any sick 
 boy in the kingdom ? 
 
 "My dear Jarndyce,'' returned Mr. Skimpole, "you'll 
 pardon the simplicity of the question, coming as it does from 
 a creature who is perfectly simple in worldly matters — but, 
 why isnt he a prisoner then ? 
 
 My guardian stopped and looked at him with a whimsical 
 mixture of amusement and indignation in his face. 
 
 " Our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy, 
 I should imagine,'*'' said Mr. Skimpole, unabashed and candid. 
 " It seems to me that it would be wiser, as well as in a 
 certain kind of way more respectable, if he showed some 
 misdirected energy that got him into prison. There would 
 be more of an adventurous spirit in it, and consequently more 
 of a certain sort of poetry.''*' 
 
 " I believe,^'* returned my guardian, resuming his uneasy walk, 
 that there is not such another child on earth as yourself.'*'' 
 
 " Do you really ? '''' said Mr. Skimpole ; " I dare say ! But, 
 I confess I don't see why our young friend, in his degree, 
 should not seek to invest himself with such poetry as is open 
 to him. He is no doubt born with an appetite — probably, 
 when he is in a safer state of health, he has an excellent 
 appetite. Very well. At our young friend's natural dinner 
 hour, most likely about noon, our young friend says in effect 
 to society, ' I am hungry ; will you have the goodness t(^ 
 produce your spoon, and feed me?'' Society, which has 
 taken upon itself the general arrangement of the whole 
 system of spoons, and professes to have a spoon for our 
 young friend, does not produce that spoon ; and our young 
 friend, therefore, says, ' You really must excuse me if I seize 
 it.' Now, this appears to me a case of misdirected energy, 
 which has a certain amount of reason in it, and a certain 
 amount of romance ; and I don't know but what I should 
 be more interested in our young friend, as an illustration of 
 such a case, than merely as a poor vagabond — which any one 
 can be." 
 
528 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 1 
 
 ^^In the meantime," I ventured to observe, "he is getting 
 worse.**" 
 
 "In the meantime,'' said Mr. Skimpole cheerfully, "as 
 Miss Summerson, with her practical good sense, observes, he 
 is getting worse. Therefore I recommend your turning him 
 out before he gets still worse.*" 
 
 The amiable face with which he said it, I think I shall 
 never forget. 
 
 " Of course, little woman,'' observed my guardian, turning 
 to me, " I can ensure his admission into the proper place by 
 merely going there to enforce it, though it's a bad state of 
 things when, in his condition, that is necessary. But it's 
 growing late, and is a very bad night, and the boy is worn 
 out already. There is a bed in the wholesome loft-room by 
 the stable ; we had better keep him there till morning, when 
 he can be wrapped up and removed. We'll do that." 
 
 " O ! " said Mr. Skimpole, with his hands upon the keys of 
 the piano, as we moved away. " Are you going back to our 
 young friend ? " 
 
 " Yes," said my guardian. 
 
 " How I envy you your constitution, Jarndyce ! " returned 
 Mr. Skimpole, with playful admiration. "You don't mind 
 these things, neither does Miss Summerson. You are ready 
 at all times to go anywhere, and do anything. Such is 
 Will ! I have no Will at all — and no Won't — simply 
 / Can't." 
 
 " You can't recommend anything for the boy, I suppose ? " 
 said my guardian, looking back over his shoulder, half angrily ; 
 only half angrily, for he never seemed to consider Mr. Skim- 
 pole an accountable being. 
 
