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 COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 BRITISH AUTHORS. 
 
 VOL. ccnx. 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE BY CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive, 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/bleakhouse01dick
 
 BLEAK HOUSE 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 COPYRIGHT EDITION. 
 
 IN FOUR V [. [] M E S. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 
 BEBNH. TAUCHNITZ JUN. 
 
 18 52.
 
 vQ / f-i'^ ^ CONTENTS 
 ^ V. j 
 
 J O F V O L U M E I. 
 
 Page 
 
 CHAPTER I. In Chancery 1 
 
 — II. In Fashion 10 
 
 — III. A Progress 20 
 
 — IV. Telescopic Pliilanthropy 47 
 
 — V. A Moining Adventure 65 
 
 — VI. Quite at Home 84 
 
 — VII. The Ghost's Walk 114 
 
 — VIII. Covering a multitude of alas .... 129 
 
 — IX. Signs and tokens 157 
 
 — X. The Law-Writer 176 
 
 ^ — XI. Our Dear Brother 193 
 
 — XII. On the Watch 213 
 
 ~ XIII. Esther's Narrative 234 
 
 — XIV. Deportment 257 
 
 — XV. Bell Yard , , 287 
 
 — XVI. Tom-All-Alone's 309
 
 /»
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In Chancery. 
 
 LOXDOX. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the 
 Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Im- 
 placable 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 Meofalosaurus, forty feet long or so, wad- 
 dling 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 um- 
 brellas, in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing 
 their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thou- 
 sands of other foot passengers have been slipping and 
 sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), 
 adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, 
 sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, 
 and accumulating at compound interest. 
 
 Bleak House. I. 1 
 
 Printed by Bernh. Tauchnitz juu.
 
 2 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 y 
 
 .-'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 pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. 
 Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. 
 Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog 
 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 an- 
 cient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides 
 of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the after- 
 noon 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, j^ 
 Gas looming through the fog in divers places in 
 the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey 
 fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and plough- 
 boy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their 
 time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard 
 and imwilling look. 
 
 /jThe 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 
 
 Hisrh Chancellor in his Hicrh 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
 
 BLEAK HOrSE. 6 
 
 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 ow^fet^to be sittinf? here — as here he is — 
 
 with ^ JS^SX. j-^^^y ^o"^^ l^is head, softly fenced in 
 with crimson clotR and curtains, addressed by a large 
 advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an 
 interminable brief, and outwardly directing his con- 
 templation to the lantern in the roof, where he can 
 see _nothin^ but fog. On such an afternoon, some 
 score of members of the High Court of Chancery bar 
 ought to be — as here they are — mistily engaged in 
 one of the ten thousand stages of an endless cause, 
 tripping one another up on slippery precedents, gro- 
 ping knee-deep in technicalities, running thei r goat-ha ir , 
 and horse-hair warded heads against walls of words, 
 and making a pretence bf 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 for- 
 tune 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, 
 crossbills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits, 
 issues, references to masters, masters' reports, mountains 
 of costly nonsense, piled before them. Well may the court 
 be dim, with wasting candles here and there; well may 
 the fog hang heavy in it, as if it would never get out; 
 well may the stained glass windows lose their 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 
 
 1*
 
 4 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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' lias its worn-out lunatic in every mad- 
 house, and its dead in every churchyard; which has 
 its ruined suitor, with his slipshod heels and thread- 
 bare dress, borrowing 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 hereT" 
 
 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 whatever they may be, 
 in legal court suits. These are all yawning; for no 
 crumb of amusement ever falls from Jarndyce and 
 Jarndyce (the cause in hand), which was squeezed 
 dry years upon years ago. The short -hand writers, 
 the reporters of the court, and the reporters of the 
 newspapers, invariably decamp with the rest of the 
 regulars when Jarndyce and Jarndyce comes on. Their 
 places are a blank. Standing on a seat at the side of
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 the hall, the better to peer into the curtained sanc- 
 tuary, 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 him- 
 self 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 Chan- 
 cellor 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 com- 
 plaint, on the instant of his rising. A few lawyers' 
 clerks and others who know this suitor by sight, linger, 
 on the chance of his furnishing some fun, and enliven- 
 ing 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
 
 6 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 know- 
 ing how or why; whole families have inherited legen- 
 dary 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 world. Fair wards of 
 court have faded into mothers and grandmothers; a 
 long procession of Chancellors has come in and gone 
 out; the legion of bills in the suit have been trans- 
 formed 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, peren- 
 nially 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 pro- 
 fession. Every master in Chancery has had a reference 
 out of it. Every Chancellor was "in it," for somebody 
 or other, when he was counsel at the bar. Good 
 things have been said about it by blue-nosed, bulbous- 
 shoed old benchers, in select port-wine committee after 
 dinner in hall. Articled clerks have been in the habit 
 of fleshing their legal wit upon it. The last Lord 
 Chancellor handled it neatly, when, correcting Mr. 
 Blowers the eminent silk gown who said that such a
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 7 
 
 thing might happen when the sky rained potatoes, he 
 observed, "or when we get through Jarndyce and 
 Jarndyce, Mr. Blowers;" — a pleasantry that parti- 
 cularly tickled the maces, bags, and purses. 
 
 How many people out of the suit, Jarndyce and 
 Jarndyce has stretched forth its unwholesome hand to 7) 
 spoil and corrupt, would be a very wide question. 
 From the master, upon whose impaling files reams- of 
 dusty warrants in Jarndyce and Jarndyce have grimly 
 writhed into many shapes; down to the copying clerk 
 in the Six Clerks' Office, who has copied his tens of 
 thousands of Chancery-folio-pages under that eternal 
 heading; no man's nature has been made the better by 
 it. In trickery, evasion, procrastination, spoliation, 
 botheration, under false pretences of all sorts, there 
 are influences that can never come to good. The 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 broadcast by the ill-fated 
 cause ; and even those who have contemplated its 
 history from the outermost circle of such evil, have
 
 8 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 Avorld 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 o( 
 the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High 
 Court of Chancery. 
 
 - * "Mr. Tangle," says the Lord High Chancellor, 
 latterly something restless under the eloquence of that 
 learned gentleman. 
 
 "Mlud," says Mr. Tangle. Mr. Tangle knows 
 more of Jarndyce and Jarndyce than anybody. He is 
 famous for it — supposed never to have read anything 
 else since he left school. 
 
 "Have you nearly concluded your argument?" 
 
 "Mlud, no — variety of points — feel it my duty 
 tsubmit — ludship," is the reply that slides out of 
 Mr. Tangle. 
 
 "Several members of the bar are still to be heard, 
 I believe?" says 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 piano -forte, 
 make eighteen bows , and drop into their eighteen 
 places of obscurity. 
 
 "We will proceed with the hearing on Wednesday 
 fortnight," says the Chancellor. For, the question at 
 issue is only a question of costs, a mere bud on the 
 forest tree of the parent suit, and really will come to 
 a settlement one of these days. 
 
 The Chancellor rises; the bar rises; the prisoner is 
 brought forward in a hurry; the man from Shropshire 
 cries, "My lord!" Maces, bags, and purses, in-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 9 
 
 dignantly 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 ^Ir. Tangle, 
 prematurely. 
 
 "In reference," proceeds the Chancellor, with extra 
 distinctnesss, "to the young girl and boy, the two 
 young people." 
 
 (Mr. Tangle crushed.) 
 
 "Whom I directed to be in attendance to-dav, and 
 who are now in my private room, I will see them and 
 satisfy myself as to the expediency of making the 
 order for their residing with their uncle." 
 
 Mr. Tangle on his legs again. 
 
 "Begludship's pardon — dead." 
 
 "With their," Chancellor looking through his 
 double eye-glass at the papers on his desk, "grand- 
 father." 
 
 "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 re- 
 moved. 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
 
 10 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 remonstrative "My lord!" 
 but the Chancellor, being aware of him, has dexterously 
 vanished. Everybody else quickly vanishes too. A 
 battery of blue bags is loaded with heavy charges of 
 papers and carried off by clerks; the little mad old 
 woman marches off with her documents; the empty 
 court is locked up. If all the injustice it has com- 
 mitted, 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 much the better for 
 other parties than the parties in Jarndyce and Jarn- 
 dyce! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In Fashion. 
 
 It is but a glimpse of the world of fashion that 
 we want on this same miry afternoon. It is not so 
 unlike the Court of Chancery, but that we may pass 
 from the one scene to the 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, wlien all the 
 stopped spits in the kitchen shall begin to turn pro- 
 digiously!
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 11 
 
 It is not a large world. Relatively even to this 
 world of ours, which has its limits too (as your High- 
 ness 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 peopj.e in it; it has its appointed 
 place. But the evil of if is, that it is a world wrapped 
 up in too much jeweller's cotton and fine wool, and 
 cannot hear the rushins: of the larger worlds, and can- 
 not see thenl^ 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 Pa- 
 ris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks; 
 after which her movements are uncertain. The fashion- 
 able intelligence says so, for the comfort of the Pari^ 
 sians, and it knows all fashionable thinsrs. 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 ad- 
 jacent 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 woodman's axe can make no crash or crackle as 
 they fall. The deer, looking soaked, leave quagmires, 
 where they pass. The shot of a rifle loses its sharp-
 
 12 BLEAX HOUSE. 
 
 ness in the moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy 
 little cloud towards the green rise, coppice-topped, 
 that makes a back-ground for the falling rain. The 
 view from my Lady Dedlock's own windows is alter- 
 nately a lead-coloured view, and a view in Indian ink. 
 The vases on the stone terrace in the foreground 
 catch the rain all day; an the heavy drops fall, drip, 
 drip, drip, upon the broad flagged pavement, called, 
 from old time, the Ghost's Walk, all night. On Sun- 
 days, the little church in the park is mouldy; the 
 oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold sweat; and there 
 is a general smell and taste as of the ancient Dedlocks 
 in their graves. My Lady Dedlock (who is childless), 
 looking out in the early twilight from her boudoir 
 at a keeper's lodge, and seeing the light of a lire 
 upon the latticed panes, and smoke I'ising 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 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 13 
 
 is no mightier baronet tlian 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 meanness, 
 and readj^, 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 / 
 
 honourable, obstinate, truthful, high-spirited, intensely ^-h*^ 
 prejudiced, perfectly unreasonable man. 
 
 STF~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 man-ied her for love. A whisper still 
 goes about, that she had not even family; howbeit, 
 Sir Leicester had so much family that perhaps he had 
 enough, and could dispense with any more. But she 
 had beauty, pride, ambition, insolent resolve, and 
 sense enough to portion out a legion of fine ladies.
 
 -v^ 
 
 14 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 AVealth 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 con- 
 quered 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 ex- 
 pected to ascend without any rapture. 
 