 " My dear Jarndyce, I observed a bottle of cooling medicine 
 in his pocket, and it's impossible for him to do better than 
 take it. You can tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about 
 the place where he sleeps, and to keep it moderately cool, and 
 him moderately warm. But it is mere impertinence in me 
 to offer any recommendation. Miss Summerson has such a 
 
A PATHETIC LITTLE BALLAD. 529 
 
 knowledge of detail, and such a capacity for the administra- 
 tion of detail, that she knows all about it.'** 
 
 We went back into the hall, and explained to Jo what we 
 proposed to do, which Charley explained to him again, and 
 which he received with the languid unconcern I had already 
 noticed, wearily looking on at what was done, as if it were for 
 somebody else. The servants compassionating his miserable 
 state, and being very anxious to help, we soon got the loft- 
 room ready ; and some of the men about the house carried 
 him across the wet yard, well wrapped up. It was pleasant 
 to observe how kind they were to him, and how there ap- 
 peared to be a general impression among them that fre- 
 quently calling him "Old Chap*''' was likely to revive his 
 spirits. Charley directed the operations, and went to and 
 fro between the loft-room and the house with such little 
 stimulants and comforts as we thought it safe to give him. 
 My guardian himself saw him before he was left for the 
 night, and reported to me, when he returned to the Growlery 
 to write a letter on the boy'^s behalf, which a messenger 
 was charged to deliver at daylight in the morning, that he 
 seemed easier, and inclined to sleep. They had fastened his 
 door on the outside, he said, in case of his being delirious; 
 but had so arranged that he could not make any noise 
 without being heard. 
 
 Ada being in our room with a cold, Mr. Skimpole was left 
 
 alone all this time, and entertained himself by playing 
 
 snatches of pathetic airs, and sometimes singing to them (as 
 
 we heard at a distance) with great expression and feeling. 
 
 When we rejoined him in the drawing-room he said he 
 
 would give us a little ballad, which had come into his head, 
 
 "apropos of our young friend;''* and he sang one about a 
 
 Peasant boy, 
 
 Thrown on the wide world, doom'd to wander and roam, 
 Bereft of his parents, bereft of a home," 
 
 — quite exquisitely. It was a song that always made him 
 cry, he told us. 
 
 VOL. I. 2 m 
 
530 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 He was extremely gay all the rest of the evening : " for he 
 absolutely chirped,'''* those were his delighted words ; " when 
 he thought by what a happy talent for business he was 
 surrounded.''^ He gave us, in his glass of negus, " Better 
 health to our young friend ! and supposed, and gaily pur- 
 sued, the case of his being reserved like Whittington to 
 become Lord Mayor of London. In that event, no doubt, 
 he would establish the Jarndyce Institution and the Summer- 
 son Almshouses, and a little annual Corporation Pilgrimage 
 to St. Albans. He had no doubt, he said, that our young 
 friend was an excellent boy in his way, but his way was 
 not the Harold Skimpole way ; what Harold Skimpole was, 
 Harold Skimpole had found himself, to his considerable sur- 
 prise, when he first made his own acquaintance; he had 
 accepted himself with all his failings, and had thought it 
 sound philosophy to make the best of the bargain ; and he 
 hoped we would do the same. 
 
 Charley ""s last report was, that the boy was quiet. I could 
 see, from my window, the lantern they had left him burning 
 quietly; and I went to bed very happy to think that he was 
 sheltered. 
 
 There was more movement and more talking than usual a 
 little before daybreak, and it awoke me. As I was dressing, 
 I looked out of my window, and asked one of our men who 
 had been among the active sympathisers last night, whether 
 there was anything wrong about the house. The lantern 
 was still burning in the loft-window. 
 
 " IVs the boy, miss,'*'* said he. 
 
 " Is he worse ? '''' I inquired. 
 
 "Gone, miss.''"' 
 
 "Dead!^^ 
 
 "Dead, miss? No. Gone clean off.'' 
 
 At what time of the night he had gone, or how, or why, 
 it seemed hopeless ever to divine. The door remaining as it 
 had been left, and the lantern standing in the window, it 
 could only be supposed that he had got out by a trap in the 
 
THE PATIENT GONE. 
 
 531 
 
 floor which communicated with an empty cart-house below. 
 But he had shut it down again, if that were so ; and it 
 looked as if it had not been raised. Nothing of any kind 
 was missing. On this fact being clearly ascertained, we all 
 yielded to the painful belief that delirium had come upon 
 him in the night, and that, allured by some imaginary object, 
 or pursued by some imaginary horror, he had strayed away 
 in that worse than helpless state ; — all of us, that is to say, 
 but Mr. Skimpole, who repeatedly suggested, in his usual 
 easy light style, that it had occurred to our young friend 
 that he was not a safe inmate, having a bad kind of fever 
 upon him; and that he had, with great natural politeness, 
 taken himself off*. 
 
 Every possible inquiry was made, and every place was 
 searched. The brick-kilns were examined, the cottages were 
 visited, the two women were particularly questioned, but they 
 knew nothing of him, and nobody could doubt that their 
 wonder was genuine. The weather had for some time been 
 too wet, and the night itself had been too wet, to admit 
 of any tracing by footsteps. Hedge and ditch, and wall, 
 and rick and stack, were examined by our men for a long 
 distance round, lest the boy should be lying in such a place 
 insensible or dead ; but nothing was seen to indicate that he 
 had ever been near. From the time when he was left in the 
 loft-room, he vanished. 
 
 The search continued for five days. I do not mean that it 
 ceased, even then ; but that my attention was then diverted 
 into a current very memorable to me. 
 
 As Charley was at her writing again in my room in the 
 evening, and as I sat opposite to her at work, I felt the table 
 tremble. Looking up, I saw my little maid shivering from 
 head to foot. 
 
 " Charley,"' said I, " are you so cold ? 
 
 " I think I am, miss,'' she replied. " I don't know what it 
 is. I can't hold myself stilL I felt so, yesterday ; at about 
 this same time, miss. Don't be uneasy, I think I'm ill." 
 
532 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 I heard Ada's voice outside, and I hurried to the door of 
 communication between my room and our pretty sitting-room, 
 and locked it. Just in time, for she tapped at it while my 
 hand was yet upon the key. 
 
 Ada called to me to let her in ; but I said, " Not now, my 
 dearest. Go away. There's nothing the matter ; I will come 
 to you presently."' Ah ! it was a long, long time, before my 
 darling girl and I were companions again. 
 
 Charley fell ill. In twelve hours she was very ill. I 
 moved her to my room, and laid her in my bed, and sat down 
 quietly to nurse her. I told my guardian all about it, and 
 why I felt it was necessary that I should seclude myself, and 
 my reason for not seeing my darling above all. At first she 
 came very often to the door, and called to me, and even 
 reproached me with sobs and tears; but I wrote her a long 
 letter, saying that she made me anxious and unhappy, and 
 imploring her, as she loved me, and wished my mind to be 
 at peace, to come no nearer than the garden. After that, 
 she came beneath the window, even oftener than she had 
 come to the door ; and, if I had learnt to love her dear sweet 
 voice before when we were hardly ever apart, how did I learn 
 to love it then, when I stood behind the window-curtain 
 listening and replying, but not so much as looking out ! 
 How did I learn to love it afterwards, when the harder time 
 came ! 
 
 They put a bed for me in our sitting-room ; and by keep- 
 ing the door wide open, I turned the two rooms into one, 
 now that Ada had vacated that part of the house, and kept 
 them always fresh and airy. There was not a servant, in or 
 about the house, but was so good that they would all most 
 gladly have come to me at any hour of the day or night, 
 without the least fear or unwillingness; but I thought it 
 best to choose one worthy woman who was never to see Ada, 
 and whom I could trust to come and go with all precaution. 
 Through her means, I got out to take the air with my 
 guardian, when there was no fear of meeting Ada ; and 
 
UNIVERSITV of ilLlNOIS. 
 
CHARLEY AND CHARLEY^S NURSE. 533 
 
 wanted for nothing in the way of attendance, any more than 
 in any other respect. 
 
 And thus poor Charley sickened and gi-ew worse, and fell 
 into heavy danger of death, and lay severely ill for many a 
 long round of day and night. So patient she was, so uncom- 
 plaining, and inspired by such a gentle fortitude, that very 
 often as I sat by Charley, holding her head in my arms — 
 repose would come to her, so, when it would come to her in 
 no other attitude — I silently prayed to our Father in heaven 
 that I might not forget the lesson which this little sister 
 taught me. 
 