 She has beauty still, and, if it be not in its hey- 
 day, 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 classi- 
 cality 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 de- 
 parture for Paris, where her ladyship intends to stay
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 15 
 
 some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. 
 And at her house in town, upon this muddy, murky 
 afternoon, presents himself an old-fashioned old gentle- 
 man, 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 baronet were the coin of the conjuror's 
 trick, and were constantly being iuirjiled thronirh 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 
 — Fairv-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 re- 
 puted to have made good thrift out of aristocratic mar- 
 riage settlements and aristocratic wills, and to be very 
 rich. He is surrounded by a mysterious halo of fa- 
 mily confidences; of wliich he is known to be the silent 
 depository. There are noble Mausoleums rooted for 
 centuries in retired glades of parks, among the grow- 
 ing timber and the fern, which perhaps hold fewer 
 noble secrets than walk abroad among men, shut up 
 in the breast of Mr, Tulkinsrhorn. 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
 
 16 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 with my Lady, and is 
 happy to see Mr. Tulkinghorn. There is an air of 
 prescription about him which is always agreeable to 
 Sir Leicester; he receives it as a kind of tribute. He 
 likes Mr. Tulkinghorn's dress; there is a kind of tri- 
 bute in that too. It is eminently respectable, and 
 likewise, in a general way, retainer-like. It 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 remark- 
 able 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 dress- 
 maker 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 17 
 
 chapel, a new anything, to be set up? There are de- 
 ferential 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 sub- 
 servience, lead her and her whole troop after them; 
 who, in hooking one, hook all and bear them off, as 
 Lemuel Gulliver bore away the stately fleet of the ma- 
 jestic LiUiput. "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 ge- 
 neral public; you must hit our people in their weakest 
 place, and their weakest place is such a place.-^— ^To 
 make this article go down, gentlemen," say Sheen and 
 Gloss the mercers, to their friends the manufacturers, 
 "you must com& 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 of my high connexion, Sir, or if 
 you want to secure to this entertainment the patronage 
 of my high connexion, Sir, you must leave it, if you 
 please, to me; for I have been accustomed to study 
 the leaders of my high connexion. Sir; und 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 I\Ir. Tulkinghorn may not know 
 what is passing in the Dedlock mind at present, it is 
 very possible that he may. 
 PAeak House. I. 2
 
 18 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "My Lady's cause has been again before the Chan- 
 cellor, has it, Mr. Tulkinghorn?" says Sir Leicester, 
 giving him his hand. 
 
 "Yes. It has been on again to-day," Mr. Tulking- 
 horn 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 you would call anything, has been 
 done to-day," replies Mr. Tulkinghorn. 
 
 "Nor ever will be," says my Lady. 
 
 Sir Leicester has no objection to an interminable 
 Chancery suit. It is a slow, expensive, British, con- 
 stitutional 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 con- 
 junction with a variety of other somethings, by the 
 perfection of human wisdom, for the eternal settlement 
 (humanly speaking) of every thing. And he is upon 
 the whole of a fixed opinion, that to give the sa iction 
 of his countenance to any complaints respect; it, 
 would be to encourage some person in the lower c. *sses 
 to rise up somewhere — like AVat Tyler. 
 
 "As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the 
 file," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "and as they are ^hort,
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 19 
 
 and as I proceed upon the troublesome principle of 
 begging leave to possess my clients with any new pro- 
 ceedings 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-the-bye, 
 but the delight of the fashionable intelligence was in 
 his Lady.) 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn takes out his papers, asks permis- 
 sion 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 Lady 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 price- 
 less, but small. My Lady, changing her position, sees 
 the papers on the table — looks at them nearer — 
 look*" at them nearer still — asks impulsively: 
 
 ^'^Who copied that?" ,- ' 
 
 Ur. 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. 
 
 2*
 
 20 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Not quite. Probably'* — Mr. Tiilkinghorn exa- 
 mines it as he speaks — "the legal character it has, 
 was acquired after the original hand was formed. Why- 
 do you ask?" 
 
 "Anything to vary this detestable monotony. 0, 
 go on, do!" 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn reads again. The heat is greater, 
 my Lady screens her face. Sir Leicester doses, starts 
 up suddenly, and cries "Eh? what do you say?" 
 
 "I say 1 am afraid," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who 
 has 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." y 
 
 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 ,yl used to say to my 
 doll, when we were alone together, "Now, Dolly, I am 
 not clever, you know very well, and you must be pa-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 21 
 
 tient 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 — while I busily 
 stitched away, and told her every one of my secrets. 
 
 My dear old doll! I was such a shy little thing 
 that I seldom dared to open my lips, and never dared 
 to open my heart, to anybody else. It almost makes 
 me cry to think what a relief it used to be to me, when I 
 came home from school of a day, to run upstairs to 
 my room, and 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 we 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 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 Sun- 
 day, and to morning prayers on Wednesdays and Fri- 
 days, 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 tkink) 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
 
 22 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 mamma spoken of. I had 
 never heard of my papa either, but I felt more inter- 
 ested about my mamma. I had never worn a black 
 frock, that I could recollect. I had never been shown 
 my mamma'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 neighbour- 
 ing school 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),
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 23 
 
 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 me- 
 lancholy 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 suspecting 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 the table before the fire. The clock ticked, 
 the fire clicked; not another sound had been heard in 
 the room, or in the house, for I don't know how long. 
 I happened to look timidly up from my stitching, 
 across the table, at my godmother',' and I saw in her 
 face, looking gloomily at me, '^'It would have been far 
 better, little Esther, that you had had no birthday; 
 that you had never been born!" ^^..^s^^*"*^ 
 
 I broke out crying and sobbing, and I said, "O 
 
 ^^
 
 24 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 dear godmother, tell me, pray do tell me, did mamma 
 die on my birthday?" 
 
 "No," she returned. "Ask me no more, child!" 
 
 "O, 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 dif- 
 ferent 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 
 had caught hold of her dress, and was kneeling to her. 
 She had been saying all the while, "Let me go!" But 
 now she stood still. 
 
 Her darkened face had such power over me, that 
 it stopped me in the midst of my vehemence. I put 
 up my trembling little hand to clasp hers, or to beg 
 her pardon with what earnestness I might, but with- 
 drew it as she looked at me, and laid it on my flutter- 
 ing heart. She raised me, sat in her chair, and stand- 
 ing 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 
 
 T^her;'V/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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 25 
 
 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 heF"'^ — so frozen as 1 was! — and added this: 
 
 "Submission, self-denial, diligent work, are the 
 preparations for a life begun with such a shadow on 
 it. You are diflferent from other children, Esther, 
 because you were not born, like them, in common sin- 
 fulness and wrath. You are set apart." 
 
 I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid 
 my doll's cheek against mine wet with tears; and 
 holding that solitary friend upon my bosom, cried 
 myself to sleep. Imperfect as my understanding of 
 my sorrow was, 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 re- 
 pair the fault I had been born with (of which I con- 
 fusedly 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 coining to my eyes. 
 
 There! I have wiped them away now, and can go 
 on again properly. 
 
 I felt the distance between my godmother and my- 
 self so much more after the birthday, and felt so sen- 
 sible of filling a place in her house which ought to
 
 26 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 
 myjschool companions; I felt in the same way towards 
 Mrs. Rachael, who was a widow; and O, towards her 
 daughter, of whom she was proud, Avho came to see 
 her once a fortnight! I was very retired and quiet, 
 and tried to be verv diliorent. 
 
 •J o 
 
 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 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 speaking, "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 — look- 
 ing 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 upstairs, 
 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 27 
 
 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 1 say unto you, I say unto 
 all, Watch!''" 
 
 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 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 neck- 
 cloth reappeared. I was sent for by Mrs. Rachael,
 
 28 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 and found him in the same place, as if he had never 
 gone awaj*;*— —*''■'* ^"''X 
 
 "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 in- 
 form you who vv^ere acquainted with the late Miss Bar- 
 bary's affairs, that her means die with her; and that 
 this young lady, now her aunt is dead — " 
 
 "My aunt. Sir!" 
 
 "It really is of no use carrying on a deception when 
 no object is to be gained by it," said Mr. Kenge, 
 smoothly. "Aunt in fact, though not in law. Don't 
 distress yourself! Don't weep! Don't tremble! Mrs. 
 Rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of — 
 the — a — Jarndyce and Jarndyce." 
 
 "Never," said Mrs. 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 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 29 
 
 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 ad- 
 dressed 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 un- 
 derstood 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 — " 
 
 ("Ihopeso, I am sure," saidMr. 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 — " 
 
 "O dear no I" 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 Barbarv some 
 two years ago, and which, though rejected then, was 
 understood to be renewable under the lamentable cir- 
 cumstances that have since occurred. Now, if I avow
 
 30 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 that I represent, in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and other- 
 wise, a highly humane, but at the same time singular 
 man, shall I compromise myself by any stretch of my 
 professional 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. .1 couldn't wonder at that, for it 
 wasm^ow and full, and gave great importance to 
 every word he uttered. He listened to himself with 
 obvious satisfaction, and sometimes gently beat time 
 to his own music with his head, or rounded a sen- 
 tence with his hand. I was very much impressed by 
 him — even then, before I knew that he formed him- 
 self on the model of a great lord who was his client, 
 and that he was generally called Conversation Kenge. 
 
 "Mr. Jarndj^ce," 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 Providence? — 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 establish- 
 ment in question without his knowledge and concur- 
 rence. That she will faithfully apply herself to the 
 acquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise 
 of which she will be ultimately dependent. That she
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 31 
 
 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, I need not repeat. What she did say, I could 
 more easily tell, if it were worth the telling. AVhat 
 she felt, and will feel to her dying hour, I could never 
 relate. 
 
 This interview took place at Windsor, where I had 
 passed fas far as I knew) my whole life. On that day 
 'wi^k, 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 coul(? say good bye so easily! 
 
 "No, Esther I" she returned. "It is vour misfortunei*' 
 
 The coach was at the little lawn gate — we had 
 not come out until we heard the wheels — and thus 
 I left her, with a sorrowful heart. She went in be- 
 fore 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
 
 82 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 she possessed; and there was to be a sale; and an old 
 hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to 
 me the first thing in the world I. had ever seen, was 
 hanging outside in the frost and snow. 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 companion 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 smooth and white with last night's 
 snow; and the sun, so red but yieldmg so little heat; 
 and the ice, dark like metal, where the skaters and 
 sliders had brushed the snow away. There was a gen- 
 tleman 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 1 should find Ihere, 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 quan- 
 tity of wrappings, though he was still looking out of 
 his window.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 33 
 
 "Yes, you," he said, turning round. 
 
 "I didn't know I was crying, Sir," I faltered. 
 
 "But you are!" said the gentleman. "Look here!" 
 He came 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 gentle- 
 man. "Don't you want to go there?" 
 
 "Where, Sir?" 
 
 "Where? W"hy, 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 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 com- 
 posed again, and not afraid of him. So I told him 
 that I thought I must have been crying, because of 
 my godmother's death, and because of Mrs. Rachael's 
 not being sorry to part with me. 
 
 "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. 
 Bleak House. I. 3
 
 34 BLEAir HOUSE. 
 
 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 pie (a gem this is, both for size and 
 quality), made in France. And what do you suppose 
 it 's made of? Livers of fat geese. There 's a pie! 
 Now let 's see you eat 'em." 
 
 "Thank you, Sir," I replied, "thank you very 
 much indeed, but I hope you won't be ofTended; they 
 are too rich for me." 
 