 I was very sorrowful to think that Charley's pretty looks 
 would change and be disfigured, even if she recovered — she 
 was such a child with her dimpled face — but that thought 
 was, for the greater part, lost in her greater peril. When 
 she was at the worst, and her mind rambled again to the 
 cares of her father's sick bed, and the little children, she still 
 knew me so far as that she would be quiet in my arms when 
 she could lie quiet nowhere else, and murmur out the 
 wanderings of her mind less restlessly. At those times I 
 used to think, how should I ever tell the two remaining 
 babies that the baby who had learned of her faithful heart 
 to be a mother to them in their need, was dead ! 
 
 There were other times when Charley knew me well, and 
 talked to me ; telling me that she sent her love to Tom and 
 Emma, and that she was sure Tom would grow up to be a 
 good man. At those times, Charley would speak to me of 
 what she had read to her father as well as she could, to 
 comfort him ; of that young man carried out to be buried, 
 who was the only son of his mother and she was a widow ; of 
 the rulers daughter raised up by the gracious hand upon her 
 bed of death. And Charley told me that when her father 
 died, she had kneeled down and prayed in her first sorrow 
 that he likewise might be raised up, and given back to his 
 poor children ; and that if she should never get better, and 
 should die too, she thought it likely that it might come into 
 I. 2 M 3 
 
534 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Tom's mind to offer the same prayer for her. Then would 
 I show Tom how these people of old days had been brought 
 back to hfe on earth, only that we might know our hope to 
 be restored to Heaven ! 
 
 But of all the various times there were in Charley's illness, 
 there was not one when she lost the gentle qualities I have 
 spoken of. And there were many, many, when I thought 
 in the night of the last high belief in the watching Angel, 
 and the last higher trust in God, on the part of her poor 
 despised father. 
 
 And Charley did not die. She flutteringly and slowly 
 turned the dangerous point, after long lingering there, and 
 then began to mend. The hope that never had been given, 
 from the first, of Charley being in outward appearance Charley 
 any more, soon began to be encouraged ; and even that 
 prospered, and I saw her growing into her old childish like- 
 ness again. 
 
 It was a great morning, when I could tell Ada all this as 
 she stood out in the garden ; and it was a great evening, 
 when Charley and I at last took tea together in the next 
 room. But, on that same evening, I felt that I was stricken 
 old. 
 
 Happily for both of us, it was not until Charley was safe 
 in bed again and placidly asleep, that I began to think the 
 contagion of her illness was upon me. I had been able easily 
 to hide what I felt at tea-time, but I was past that already 
 now, and I knew that I was rapidly following in Charley's 
 steps. 
 
 I was well enough, however, to be up early in the morning, 
 and to return my darling's cheerful blessing from the garden, 
 and to talk with her as long as usual. But I was not free 
 from an impression that I had been walking about the two 
 rooms in the night, a little beside myself, though knowing 
 where I was ; and I felt confused at times — with a curious 
 sense of fulness, as if I were becoming too large altogether. 
 
 In the evening I was so much worse, that I resolved to 
 
CHARLEY NOW TURNS NURSE. 535 
 
 prepare Charley; with which view, I said, "YouVe getting 
 quite strong, Charley, are you not ? 
 " O quite ! ^"^ said Charley. 
 
 Strong enough to be told a secret, I think, Charley ? 
 
 Quite strong enough for that, miss!"" cried Charley. 
 But Charley's face fell in the height of her delight, for she saw 
 the secret in my face; and she came out of the great chair, 
 and fell upon my bosom, and said, " O miss, it's my doing ! 
 It's my doing ! " and a great deal more, out of the fulness of 
 her grateful heart. 
 
 *'Now, Charley," said I, after letting her go on for a little 
 while, " if I am to be ill, my great trust, humanly speaking^ 
 is in you. And unless you are as quiet and composed for 
 me, as you always were for yourself, you can never fulfil it, 
 Charley." 
 
 " If you'll let me cry a little longer, miss," said Charley. " O 
 my dear, my dear ! if you'll only let me cry a little longer, 
 
 0 my dear!" — how affectionately and devotedly she poured 
 this out, as she clung to my neck, I never can remember 
 without tears — "I'll be good." 
 
 So I let Charley cry a little longer, and it did us both 
 good. 
 
 " Trust in me now, if you please, miss," said Charley, quietly. 
 
 I am listening to everything you say." 
 
 *^It's very little at present, Charley. I shall tell your 
 doctor to-night that I don't think I am well, and that you 
 are going to nurse me." 
 
 For that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. 
 
 /^And in the morning, when you hear Miss Ada in the 
 garden, if I should not be quite able to go to the window- 
 curtain as usual, do you go, Charley, and say I am asleep 
 — that I have rather tired myself, and am asleep. At all 
 times keep the room as I have kept it, Charley, and let no 
 one come." 
 
 Charley promised, and I lay down, for I was very heavy. 
 
 1 saw the doctor that night, and asked the favour of him 
 
536 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 that I wished to ask, relative to his saying nothing of my 
 illness in the house as yet. I have a very indistinct remem- 
 brance of that night melting into day, and of day melting 
 into night again ; but I was just able, on the first morning, to 
 get to the window, and speak to my darling. 
 
 On the second morning I heard her dear voice — O how dear 
 now ! — outside ; and I asked Charley, with some difficulty 
 (speech being painful to me), to go and say I was asleep. I 
 heard her answer softly, " Don't disturb her, Charley, for the 
 world!'' 
 
 " How does my own Pride look, Charley ? " I inquired. 
 "Disappointed, miss," said Charley, peeping through the 
 curtain. 
 
 "But I know she is very beautiful this morning." 
 
 " She is indeed, miss," answered Charley, peeping. " Still 
 looking up at the window." 
 
 With her blue clear eyes, God bless them, always loveliest 
 when raised like that ! 
 
 I called Charley to me, and gave her her last charge. 
 
 " Now, Charley, when she knows I am ill, she will try to 
 make her way into the room. Keep her out, Charley, if you 
 love me truly, to the last ! Charley, if you let her in but 
 once, only to look upon me for one moment as I lie here, I 
 shall die." 
 
 " I never will ! I never will ! " she promised me. 
 
 "I believe it, my dear Charley. And now come and sit 
 beside me for a little while, and touch me with your hand. 
 For I cannot see you, Charley ; I am blind." 
 
NOTES ON BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 " High Court} of Chancery." 
 
 Bleak House does not contain Dickens's first assault on Chancery. 
 The popular reputation of the Court is conspicuous in the phrase of 
 the Fancy, **The Chicken's head was in Chancery," that is, tucked 
 under an opponent's left arm and punished by his right. In Household 
 Words, 1850-51, "Martyrs of Chancery," Dickens exposed the cases of 
 men who were practically prisoners for life on a charge of '^contempt," 
 because they were unable to pay sums, or comply with orders, in the 
 obscure and intricate cases that entangled them. Sir Edward Sugden 
 (Lord St. Leonards), who had instituted reforms, replied in the Times, 
 the gist of his contention being that the Court was overworked. 
 Dickens replied in his journal, and carried on the war in Bleak House, 
 The endless Jennings case is said to have suggested that of Jarndyce. 
 A missing will, and executors non inventi, was the basis of the action. 
 The case of Gridley (Chapter XV.) was borrowed, says Mr. Ketton, 
 from one set forth in a pamphlet by Mr. Challiner, of Leek. " In reality 
 there was only one defendant, but in the bill, by the rule of the Court, 
 there were seventeen ; and, after two years had been occupied over 
 the seventeen answers, everything had to begin over again because an 
 eighteenth had been accidentally omitted. " The legacy was of £300, in 
 five years the costs were about £900 ; the defenders were nearly ruined. 
 Forster gives details. The plaintiff would have been glad to escape 
 from the legacy if he could thereby evade paying costs. Dickens cited 
 examples of denunciation of the system by eminent lawyers, in his 
 Household Words articles. The Nemesis which attended the will of 
 Lord St. Leonards himself cannot have been forgotten. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 A face of a character that would be rather called very pretty than 
 handsome, but improved into classicality by the acquired expression of 
 her fashionable state." 
 