 "Floored again!" said the gentleman, which 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 afterwards, 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: 
 
 "Miss Donny.'<s 
 
 "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
 
 PXEAK HOUSE. 35 
 
 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 Donfty^-tke 
 maidjgnd 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 
 unreal air of every thing at Greenleaf (Miss Donny's 
 house), that afternoon! —-«*- 
 
 ^ut I soon became used to it. I was so adapted 
 to the routine of Greenleaf before long, that I seemed 
 to have been there a great while; and almost to have 
 dreamed, rather than to have really lived, my old 
 life at my godmother's. Nothing could be more pre- 
 cise, 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. 
 
 3*
 
 z> 
 
 $6 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 We were twelve boarders, and there were two 
 Miss Donnys, twins. It was understood that 1 would 
 have to depend, by-and-by, on my qualifications as a 
 governess; and I was not only instructed in every- 
 thing that was taught at Greenleaf, but was very soon 
 engaged in helping to instruct others. Although I 
 was treated in every other respect like the rest of the 
 school, this single difference was made in my case 
 from the first. As I began to know more, I taught 
 more, and so in course of time I had plenty to do, 
 which I was very fond of doing, because it made the 
 dear girls fond of me. At last, whenever a new pupil 
 came who 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! 1 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 affectionate remembrance that 
 my room was beautiful with them from New Year's 
 Day to Christmas. 
 
 In those six years I had never been away, except 
 on visits at holiday time in the neighbourhood. After 
 the first six months or so, I had taken Miss Donny's 
 advice in reference to the propriety of writing to 
 Mr. Kenge, to say that I was happy and grateful j
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 37 
 
 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, 
 which shall be duly communicated to our client." 
 After that, I sometimes heard Miss Donny and her 
 sister mention how regularly my accounts were paid; 
 and about twice a year I ventured to write a similar 
 letter. I always received by return of post exactly 
 the same answer, in the same round hand; with the 
 signature of Kenge and Carboy in another 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 back-ground now. 
 
 Six cjuiet 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 , Lincoln's Inn. 
 
 Madam, 
 
 Jarndyce and Jarndyce. 
 
 Oar clt Mr. Jarndyce being abt to rece into his house , under an 
 
 Order of the "cT of Chy, a Ward of the "cF in this cause, for whom he wishes 
 
 to secure an elgble compu, directs us to inform you that he will be glad of 
 
 your serces in the afsd capacity. 
 
 We have arrngd for your being forded, carriage free, pr 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* Servts, 
 
 Ke>'ge a^td Carboy. 
 Miss Esther Su^fmerson.
 
 38 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 in- 
 clined 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 regret of it, were so blended, that my 
 heart seemed almost breaking while it was full of 
 rapture. 
 
 The letter gave me only five days' notice of my 
 removal. When every minute added to the proofs of 
 love and kindness that were given me in those five 
 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 when I tried to tell them how forbearing, and 
 how good they had all been to me, and how I blessed, 
 and thanked them every 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,
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 39 
 
 and told me I had been the light of his eyes — in- 
 deed the old man said so! — what a heart I had then! 
 
 And could I help it, if with all this, and the co- 
 ming to the little school, and the unexpected sight of 
 the poor children outside waving their hats and bon- 
 nets 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 where I was going, after all that had been 
 done for me. Therefore, of course, I made myself 
 sob less, and persuaded myself to be quiet by saying 
 very often, "Esther, now, you really must I This will 
 not do!" I cheered myself up pretty well at last, 
 though I am afraid I was longer about it than I 
 ought to have been; and when I had cooled my eyes 
 with lavender water, it was time to watch for London. 
 
 I was quite persuaded that we were there, Avhen 
 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 afterwards we stopped. 
 
 A young gentleman who had inked himself by ac- 
 cident, addressed me from the pavement, and said "I 
 am from Kenge and Carboy's, ]\liss, of Lincoln's Inn."
 
 40 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "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 I. 
 
 We drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest 
 streets that ever were seen in the world (I thought), 
 and in such a distracting state of confusion that I 
 wondered how the people kept their senses, until we 
 passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway, 
 and drove on through a silent square until we came 
 to an odd nook in a corner, where there was an en- 
 trance up a steep broad flight of stairs, like an en- 
 trance to a church. And there really was a church- 
 yard, outside under some cloisters, for I saw the 
 gravestones from the staircase window. 
 
 This was Kenge and Carboy's. The young gen- 
 tleman showed me through an outer office into Mr. 
 Kenge's room — there was no one in it — and po- 
 litely 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.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 41 
 
 "Going before the Chancellor?" I said, startled for 
 a moment. 
 
 "Only a matter of form, Miss," returned the young 
 erentleman. "Mr. Keno-e is in court now. He left his 
 compliments, and would you partake of some refresh- 
 ment;" 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 stir- 
 red the fire, and left me. 
 
 Everything was so strange — the stranger for its 
 being night in the day-time, and the candles burning 
 with a white flame, and looking raw and cold — that 
 I read the words in the newspaper without knowing 
 what they meant, and found myself reading the same 
 words repeatedly. As it was of no use going on in 
 that way, I put the paper down, took a peep at my 
 bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and looked 
 at the room 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 snuff'ers — until the young gentleman by-and- 
 by brought a very dirty pair; for two hours. 
 
 At last Mr. Kenge came. He was not altered; but 
 he was surprised to see how altered I was, and ap- 
 peared quite pleased. "As you are going to be the 
 companion of the young lady who is now in the 
 Chancellor's private room. Miss Summerson," he said, 
 "we thought it well that you should be in attendance
 
 ^ 
 
 42 ULEAK HOUSE. 
 
 also. You will not be discomposed by the Lord Chan- 
 cellor, I dare say?" 
 
 '^No, Sir," 1 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 gen- 
 tleman were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire. 
 A screen was interposed between them and it, and they 
 were leaning on the screen, talking. 
 
 They both looked up when I came in, and I saw 
 in the young lady, with the fire shining upon her, such 
 a beautiful girl! With such rich golden hair, such soft 
 blue eyes 5 and such a bright, innocent, trusting- face! 
 
 "Miss Ada," said Mr. Kenge, "this is Miss Sum- 
 merson." 
 
 She came to meet me with a smile of welcome and 
 her hand extended, but seemed to change her mind in 
 a moment, and kissed me. In short, she had such a 
 natural, captivating, winning manner, that in a few 
 minutes we were sitting in the window-seat, with the 
 light of the fire upon us, talking together, as free and 
 happy as could be. 
 
 What a load off my mind! It was so delightful to 
 know that she could confide in me, and like me! It 
 was so good of 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 light of the fire 
 too, talking gaily, like a light-hearted boy. He was
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 43 
 
 very youns:; 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 imusual place, was a thing to talk about; and 
 we talked about it; and the fire, which had left off 
 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 
 gentleman in a bag wig frequently came in and out, 
 and when he did so, we could hear a drawling sound 
 in the distance, which he said was one of the counsel 
 in our case addressing the Lord Chancellor. He told 
 Mr. Kenge that the Chancellor would be up in five 
 minutes; and presently we heard a bustle, and a tread 
 of feet, and Mr. Kenge said that the 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 was both courtly and kind. 
 
 The gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of 
 papers on his lordship's table, and his lordship silently 
 selected one, and turned over the leaves. 
 
 '•Miss Clare," said the Lord Chancellor. "Mi.ss 
 .da Clare?,'*
 
 44 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 L"ord High Chancellor, at his best, appeared so 
 poor a substitute for the love and pride of parents. 
 
 "The Jarndyce in question," said the Lord Chan- 
 cellor, still turning over leaves, "is Jarndyce of Bleak 
 ) House." ^ ' ~ 
 
 "Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," said Mr. 
 Kenge, 
 
 "A dreary name," said the Lord Chancellor. 
 
 "But not a dreary place at present, my lord," 
 said Mr. Kenge. 
 
 "And Bleak House," said his lordship, "is in — " 
 
 "Hertfordshire, my lord." 
 - / "Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House is not married?" 
 '^^ said his lordshipl 
 
 "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 may venture to 
 remind your lordship, provides a suitable companion 
 for — " 
 
 "For Mr. Richard Carstone?" I thought (but I 
 am not quite sure) I heard his lordship say, in an 
 equally low voice, and with a smile.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 45 
 
 "For Miss Ada Clare. This is the young lady. 
 Miss Summerson." 
 
 His lordship gave me an indulgent look, and ac- 
 knowledged 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 
 whisperedv His lordship, with his eyes upon his pa- 
 pers, 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 the proposed ar- 
 rangement, 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 was 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 we all went out.
 
 46 BLEAK HOUS£. 
 
 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. 
 
 AVhen we got under the colonnade, Mr. Kenge re- 
 membered that he must go back for a moment to ask a 
 question; and left us in the fog, with the Lord Chan- 
 cellor's carriage and servants waiting for him to come out. 
 
 "Well!" said Richard Carstone, ^'that '5 over! And 
 where do we go ne^iLt.. Miss Summerson?" 
 
 "Don't you know?" I said. 
 
 "Not in the least," said he. 
 
 "And don't you know, my love?" I asked Ada. 
 
 "No!" said she. "Don't you?" 
 
 "Not at all!" said I. 
 
 We looked at one another, half laughing at our 
 belnsi: 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. ^t^ 
 
 "0!" said she. "The ward^ in Jarndycel Ve-ry 
 happy, 1 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." 
 
 "Mad!" whispered Richard, not thinking she could 
 hear him. 
 
 "Rigkt! 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. 1 believe, beauty. It matters very 
 little now. Neither of the three served, or saved me. 
 I have the honour to attend court regularly. AVith my
 
 BLEAK nOUS£. 47 
 
 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 his documents! 
 How does your honourable worship do?" 
 
 "Quite well, quite well! Now don't be trouble- 
 some, that 's a good soul!" said Mr. Kenge, leading 
 the way back. 
 
 "By no means," said the poor old lady, keeping 
 up with Ada and me. "Anything but troublesome. 
 I shall confer estates on both, — which is not being 
 troublesome, 1 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 Con- 
 versation Kenge! Ha! Pray accept my blessing!" 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Telescopic Philanthropy. 
 
 We were to pass the night, Mr. Kenge told us 
 when we arrived in his room, at Mrs. Jellyby's; and 
 then he turned to me, and said he took it for granted 
 I knew who Mrs. Jelly by was? 
 
 "I really don't, Sir," I returned. "Perhaps Mr. 
 Carstone — or Miss Clare — "
 
 48 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 But no, they knew nothing whatever about Mrs. 
 
 Jellyby. ^tf^""^ \ 
 
 "In-deed! (^"^S^ijellyb;^" said Mr. Kenge, stand- 
 ing with his back tome fire, and casting his eyes 
 over the dusty hearth-rug as if it were Mrs. Jellyby's 
 biography, "is a lady of very remarkable strength of 
 character, who devotes herself entirely to the public. 
 She has devoted herself to an extensive variety of 
 public subjects, at various times, and is at present 
 (until something else attracts her) devoted to the sub- 
 ject 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 in any work that is considered 
 likely to be a good work, and who is much sought 
 after by philanthropists, has, I believe, a very high 
 opinion of Mrs. Jellyby." 
 
 Mr. Kenge, adjusting his cravat, then looked at us. 
 
 "And Mr. Jellyby, vSir?" sugojested Richard. 
 
 "Ah! Mr. Jellyby," said Mr. Kenge, "is — a — I 
 don't know that I can describe him to you better than 
 by saying that he is the husband of Mrs. Jellyby." 
 
 "A nonentity. Sir?" said Richard with a droll look. 
 
 "I don't say that," returned Mr. Kenge, gravely. 
 "I can't say that, indeed, for I know nothing what- 
 ever 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 tra-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 49 
 
 veiling already, Mr. Jarndyce had himself proposed 
 this arrangement. A carriage would be at Mr. 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 t)aggage 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 satisfac- 
 tion in (good day. Miss Clare I) the arrangement this 
 day concluded, and my (good bye to you, Miss Sum- 
 mersonl) lively hope that it will conduce to the happi- 
 ness, the (glad to have had the honour of making your 
 acquaintance, Mr. Carstonelj 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 Mrs. 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 we are in four minutes time, as near as 
 a toucher. This is about a London particular now ^ 
 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, I am sure," said 
 Bleak House. I. 4
 
 50 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Mr. Gnppy, putting up the steps. "On the contrary, 
 it seems to do you good, Miss, judging from your ap- 
 pearance." 
 
 I knew he meant well in paying me this compli- 
 ment, 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 
 under an archway, to our destination: a narrow street 
 of high houses, like an oblong cistern to hold the fog. 
 There was a confused little crowd of people, princi- 
 pally 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!" 
 
 "0 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 milk- 
 man 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 com- 
 pressible by those means. As I found (after pacifying 
 him), that he was a little boy, with 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 for- 
 ward, This was so favourably received by the milk-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE, 51 
 
 man and beadle, that he would immediately have been 
 pushed into the area, if I had not held his pinafore, 
 while Richard and Mr. Guppy ran down through the 
 kitchen, to catch him when he should be released. At 
 last he was happily got down without any 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, ex- 
 cept 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 pas- 
 sage 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 stairs — down a whole flight 
 (as it sounded to me), with a great noise. 
 
 Mrs. Jellyby, whose face reflected none of the un- 
 easiness 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 — re- 
 ceived 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 
 
 4*
 
 52 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 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 were 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,
 
 BLEAK hot:s£. 53 
 
 snnffing 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 correspondence with 
 public bodies , and with private individuals anxious for 
 the welfare of their species all over the country. I 
 am happy to say it is advancing. AVe 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 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?" ^^^^y^ 
 
 This application of the subject was really so unex- 
 pected 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. Jel- 
 ly by- 
 
 "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 pre- 
 caution, and never be run over. Just so with Africa." 
 
 1 said, "No doubt." — I meant as to Holborn.
 
 ii i 
 
 Hi 
 
 54 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "If you would like," said Mrs. Jellyby, putting a 
 number of papers towards us, "to look over some re- 
 marks 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 bash- 
 ful 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. Jellyby merely added, 
 with the serene composure with which she said every- 
 thing, "Go along, you naughty Peepy!" and fixed her 
 fine eyes on Africa again. 
 
 However, as she at once proceeded with her dic- 
 tation, 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 00 
 
 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 
 
 hou|:,-i*^. nominally (for we dine at all hours) five! 
 
 !addy,yshow Miss Clare and Miss Summerson their 
 
 "^ooras. You will like to make some change, perhaps? 
 
 'You will excuse me, I know, being so much occupied. 
 
 O, that very had child I Pray put him down, Miss 
 
 Summerson!" 
 
 I begged permission to retain him, truly saying 
 that he was not at all troublesome; and carried him 
 upstairs and laid him on my bed. Ada afcd I had two 
 upper rooms, with a door of communication between. 
 They were excessively bare and disorderly, and 
 the curtain to my window was fastened up with a 
 fork. 
 
 "You would like some hot water, wouldn't you?" 
 said Miss Jellyby, looking round for a jug with a 
 handle to it, but looking in vain. 
 
 "If it is not being troublesome," said we. 
 
 "O, it's not the trouble," returned Miss Jellyby; 
 "the question is, if there is any." 
 
 The evening was so very cold, and the rooms had 
 such a marshy smell, that I must confess it was a little 
 miserable; and Ada was half crying. We soon laughed, 
 however, and were busily unpacking, when Miss Jel- 
 lyby came back to say, that she was sorry there was 
 no hot water; but they couldn't find the kettle, and 
 the boiler was out of order.
 
 56 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 out- 
 side, to look at the phenomenon of Peepy lying on 
 my bed; and our attention was distracted by the con- 
 stant apparition of noses and fingers, in situations of 
 danger between the hinges of the doors. It was im- 
 possible 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 whatever on the door. Therefore I pro- 
 posed to the children that they should come in and be 
 very good at my table, and I would tell them the 
 story of little Red Riding Hood while I dressed; which 
 they did, anfl were as quiet as mice, including Peepy, 
 who awoke opportunely before the appearance of the wolf. 
 
 When we went downstairs we found a mug, with 
 "A Present from Tunbridge Wells", on it, lighted up 
 in the staircase window with a floating 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 choaking dreadfully. It smoked to that 
 degree in short, that we all sat coughing and crying 
 with the windows open for half an hour; during which 
 Mrs. Jellyby, with the same sweetness of temper, 
 directed letters about Africa. Her being so employed 
 was, I must say, a great relief to me; for Richard told 
 us that he had washed his hands in a pie-dish, and 
 that they had found the kettle on his dressing-table; 
 and he made Ada laugh so, that they made me laugh 
 in the most ridiculous manner.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 57 
 
 Soon after seven o'clock we went down to dinner; 
 carefully, by Mrs. Jellyby's advice; for the stair-car- 
 pets, besides being- very deficient in stair-wires, were 
 so torn as to be absolute traps. We had a fine cod- 
 fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, and a 
 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 Avherevei' it happened to go, and 
 never moved it again unnl she put it on the stairs. 
 The person I had seen in pattens (who I suppose to 
 have been the cookj, 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 conse- 
 quence of such accidents as the dish of potatoes being 
 mislaid in the coal skuttle, and the handle of the 
 corkscrew coming ofif, and striking the young woman 
 in the chin; Mrs. Jellyby preserved the evenness of 
 her disposition. She told us a great deal that was 
 interesting about Borrioboola-Gha and the natives; 
 and received so many letters that Richard, who sat by 
 her, saw four envelopes in the gravy at 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
 
 58 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 sub- 
 mit 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 com- 
 plexion. 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 
 ivas Mr. Jellyby; 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 he was a philanthropist, 
 also informed her that he called the matrimonial al- 
 liance 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 inter- 
 preter. 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 59 
 
 had always shut it again, to Richard's extreme con- 
 fusion, without saying anything. 
 
 Mrs. Jellyby, sitting in quite a nest of waste paper, 
 drank coffee all the evenine, and dictated at intervals 
 to her eldest daughter. vShe 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 upstairs; 
 where the young woman with the flannel bandage 
 charged into the midst of the little family like a dra- 
 goon, and overturned them into cribs. 
 
 After that, I occupied myself in making our room 
 a little tidy, and in coaxing a very cross fire that had 
 been lighted, to burn; which at last it did, quite 
 brightly. On my return downstairs, 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 higher pretensions. 
 
 It was nearly midnight before we found an op- 
 portunity 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 
 upstairs. "How curious of my cousin Jarndyce to 
 send us here!"
 
 60 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "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. Jelly by 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 back 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. 
 
 "My dear!" 
 
 "You want a description of my cousin Jarndyce?" 
 
 "My dear, I never saw him." 
 
 "And 7 never saw him I" returned Ada. 
 
 Well, to be sure! 
 
 No, she had never seen him. Young as she was
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 61 
 
 when her mamma 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 hat 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 Chan- 
 cery suit." She had replied, gratefully accepting his 
 proposal. Richard had received a similar letter, and 
 had made a similar response. He had seen Mr. Jarn- 
 dyce 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 won- 
 dering about Bleak House, and wondering and won- 
 dering that yesterday morning should seem so long 
 ago. I don't know where my thoughts had wandered, 
 when they were recalled by a tap at the door. 
 
 I opened it softly, and found Miss Jellyby shivering 
 there, with a broken candle in a broken candlestick in 
 one hand, and an egg-cup in the other. 
 
 "Good night!" she said, very sulkily. 
 
 "Good night!" said I. 
 
 "May I come in?" she shortly and unexpectedly 
 asked me in the same sulky way. 
 
 "Certainly," said I. "Don't wake Miss Clare." 
 
 She would not sit down, but stood by the fire, 
 dipping her inky middle finger in the egg-cup, which
 
 Q2 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 contained vinegar, 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 Stim- 
 merson. 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 pre- 
 sently put down her egg-cup, and turned softly to- 
 wards 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 needle- 
 work, and every thing?" 
 
 "No doubt," said I. 
 
 "/ can't," she returned. "I can't do anything 
 hardly, except write. I 'm always writing for INIa. I 
 wonder you two were not ashamed of yourselves to 
 come in this afternoon, and see me able to do nothing 
 else. It was like your ill-nature. Yet you think your- 
 selves 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.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 63 
 
 'The whole house is disgraceful. The children are dis- > 
 graceful. /*m disgraceful. Pa's miserable, and no yjy 
 wonder! Priscilla drinks — she 's alwaj's drinking^y^ 
 It 's a great shame and a great story, of you, if yot 
 say you didn't smell her to-day. It was 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 sha'n't 
 say you don't. You do I" 
 
 "0, 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." 
 
 "0 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 I. "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."
 
 64 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 contrived to raise her head so that 
 it should rest on my lap, and to cover us both with 
 shawls. The fire went out, and all niirbt lonsr she 
 slumbered thus before the ashy grate. /At first I was 
 painfully awake, and vainly tried to lo^e 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 
 yj 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. ^Kow, it was the little mad woman 
 worn out with curtseying and smiling; noAv, 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.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 65 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A Morning Adventure. 
 
 Although the morning was raw, and although 
 the fog still seemed heavy — I say seemed, for the 
 windows were so encrusted with dirt, that they would 
 have made Midsummer sunshine dim — I was suffi- 
 ciently forewarned of the discomfort within doors at 
 that early hour, and sufficiently curious about Lon- 
 don, to think it a good idea on the part of Miss Jellyby 
 when she proposed that we should go out for a walk. 
 
 "Ma won't be down for ever so long," she said, 
 "and then it's a chance if breakfast 's ready for an 
 hour afterwards, they dawdle so. As to Pa, he gets 
 what he can, and goes to the office. He never has 
 what you would call a regular breakfast. Priscilla 
 leaves him out the loaf and some milk, when there is 
 any, over night. Sometimes there isn't any milk, and 
 sometimes the cat drinks it. But I 'm afraid you must 
 be tired, Miss Summerson; and perhaps you would 
 rather go to bed." 
 
 "lam not at all tired, my dear," said I, "and would 
 much prefer to go out." 
 