 These lines probably aim at forestalling a criticism already hinted, 
 that Lady Dedlock's face can scarcely have had such a striking 
 
538 
 
 NOTES ON BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 resemblance to that of Esther — that is as the modest Esther leads us 
 to think of *^Dame Durden." The reader may compare Esther in 
 ''Caddy's Flowers," with Lady Dedlock in ''The Young Man of the 
 name of Guppy." Neither is remarkable for " classicality," original 
 or acquired. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 " I can neither read nor write." 
 
 This odd scene of the man who can draw letters, but cannot read, 
 really contains the mot d^enigme of the plot, though to detect it might 
 almost have puzzled the ingenuity of Edgar Poe. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 *^ Harold Skimpole's children have tumbled up somehow or other." 
 
 A glance at Mr. Carlyle's sketch of Leigh Hunt's household does 
 rather suggest that this " tumbling up " was not drawn wholly from the 
 unaided imagination. Skimpole's "I don't feel any vulgar gratitude" 
 may also be studied in the light of Leigh Hunt's work on Byron. " He 
 relies upon everybody," as Mr. Jarndyce says. It was not a very rare 
 condition of mind among men of letters. Godwin relied on everybody ; 
 and an unpublished but well- attested anecdote of another eminent 
 writer, not Leigh Hunt, leaves Skimpole in the shade. But this tale 
 (which involved family plate) demanded the existence of yet another 
 author, who gave as recklessly as Skimpole received. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Ghost's Walk. 
 
 A viewless tread is, perhaps, the commonest phenomenon in '^ haunted 
 houses," and, evidentially," the least satisfactory. That ghosts are, 
 in popular opinion, appurtenances of the great, was clearly set forth by 
 the head housekeeper of a party who, in 1897, resided in a "haunted 
 house" for purposes of investigation. "I have lived in the best 
 families, and am accustomed to it," said the young woman, when asked 
 not to be timid. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 " They wanted everything." 
 
 One of the innumerable " askers " (as beggars call themselves, inter 
 se) who haunted Dickens, asked that a donkey might be "left out for 
 him." This was the last straw, and Dickens did not supply the 
 animal. 
 
NOTES ON BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 539 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Boy thorn. 
 
 Landor said that he had not read Bleak House, and does not seem 
 to have appreciated the honour of suggesting the roaring Boythorn. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The Vulgar wanting faith." 
 
 " The New England party " is, no doubt, satirised, for '* putting back 
 the hands upon the Clock of Time, and cancelling a few hundred years 
 of history." Thackeray's ballad of '*A Bareacre " is better-humoured 
 banter. In Coningshy, Mr. Rigby (Croker) talks a good deal in the 
 manner of you are dependent on the caprice of Puffy." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The Burial Ground." 
 
 This is fondly localised in the churchyard of St. Mary-le-Strand, and 
 a gate at the end of a passage near Drury Lane seems to resemble that 
 in Phiz's design, ** Consecrated Ground." There are other claimants. 
 The places have been more or less humanised_, and are certainly no 
 longer picturesque." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 *^I make four pounds — in a lump — by the transaction." 
 
 Richard's theory of finance practically recurs in Great Expectations^ 
 where Herbert and Pip practise the system of "leaving a margin," and 
 spending up to it. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 " Are you a beast of the field ? No ! " 
 
 Mr. Chadband's rhetorical practice suggests that of the Scottish 
 minister on the fish that swallowed Jonah : '*Was it a herring, my 
 brethren? No, it was not a herring ! " — with what follows. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 *'Terewth." 
 
 Judging from his spelling, in his History of the Beformation, John 
 Knox pronounced this important word in the accent of Mr. Chadband. 
 
540 NOTES ON BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 my child, my child ! Not dead in the first hours of her life, as 
 my cruel sister told me ; but sternly nurtured by her, after she had 
 renounced me and my name ! 
 
 The explicit and categorical character of this "cry " is rather useful as 
 an eclaircissement, than characterised by passionate maternal emotion. 
 The inevitable convention of the stage is intruded in the romance. 
 
 END OF VOL, I. 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.