 "If you're sure you would," returned Miss Jel- 
 lyby, "I'll 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 afterwards lay him down on my bed 
 again. To this he submitted with the best grace pos- 
 sible; staring at me during the whole operation, as if 
 he never had been, and never could again be, so 
 astonished in his life — looking very miserable also, 
 certainly, but making no complaint, and going snugl/ 
 Bleak House. I. 5
 
 66 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 dispatching Peepy, and 
 the bustle of getting myself ready, and helping Ada, I 
 was soon quite in a glow. We found Miss Jellyby 
 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 hked me much, unless she had told me so. 
 
 "W^here would you wish to go?" she asked. 
 
 "Anywhere, my dear," I replied. 
 
 "Anywhere 's nowhere," said Miss Jellyby, stop- 
 ping perversely. 
 ^ "Let us go somewhere at any rate," said I. 
 
 She then walked me on very fast.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 67 
 
 "I don't care!" she said. "Now, you are my wit- 
 ness, Miss Summerson, I say I don't care — but if 
 he was to come to our house, with his "rreat shininsr 
 lumpy forehead, night after night till he was as old 
 as Methuselah, I wouldn't have anything to say to 
 him. Such Asses as he and Ma make of themselves!" 
 
 "My dear!" I remonstrated, in allusion to the 
 epithet, and the vigorous emphasis Miss Jellyby set 
 upon it. "Your duty as a child — '* 
 
 "0! don't talk of duty as a child. Miss Summer- 
 son; 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!" y / 
 
 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. 
 1 can't bear hirn. 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 hou^e can 
 have the patience to stay there, and be a Witness of 
 such inconsistencies and contradictions as all tliat 
 sounding nonsense, and Ma's management!" 
 
 I could not but understand her to refer to Mr. ^ 
 f^ale, the young gentleman who had appeared after 
 ainner yesterday. I was saved the disagreeable ne- 
 cessity of pursuing the sul)ject, by Richard and Ada 
 coming up at a round pace, laughing, and asking us 
 if we meant to run a race? Thus internipted. Miss 
 Jellyby became silent, and walked moodily on at my 
 side; while I admired the long successions and varie- 
 
 y*
 
 68 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 ties of streets, the quantity of people already going to 
 and fro, the number of vehicles passing and repassing, 
 the busy preparations in the setting forth of shop win- 
 dows and the sweeping out of shops, and the extra- 
 ordinary creatures in rags, secretly groping among 
 the swept-out rubbish for pins and other refuse. 
 
 "So, cousin," said the cheerful voice of Richard 
 to Ada, behind me. "VVe are never to get out of 
 Chancery! We have come by another way to our 
 place of meeting yesterday, and — by the Great Seal, 
 here's the old lady again!" 
 
 Truly, there she was, immediately in front of us, 
 curtseying and smiling, and saying, with her yester- 
 day's air of patronage: 
 
 "The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, lam sure!" 
 
 "You are out early. Ma'am," said I, as she curt- 
 sied to me. 
 
 "Ye-es! I usually walk here early. Before the 
 Court sits. It 's retired. I collect my thoughts here 
 for the business of the day," said the old lady, min- 
 cingly. "The business of the day requires a great 
 deal of thought. Chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult 
 to follow." 
 
 "Who's this. Miss Summerson?" whispered Miss 
 Jellyby, drawing my arm tighter through her 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 youth- 
 ful parties in Jarndyce?" said the old lady, recovering 
 herself, with her head on one side, from a very low 
 curtsey.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 69 
 
 Richard, anxious to atone for his thoiiofhtlessness 
 of yesterday, good-naturedly explained that Miss Jellyby 
 was not connected with the suit. 
 
 "Ha!" said the old lady. "She does not expect a 
 judgment? She will still grow old. But not so old. 
 
 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 contem- 
 plation. 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 Lord Chancellor's court," said the 
 old lady, "the vacation is fulfilled; and the sixth seal, 
 mentioned in the Revelations, again prevails. Pray 
 come and see my lodging. It will be a good omen 
 for me. Youth, and hope, and beauty, are very 
 seldom there. It is a long long time since I had a 
 visit from either." ,——'*—"' '.-— — -•'-^- - 
 
 She had taken my hand, and, leading me and Miss 
 Jellyby away, beckoned Richard and Ada to come too. 
 
 1 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 continued to follow; our strange con- 
 ductress informing us all the time, with much smiling 
 condescension, that she lived close by. 
 
 It was quite true, as it soon appeared. She lived 
 so close by, that we had not time to have done hu- 
 mouring her for a few moments, before she was at home. 
 
 O
 
 70 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Slipping us out at a little side gate, the old lady stopped 
 most unexpectedly in a narrow back street, part of 
 some courts and lanes immediately outside the wall of 
 the inn, and said, "This is my lodging. Pray walk up!" 
 She had stopped at a shop, over which was written, 
 Krook, Rag and Bottle AVarehouse. 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 which a cart was unloading a quantity of sacks 
 of old rags. In another, was the inscription. Bones 
 Bought. In another, Kitchen-Stuff Bought. In 
 another, Old Iron Bought. In another, Waste 
 Paper Bought. In another, Ladies' and Gentle- 
 men's Wardrobes Bought. Everything seemed to 
 be bought, and nothing to be sold there. In all parts 
 of the window, were quantities of dirty bottles: black- 
 ing 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 
 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 9(i." Some of the in- 
 scriptions I have enumerated 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 dispatch: Address to Nemo, care of Mr. Krook
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 71 
 
 within. There were several second-hand bags, bhie 
 and red, hanging up. A little way within the shop 
 door, lay heaps of old crackled parchment scrolls, and 
 discoloured and dog's-eared law-papers. I could have 
 fancied that all the rusty 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, in- 
 tercepting the light within a couple of yards, we should 
 not have seen so much but for a lio:hted 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 iire within. His throa<:, 
 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. 
 
 "Hi hi!" said the old man coming to the door. 
 "Have you anything to sell?" 
 
 We naturally drew back and glanced at our con- 
 ductress, who had been trying to open the house door
 
 721 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 press- 
 ingly 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 sup- 
 pose 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, 
 condescending to him from her lofty station, as she 
 presented him to us. "He is called among the neigh- 
 bours 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 Chan- 
 cery?"
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 73 
 
 *'I don't know, I am sure!" said Richard, rather 
 carelessly. 
 
 "You see," said the old man, stopping and turning 
 round, "they — Hi! Here's lovely hair! I have got 
 three sacks of ladies' hair below, but none so beautiful 
 and fine as this. What colour, and what texture!" 
 
 "That'll do, my good friend!" said Richard, strong- 
 ly 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 her- 
 self. 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 they know nothing), 
 wasting away and going to rack and ruin, that that's 
 why they have given me and my place a christening. 
 And I have so many old parchmentses and papers in 
 my stock. And I have a liking for rust and must and 
 cobwebs. And all 's fish that comes to my net. And I 
 can't abear to part with anything I once lay hold of 
 (or so my ifeighbours think, but what do they know?) 
 or to alter anything, or to have any sweeping, nor 
 scourip^, nor cleaning, nor repairing going on about 
 me. That 's the way I 've got the ill name of Chan- 
 cery. / don't mind. I go to see my noble and learned 
 brother pretty well every day, when he sits in the Inn.
 
 74 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 He don't notice me, but I notice him. There's no 
 great odds betwixt us. We both grub on in a muddle. 
 Hi, Lady Jane!" 
 
 A large grey cat leaped from some neighbouring 
 shelf on his shoulder, and startled us all. 
 
 "Hi! Show 'em how you scratch. Hi! Tear, my 
 lady!" said her master. 
 
 The cat leaped down, and ripped at a bundle of 
 rags with her tigerish 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. "I deal in cat -skins among 
 other general matters, and hers was offered to me. 
 It's a very fine skin, as you may see, but I didn't 
 have it stripped oflf! That warn't like Chancery prac- 
 tice 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 ou t: 
 
 "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 lodsrer. 
 
 'o 
 
 "Hi!" exclaimed the old man, in a tone of thought- 
 ful 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;
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 75 
 
 "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 ofT 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 sala- 
 ried Chancellor!" said Richard, quite astonished, to 
 Ada and me. 
 
 "Ay!" said the old man, coming slowly out of his 
 abstraction. "Yes! Tom Jarndyce — you'll excuse 
 me, being related; but he was never known about 
 court by any other name, and was as well known 
 there, as — she is now;" nodding slightly at his 
 lodger; "Tom Jarndyce was often in here. He got 
 into a restless habit of strolling about when the cause 
 was on, or expected, talking to the little shopkeepers, 
 and telling 'em to keep out of Chancery, whatever 
 they did. 'For,' says he,^^t'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 bee^f^it 's being drown- 
 ed by drops; it's going mad by grains. '^^e 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 
 pointing an imaginary track along the shop, "on the 
 day he did it — the whole neighbourhood had said
 
 76 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 for months before, that he woukl 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 afternoon while the cause was on! How my 
 noble and learned brother, and all the rest of 'era, 
 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 T 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, at- 
 tended in the minds of many people with such dread-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 77 
 
 ful recollections. I had another uneasiness, in the ap- 
 plication of the painful story to the poor half-witted 
 creature who had brought us there; but, to my sur- 
 prise, she seemed perfectly unconscious of that, and 
 only led the way upstairs 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 the roof 
 of Lincoln's Inn Hall. This seemed to have been her 
 principal inducement, originally, for taking up her re- 
 sidence 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 documents," 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 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 even-
 
 78 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 ings and my nights here. I find the nights long, for 
 I sleep but little, and think much. That is, of course, 
 unavoidable; being in Chancery. T am sorry I cannot 
 offer chocolate. I expect a judgment shortly, and 
 shall then place my establishment on a superior foot- 
 ing. At present, I don't mind confessing to the wards 
 in Jarndyce (in strict confidence), that I sometimes 
 find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. I 
 have felt the cold here. I have felt something sharper 
 than cold. It matters very little. Pray excuse the 
 introduction of such mean topics." 
 
 She partly drew aside the curtain of the 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 p^ject that the wards will readily com- 
 prehend. ^^-M^ith the intention of restoring them to 
 liberty. AVhen my judgment^lafbuld be given? Ye-es ! 
 THey~~die in prison, though. Their lives, poor silly 
 things, are so short in comparison with Chancery pro- 
 ceedings, that, one by one, t^ie 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! ^'^e-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 some- 
 times, I do assure you, whether while matters are still 
 unsettled, and the sixth or Great Seal still prevails,
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 79 
 
 / may not one day be found lying stark and senseless 
 here, as I have found so many birds!" ^^^^'^^ 
 
 Richard, answering what he saw in Ada's compas- 
 sionate eyes, took the opportunity of laying some money, 
 softly and unobserved, on the chimney-piece. AVe 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,-^tfi^y shall sing as much as they 
 like. In honour of youth," a smile and curtsey, 
 "hope," a smile and curtesy; "and beauty," a smile 
 and curtsey. "There! We '11 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 liave been the 
 better for it; "because the cat you saw down stairs — 
 called LadyjXane- — is greedy for their lives. She 
 crouche"?^^oflrthe parapet outside, for hours and hours. 
 I have discovered," whispering mysteriously, "t hat her 
 natural c ruelty js sharpened by a jealous fear o f their 
 regaining their liberty. In consequence of the judg- 
 ment l~~expect~^ing 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 ourselves. She hurriedly took up her 
 
 tP
 
 80 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 at- 
 tend us down stairs. 
 
 "With such an omen, it is even more necessary 
 than usual that 1 should be there before the Chancellor 
 comes in," said she, "for he might mention my case 
 the first thing. I have a presentiment that he will 
 mention it the first thing this morning." 
 
 She stopped to tell us, in a whisper, as we were 
 going down, that the whole house was filled with 
 strange lumber which her landlord had bought piece- 
 meal, 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 
 explanation; "a law-writer. The children in the lanes 
 here, say he has sold himself to the devil. I don't 
 know what he can have done with the money. Hush!'* 
 She appeared to mistrust that the lodger might 
 hear her, even there; and repeating "Hush!" went 
 before us on tiptoe, as though even the sound of her 
 footsteps might reveal to him what she had said. 
 
 Passing through the shop on our way out, as we 
 had passed through it on our way in, we found the 
 old man storing a quantity of packets of waste paper, 
 in a kind of well in the floor. He seemed to be work- 
 ing hard, with the perspiration standing on his fore- 
 head, 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.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 81 
 
 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 Carbov's office would have made. 
 
 "Can you read it?" he asked me with a keen glance. 
 
 *'Surely," said I. ''It's very plain." 
 
 "What' is it?" 
 
 "J." 
 
 With another glance at me, and a glance at the 
 door, he rubbed it out, and turned an a in its place 
 (not a capital letter this timel, and said, "What 's that?" 
 
 I told him. He then rubbed that out, and turned 
 the letter r, and asked me the same c|uestion. He went 
 on quickly, until he had formed, in^.the same curious 
 manner, beginning at the ends and bottoms of the letters, 
 the word Jarndtce, without once leavins: 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 rapidity, he then produced 
 singly, and rubbed out singly, the letters forming the 
 words Bleak House. These, in some astonishment, 
 I also read; and he laughed again. 
 
 "Hi!" said the old man, laying aside the chalk, "I 
 have a turn for copying from memory, you see. Miss, 
 thou^ 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 
 Bleak House. I. G
 
 o 
 
 82 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 birds upstairs, 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 morn- 
 ing, 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 yester- 
 day in reference to her intention of settling estates on 
 Ada and me. Before we finally turned out of those 
 lanes, we looked back, and saw Mr. Krook standing 
 at his shop-door, in his spectacles, looking after us, 
 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 
 weajcy wbrd this Chancery!" 
 
 ^'-^"It is to me, and has been ever since I can re- 
 member," returned Ada. "I am grieved that 1 should 
 be the enemy — as I suppose 1 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 wliy/^and be in constant doubt and discord all 
 our lives. -^^t seems very strange, as there must be right 
 somewhere, that an honest judge in real earnest has^^n^t 
 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 <K)mposed Court yesterday jogging on so se- 
 renely, and to think of the wretchedness of the pieces 
 on tlic board, gave me tlie headache and the heart-
 
 BLEAK^ HOUSE. 83 
 
 ache both togetlierXiVIy head ached with wondering 
 how it happened, if men were neither fools nor ras- 
 cals; and my heart ached to think they could possibly 
 be eithpr. But at all events, Ada — I may call you Ada? '^ 
 
 ''rif course you may, cousin Richard." 
 
 "At all events, Ada, Chancery will work none of 
 its bad influence on tis. We have happily been brought 
 together, thanks to our- good kinsman, and it can't 
 divide us now!" .. -r -- 
 
 "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. Jellyby ap- 
 peared; 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. Jel- 
 lyby 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 breakfa.st; 
 for the morning's post brought a heavy correspondence 
 relative to Borrioboola-Gha, which would occasion her 
 (she said) to pass a bu.sy day. The children tumbled 
 about, and notched memoranda of their accidents in 
 their legs, which were perfect little calendars of dis- 
 tress; 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
 
 84 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 an open carriage arrived for ns', and a cart for our 
 luggage. Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many remem- 
 brances 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 jnuch, and still 
 brightened as we went westward. We went our way 
 through the sunshine and the fresh air, wondering more 
 and more at the extent of the 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 wind-mills, rickyards, 
 milestones, farmers' waggons, scents of old hay, swing- 
 ing signs and horse troughs: trees, fields, and hedge- 
 rows. It was delightful to see the green landscape 
 before us, and the immense metropolis behind; and 
 when a waggon with a train of beautiful horses, fur- 
 nished 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.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 85 
 
 "The whole road has been reminding me of my 
 namesake Whittington, " said Richard, "and that 
 waggon is the finishing touch. Halloa I 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-rinorino;. 
 
 " Our postilion is looking after the waggoner, " 
 said Richard; "and the waggoner is coming back after 
 us. Good day, friend!" The waggoner was at our 
 coach-door. ''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 wag- 
 goner delivered to each of us respectively, reading the* 
 name aloud first. In answer to Richard's inquiry from 
 w^hom they came, he briefly answered, "Master, Sir, 
 if you please;" and, putting on his hat again (which 
 was like a soft bowl), cracked his whip, re-awakened 
 his music, and went melodiously away. 
 
 "Is that Mr. Jarndyce's waggon?" said Richard, 
 calling to our postboy. 
 
 "Yes, Sir," he replied. "Going to London." 
 
 We opened the notes. Each was a counterpart of 
 the other, and contained these words, in a solid, plain 
 hand. 
 
 "I look forward, my dear, to oar 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 JaR.NDYCE."
 
 86 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 bene- 
 factor and sole earthly dependance 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 could meet hini without 
 thanking him, and felt it would be very difficult indeed. 
 
 The notes revived, in Richard and Ada. a general 
 impression that they both had, without quite knowing 
 how they came" by it, that their cousin Jarndyce could 
 never bear acknowledgments for any kindness he per- 
 formed, and that, sooner than receive any, he would 
 resort to the most singular expedients and evasions, or 
 would even run away. Ada dimly remembered to 
 have heard her mother tell, when she was a very little 
 child, that he had once done her an act of uncommon 
 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. All of which we wondered about, over and over 
 
 '■) 
 
 again. 
 
 The roads were very heavy for the horses, but the 
 pathway was generally good; so we alighted and
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 87 
 
 walked up all the hills, and liked it so well that we 
 prolonged our walk on the level ground when we got 
 to the top. At Barnet there were other horses waiting 
 for us; but as they had only just been fed, we had to 
 wait for them too, and got a long fresh walk, over a 
 common and an old battle field, before the carriage 
 came up. These delays so protracted the journey, 
 that the short day was spent, and the long night had 
 closed in, before we came to Saint Albans; near to 
 which town Bleak House was, we knew. 
 
 By that tJHfe we were so anxious and nervous, 
 that even-^chard confessed, as we rattled over the 
 stones of the old street, to feeling an irrational desire 
 to drive back again^ As to Ada and me, whom he 
 had wrapped up with great care, the night being sharp 
 and frosty, we trembled from head to foot. When we 
 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 
 carriage (Richard holding Ada, lest she should be 
 jolted down), and gazed round upon the open country 
 and the starlisfht ni^ht, 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, pre- 
 sently 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-
 
 / 
 
 88 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 ^^ashioned 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 confusion../ 
 
 "Ada, my love, Esther, my dear, you are welcome. 
 I rejoice to see you! Rick, if I had a hand to spare 
 at present, I would give it you!" 
 
 The gentleman who said these words in a 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 w^ay, 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 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. Jelly by, my dear?" said Mr. Jarndyce 
 to Ada.
 
 RLEAK HOUSE. 89 
 
 While Ada was speaking to him in reply, I glanced 
 (I^need not say with how much interest) at his face, 
 rt was a handsome, lively, quick face, full of change_ 
 and motion; and his hair'^Was a^7sflvered iron-grey. 
 I took Tiim to be nearer sixtv 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. 1 was certain 
 it was he. I never was so frightened in my life as 
 when I made the discovery, for he caught my glance, 
 and appearing to read my thoughts, gave such a look 
 at the door that I thought we had lost him. 
 
 However, I am happy to say he remained where 
 he was, and asked me what / thought of Mrs, Jellyby? 
 
 "She exerts herself very much for Africa, Sir," I said. 
 
 "Noblvl" returned Mr. Jarndvce. "But vou answer 
 like Ada." AVhom 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. Jarndvce. 
 
 I was rather alarmed again. 
 
 "Well! I want to know your real thoughts, my 
 dear. I may have sent you there on purpose." 
 
 "We thought tha^', perhaps," said I hesitating, "it 
 is right to begin^ynth the obligations of home. Sir; and 
 that, perhaps, while those are overlooked and neglected, 
 no other duties can possibly be substituted for them?"
 
 90 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "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 '11 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 — 1 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 whim- 
 sical and so loveable, that I am sure we were more 
 delighted with him than we could possibly have ex- 
 pressed 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. 
 
 "0 cousin — !" Ada hastily began. 
 
 "Good, my pretty pet. I like cousin. Cousin John, 
 perhaps, is better 
 
 >»
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 91 
 
 ^'Then, cousin John! — " Ada laughingly began 
 
 again. 
 
 "Ha, ha! Very good indeed!" said Mr. Jarndyce, 
 with great enjoyment. "Sounds uncommonly natural. 
 "Yes, my dear?" 
 
 "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 girll 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 will thank 
 you for the companion you have given me." I felt as 
 if she challenged him to run away. But he didn't. 
 
 "Where did you say the wind was, Rick?" asked 
 Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 "In the north, as we came down, Sir." 
 "You are right. There 's no east in it. A mistake 
 of mine. Come, girls, come and see your home!" 
 
 It was one of those delightfully irregular houses 
 where you go up and down steps out of one room into 
 another, and where you come upon more rooms when 
 you think you have seen all there are, and where there
 
 92 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 is a bountiful provision of little halls and passages, 
 and where you find still older cottage-rooms in un- 
 expected 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 round 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-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 beauti- 
 ful 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 yourself in passages, 
 with mangles in them, and three-cornered tables, and 
 a Native-Hindoo chair, which was also a sofa, a box, 
 and a bedstead, and looked, in every form, something 
 between a bamboo skeleton and a great bird-cage, and 
 had been brought from India nobody knew by whom 
 or when. From these, you came on Kichard's room,
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 93 
 
 wlilch was part library, part sitting-room, part bed- 
 room, and seemed indeed a comfortable compound of 
 many rooms. Out of that, you went straight, with 
 a little interval of passage, to the plain room where 
 Mr. Jarndyce slept, all the year round, with his 
 window open, his bedstead without any furniture 
 standing in the middle of the floor for more air, and 
 his cold -bath gaping for him in a smaller room 
 adjoining. Out of that, you came into another passage, 
 where there were back-stairs, and where you could 
 hear the horses being rubbed down, outside the stable, 
 and being told to Hold up, and Get over, as they 
 slipped about very much on the uneven stones. Or 
 you might, if you came out at another door (every 
 room had at least two doors), go straight down to 
 the hall again by half-a-dozen steps and a low 
 archway, wondering how you got back there, or had 
 ever got out of it. 
 
 ^^he furniture, old-Jashjo^ned rather than old, like 
 the house, was^ as pleasantly irregmar/'''^Sldars sleeping- 
 room was all flowers — in chfntz~and paper, in velvet, 
 in needle-work, in the brocade of two stiff courtly 
 chairs, which stood, each attended by a little page of 
 a stool for greater state, on either side of the fire- 
 place. 0^ur sitting-room was green: and had, framed 
 and glazed, upon the walls, niimbers__qf_surp rising 
 an d s_urprised bir ds, stanng^oiiL-fiL-pictures at a real 
 trout jn a^ase, 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 hay- 
 making, in short waists, and large hats tied under
 
 94 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 the chin, for June — smooth-legged noblemen, point- 
 ing, 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 boddice, 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 
 needle-work, 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-li^t night; with its light, and warmth, 
 and comfort; jynth its hospitable jingle, at a^distance, 
 of preparations for dinner; with the face of its gene- 
 rous master brightening everything we saw; and just 
 wind enough without to sound a low accompaniment 
 to everything we heard; were our first impressions of 
 Bleak House. 
 
 "I am glad you like it," said Mr. Jarndyce, when 
 he had brought us round again to Ada's sitting-room. 
 "It makes no pretensions; but it is a comfortable 
 little place, I Iiope, and will be more so with such 
 bright young looks in it. You have barely half an
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 95 
 
 hour before dinner. There 's no one here but the 
 finest creature upon earth — a child." 
 
 "More children, Esther!" said Ada. 
 
 "I don't mean literally a child," pursued Mr. Jarn- 
 dyce; "not a child in years. Ife is grown up — he 
 is at least as old as I am — but in simplicity, and 
 freshness, and enthusiasm, and a fine guileless inapti- 
 tudejfor all worldly affairs, he is a perfect child/> 
 
 We felt that he must be very interesting. 
 
 "He knows Mrs. Jellyby," said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 "He is a musical man; an Amateur, but might have 
 been a Professional. He is an Artist, too; an Ama- 
 teur, but misrht have been a Professional. He is a 
 man of attainments and of captivating manners. 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 child!" 
 
 "Did you imply that he has children of his own, 
 Sir?" inquired Richard. 
 
 "Yes, Rick! Half-a-dozen. More! Nearer a dozen, 
 I should think. But he has never looked after them. 
 How could he? He wanted somebody to look after 
 him. He is a child, you know!" said Mr, Jarndyce. 
 
 "And have the children looked after themselves at 
 all, Sir?" inquired Richard. 
 
 "Why, just as you may suppose," said Mr. Jarn- 
 dyce: 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 oT^ofher. — The wind 's getting 
 round aerain, I am afraid. I feel it rather!" 
 
 Richard observed that the situation was exposed 
 on a sharp night.
 
 96 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "It is exposed,'-' said Mr Jarndyce. "No doubt 
 that 's the cause. .^^-Bleak House has an exposed s ound. 
 But you are coming my way. Come alone-]" 
 
 Our kiggage 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 Summer- 
 son, if I don't deceive myself?" 
 
 "Yes," said I. "That is my name." 
 
 "The large bunch is the housekeeping, and the 
 little bunch is the cellars. Miss. Any time you was 
 pleased to appoint 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 insensibility and ingratitude not to 
 feel encouraged. I knew, to be sure, that it was the 
 dear girl's kindness; but I liked to be so pleasantly 
 cheated, 
 
 Wii«n.^e went down stairs, we were presented to" 
 
 -Mr. Skimpole^ who was standing before the fire, telling 
 Bichard how fond he used to be, in his school-time,
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 07 
 
 of football. Jie was a little bright creature, with a 
 rather large liead; but a delicate face, and a «:ffieet 
 voice, and there was a perfect charm in him. All he 
 said was so free from eSbrt~and spontaneous, and was 
 said with such a captivating gaiety, that it was 
 fascinating to hear him talk. Being of a more slender 
 figure than Mr. Jarndyce, and having a richer com- 
 plexion, with browner hair, he looked youngerT Indeed, 
 he had more the appearance, in all respects, of a 
 daraaged._ young man, than a well-preserved elderly 
 one. There was an easv nenlisrence 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. Skim- 
 pole 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 anvthins 
 about them (except that they disgusted him), he had 
 never been able to prescribe with the requisite accura- 
 cy of detail. In fact, he said, he had no head for 
 detail. And he told us, with great humour, that when 
 he was wanted to bleed the prince, or physic any of 
 his people, he was generally found lying on his back 
 in bed, reading the newspapers, or making fancy- 
 sketches in pencil, and couldn't come. The prince, at 
 Bleak House. I. 7
 
 98 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 last, objecting to this, "in whichy said Mr. Skimpole, 
 in the frankest manner, "he was perfectly right," the 
 engagement terminated; and/Mr. Skimpole having (as 
 he added with delightful gaiety) "nothing to live upon 
 but love, fell in love, and married, and surrounded 
 himself with rosy cheeks.'* His good friend Jarndyce 
 and some other of his good friends then helped him, 
 in quicker or slower succession, to several openings 
 in life; but to no purpose, for he must confess to two 
 of the oddest infirmities in the world; one was, that 
 
 he had no idea of time; the other, that he h^d no jdea, 
 of money. In consequence of which, he never kept an 
 appointment, never could transact any business, and 
 never knew the value of anything! ^)Vell! So he had 
 got OG-hriTfe7~and here he was I /lie was very fond 
 of reading the papers, very fond of making fancy- 
 Pj sketches with a pencil, very fond of nature, very fond 
 ^ of art. AH he asked of society was, to let him live. 
 That "^'^asn't much. His wants were few. Give him 
 the papers, conversation, music, mutton, coffee, land- 
 scape, fruit in the season, a few sheets of Bristol- 
 board, and a little claret, and he asked no more. He 
 was ji 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 obiect you 
 prefei-; 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 99 
 
 his singularities, but still had his claims too, which 
 were the general business of the community and must 
 not be slighted. He was quite enchanting. If I felt 
 at all confused at that early time, in 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 under- 
 standing why he was free of them. That he ivas 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. "Pos session is no thing to me. Here is 
 my friend Jamdyce's excellent house. I feel obliged 
 to him for possessing it. 1 can sketch it, and alter it. 
 I can set it to music. When I am here, I have 
 sufficient possession of it, and have neither trouble, 
 cost, nor responsibility. My steward's name, in short, 
 is Jarndyce, and he can't cheat me. We have been 
 mentioning Mrs. Jellyby. There is a bright-eyed 
 woman, of a strong will and immense power of busi- 
 ness-detail, who throws herself into objects with sur- 
 prising 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 ad- 
 mire 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 it 's all I can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then, 
 for heaven's sake, having Harold Skimpole, a con- 
 
 V
 
 100 13LEAK HOUSE. 
 
 fiding child, petitioning you, the world, an agglomera- 
 tion of practical people of business habits, to let him 
 live and admire"the human family, do ir^omehow or 
 other, lii<e 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 \Tilgar gratitude to 
 you. I almost feel as if you ought to be grateful to 
 TTze, for giving you the opportunity of enjoying the 
 luxury of generosity. I know you like it. For any- 
 thing I can tell, I may have come into the world ex- 
 pressly for the purpose of increasing your stock of 
 happiness. I may have been born to be a benefactor 
 to you, by sometimes giving you an opportunity of 
 assisting me in my little perplexities. JVVhy sh ould I 
 regret my incapacity for details and worldIy~affairs, 
 when it leads to such pleasant consequences? I don't 
 regret it therefore." ,-- 
 
 Of all his playful speeches (playful, yet always fully 
 meaning what they expressed) none seemed to be more to 
 the taste of Mr. Jarndyce than this. I had often new 
 temptations , afterwards, to wonder whether it was really 
 singular, or only singular to me, that he, who was 
 probably the most grateful of mankind upon the least oc- 
 casion, should so desire to escape the gratitude of others. 
 
 We were all enchanted. I felt it a merited tribute to the
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 101 
 
 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 
 similiar 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, vou 
 know I You are designing people compared with me;" (he 
 really made consider myself in that light) ; '^it I am gay ^ 
 and innocent; forget your wo rldly arts and play with, 
 me!" — the effect was absolutely Hazzirng.",^ 
 ^He was so full of feeling too, and had^uch a de- 
 licate sentiment for what .was, iieautiful-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 touch- 
 ing the piano in the adjoining room and softly hum- 
 ming 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. 
 -■^he 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 man- 
 kind, an orphan. vShe is the child of the universe." 
 
 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 in- 
 different parent, 1 am afraid." 
 
 "0! I don't know!" cried Mr. Skimpole, buoyantly.
 
 102 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "I think I do know," said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 "Well!" cried Mr. Skimpole, "yon 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!" 
 
 JVlr. 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 benigiiaiit-' 
 expression in it which I often (how often!) saw again: 
 which 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 tire. Ada sat at the 
 piano; Richard stood beside her, bending down. Upon 
 the wall, their shadows blended together, surrounded by 
 strange forms, not without aghostly motion caught from 
 the unsteady fire, though reflected from motionless ob- 
 jects. 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 fu- 
 ture, 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 he withdrew it, rested for but a
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 103 
 
 moment on me, I felt as if, in that moment, he con- 
 fided to me, — and knew that he confided to me, and 
 that I received the confidence — his hope that Ada and 
 Richard might one day enter on a dearer relationship. 
 
 Mr. Skimpole could play on the piano, and the violon- 
 cello; 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 bv 
 Ada's sino^ins:, and told me that she seemed to know 
 all the songs that ever were written — and Mr. Jarn- 
 dyce, 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, holding up her hands, ''Oh if you please. Miss, 
 Mr. Carstone says would you come upstairs to Mr. 
 Skimpole's room. Pie 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 upstairs, sufficiently to con- 
 sider 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 sur- 
 prise, instead of finding Mr. Skimpole stretched upon 
 the bed, or prostrate on the floor, I found him stand- 
 ing before the fire smiling at Richard, while Richard,
 
 104 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 with a face of great embarrassment, looked at a per- 
 son on a 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. 
 
 "Miss Svimmerson," 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 halfpence, I think, were mentioned. 
 
 "It's twenty-four pound, sixteen, and sevenpence 
 ha'penny," observed the stranger. "That 's wot 
 it is." 
 
 "And it sounds — somehow it sounds," said Mr. 
 Skimpole, "like a small sum?" 
 
 The strange man said nothing, but made another 
 snort; It was such a powerful one, that it seemed 
 quite to lift him up out of his seat. 
 
 "Mr. Skimpole," said Richard to me, "has a deli- 
 cacy in applying to my cousin Jarndyce, because he
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 105 
 
 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 Summer- 
 son?" said Richard, aside. 
 
 I ventured to enquire generally, before replying, 
 what would happen if the money were not produced, 
 
 "Jail," said the strange man, coolly putting his 
 handkerchief into his hat, which was on the floor at 
 his feet. "Or Coavinses." 
 
 "May I ask. Sir, what is — " 
 
 "Coavinses?" said the strange man. "A 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 1 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
 
 106 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 individual from the pursuit. We are not so pre- 
 judiced 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 
 Mr, Richard," said Mr. Skimpole, gaily, innocently, 
 and confidingly, 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
 
 BLEAK HOrSE. 107 
 
 years. 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 extraordi- 
 nary contradiction), but on ours; as if personal con- 
 siderations were impossible w^ith him, and the con- 
 templation 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, I'll wish you a good even- 
 ing, Miss." 
 
 "My friend," said Mr. Skimpole, standing with his 
 back to the fire, after giving up the sketch when it 
 was half finished, "I should like to ask you something, 
 without offence." 
 
 I think the reply was, "Cut away, then!" 
 
 "Did you know this morning, now, that you were 
 coming out on this errand?" said Mr. Skimpole.
 
 108 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Know'd it yes'day aft'noon at tea time," said 
 Coavinses. 
 
 "It didn't affect your appetite? Didn't make you 
 at all uneasy?" 
 
 "Not a bit," said Coavinses. "I know'd if you 
 "vvos 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," re- 
 turned Coavinses. 
 
 "No," observed Mr. Skimpole. "But what did 
 you think upon the road?" 
 
 "Wot do you mean?" growled Coavinses, with an 
 appearance of strong resentment. "Think! I've got 
 enough to 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 of his share in such pos- 
 sessions, 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 expres- 
 sion to it by putting a long interval between each
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 109 
 
 word, and accompanying the last "with a jerk that 
 might hj&XQ dislocated his neck. 
 
 P^evy odd^^an^Mm^ cimpu§^^ the mental process 
 is, in yon men of busmes^y*"^ said Mr. Skimpole, 
 thougKtTiilTy^ ''TlTaok^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, 
 who 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 own- compositions; or when, both at 
 the piano and the violoncello, and at our table, he 
 preserved, with an absence of all efifort, 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 lin- 
 gering for a few moments by the fire, wondering
 
 110 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "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. "What'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!" 
 
 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, it's 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 
 everybody!" said Mr. Jarndyce, giving his head a great 
 rub, and stopping short. 
 
 "Indeed, Sir?" 
 
 "Everybody! And he'll be in the same scrape 
 again, next week!" 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 newpapers when his mother was 
 confined, was ' On Tuesday last, at her residence 
 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. Ill 
 
 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. "I — here! Take it away, my dear. 
 I don't know what 1 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 vouns: Saint Michael's oranges! — 
 It'll blow a gale in the course of the night!" 
 
 He was now alternately putting his hands into his 
 pockets, as if he were going to keep them there a long 
 time; and taking them out again, and vehemently rub- 
 bing 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 woman'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.
 
 112 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "When you come to think of it, it's the height of 
 childishness in you — I mean me — " said Mr. Jarn- 
 djce, "to regard him for a moment as a man. You 
 can't make him responsible. The idea of Harold 
 Skimpole with designs or plans, or knowledge of con- 
 sequences! 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 mistrusting, or secret- 
 ly accusing any one, that I saw the tears in Ada's 
 eyes while she echoed his laugh, and felt them in my 
 own. 
 
 "Why, what a cod's head and shoulders I am,'* 
 said Mr. Jarndyce, "to require reminding of it! The 
 whole business shows the child from beginning to end. 
 Nobody but a child would have thought of singling 
 you two out for parties in the aflfair! Nobody but a 
 child would have thought of your having the money! 
 If it had been a thousand pounds, it would have been 
 just the same!" said Mr. Jarndyce, with his whole 
 face in a glow. 
 
 We all confirmed it from our night's experience. 
 
 "To be sure, to be sure!" said Mr. Jarndyce, 
 "However, Rick, Esther, and you too, Ada, for I don't 
 know that even your little purse is safe from his in- 
 experience — I must have a promise all round, that 
 nothing of this sort shall ever be done any more. No 
 advances! Not even sixpences" 
 
 AVe 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.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 113 
 
 "As to Skimpole," said Mr. Jarndyce, "a habitable 
 doll's house, with good board, and a few tin people 
 to get into debt with and borrow money of, would set 
 the boy up in life. He is in a child's sleep by this 
 time, I suppose; it's time I should take my craftier 
 head to my more worldly pillow. Good night, my 
 dears. God bless you!" 
 
 He peeped in again, with a smiling face, before we 
 had lighted our candles, and said, "0! 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 a^eed, as we talked together for a little 
 while upstair^ahat this caprice about the wind was a 
 fiction; and^hat 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 characte- 
 ristic of his eccentric gentleness; and of the difference 
 between him and those petulant people who make the 
 weather and the winds (particularly that unlucky wind 
 which he had chosen for such a different purpose) the 
 stalking-horses of their splenetic and gloomy humours. 
 
 Indeed, so much affection for him had been added 
 in this one evening to my gratitude, that I hoped I al- 
 ready began to understand him through that mingled 
 feeling. Any seeming inconsistencies in Mr. Skimpole, 
 or in Mrs. Jellyby, I could not expect to be able to 
 reconcile; having so little experience or practical know- 
 ledge. 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 fancy, made a little wild by the wind per- 
 
 Blcuk House. I, 8
 
 114 BLEAK nODSE. 
 
 haps, would not consent to be all unselfish either, 
 though I would have persuaded it to be so if I could. 
 
 ./'It wandered back to my godmother's house, and came 
 along the intervening track, raising up shadowy spe- 
 culations 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 Avas 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. 
 
 yThe 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 fcroad flagged terrace-pavement. The 
 Ghost's WalKi' The weather is so very bad, down in 
 Lincolnshire, that the liveliest imagination can scarce- 
 ly 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 bje some motions of fancy among the 
 lower animals at Chesliey'WoTdT The horses in the 
 stables — the long stables in a barren, red-brick court-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 115 
 
 yard, 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 contemplate 
 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, turn- 
 ing 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 grey, whose place 
 is opposite the door, and who, with an impatient rattle 
 of his halter, pricks his ears and turns his head so 
 wistfully when it is opened, and to whom the opener 
 says, ''Woa grey, then, steady! Noabody wants you 
 to-day!" may know it quite as well as the man. The 
 whole seemingly 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 mastiif, dozing in his kennel, in the court- 
 yard, 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 growling short, and very much wanting 
 something to worry, besides himself and his chain. 
 So, now, half-waking and all- winking, he may recall 
 
 8*
 
 116 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 the house full of company, the coach-houses full of 
 vehicles, the stables full of horses, and the out-build- 
 ings full of attendants upon horses, until he is unde- 
 cided 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 rain-drops 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 gnaw. 
 The turkey in the poultry-yard, always troubled with 
 a class-grievance (probably Christmas), may be re- 
 miniscent 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 dis- 
 contented 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 other- 
 wise 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.
 
 /^' A '^ BLEAK HOUSE. ^Jf 117 
 
 It has rained so hard-andjcamad-so loa^g,~^do wii in 
 Lin.coInshirej_tiial^rs. Rouncewell, the old housekeeper 
 ^t Ches^e^_Wold/^"Eas^ severalTTmes taT^en 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 sur- 
 prised. 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 commanding 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. Rouncewell's 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 been here fifty years Ask her how long, 
 this rainy day, and she shall answer "fifty year three 
 months and a fortnight, by the blessing of Heaven, if I 
 live till Tuesday." Mr. Rouncewell died some time 
 before the decease of the pretty fashion of pifj- 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.
 
 118 BLEAK HOrSE, 
 
 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 Dedlock,s_is an 
 excellent master. He supposes all his dependents to be 
 utterly bereft of individual characters, intentions, or 
 opinions, and is persuaded that he was born to super- 
 sede 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 
 with 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 aDedlock 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. 
 
 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. Rouncewell's 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 Chesney Wold, 
 and would have been made steward in due season; but 
 he took, when he was a schoolboy, to constructing 
 steam-engines out of saucepans, and setting birds to
 
 BLEAK HOrSE. 119 
 
 draw their own water, with the least possible amount 
 of labour; so assisting them with artful contrivance of 
 hydraulic pressure, that a thirsty canary had only, in a 
 literal sense, to put his shoulder to the wheel, and the 
 job was done. This 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 Leicester had that general impression of an 
 aptitude for any art to which smoke and a tall chimney 
 might be considered essential. But the doomed young 
 rebel (otherwise a mild 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 torch-light, two or three nights in the week, 
 for unlawful purposes. 
 
 Nevertheless Mrs. Rouncewell's son has, in the course 
 of nature and art, grown up, and established himself, 
 and married, and called unto him Mrs. Rouncewell's 
 grandson: who, being out of his apprenticesliip, and 
 home from a journey in far countries, whither he was
 
 120 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 sent to enlarge his knowledge and complete his prepa- 
 ration for {he venture of this life, stands leanino- ag-ainst 
 the chimney-piece this very day, in Mrs. Rouncewell's 
 room at Chesney Wold. 
 
 "And, again and again, I am glad to see you, 
 "Watt! And, once again, I am glad to see you. Watt!" 
 says Mrs. Rouncewell. "You are afijie young fellow. 
 You are like your poor uncle y^reorge/) Ah!" Mrs. 
 Rouncewell's hands unquiet, as^'suaT^ on this re- 
 ference. 
 
 "They say I am like my father, grandmother." 
 
 "Like him, also, my dear, — but most like your 
 poor uncle George! Andyour dear father." Mrs. Rounce- 
 well folds her hands again. "He is well?" 
 
 "Thriving, grandmother, in every way." 
 
 "I am thankful!" Mrs. Rouncewell is fond of her 
 son, but has a plaintive feeling towards 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 tjiatr was, I found 
 with you just now. You called her^Hosa?" 
 
 "Yes, child. She is daughter oTrt"" widow in the 
 villager—Maids are so hard to teach, now-a-days, that 
 I have put her about me young. She 's an apt scho-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 121 
 
 lar, 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 acknowledge 
 ment of the precepts of experience. Mrs. Rouncewell 
 listens. 
 
 "Wheels!" says she. They have long been audible 
 to the younger ears of her companion. "What wheels 
 on such a day as 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. Rounce- 
 well. 
 
 "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 ofif his hat in 
 the wet, an 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 fore- 
 heads together as they pick it up. Rosa is shyer than 
 before.
 
 122 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Mr. Guppy" is all the information the card yields. 
 
 "Giippy!" repeats Mrs. Ronncewell. "if?'. Guppy! 
 Nonsense, I never heard of him!" 
 
 "If you please, he told me that!" says Rosa. "But 
 he said that he and the other young j2:entleman came 
 from London only last night by the mail, on business 
 at the magistrates' meetino; ten miles off, this morn- 
 ing; 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. Tuikinghorn's 
 office, but is sure he may make use of Mr. Tuiking- 
 horn'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. Rouncewell's will. The old lady relaxes, 
 consents to the admission of the A'isitors 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!" saysClSfrT Gup^, 
 divesting himself of his wet dreadnought^ ih 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 
 deportment, waves her hand towards the o^reat stair- 
 case. Mr. Guppy and his friend follow Rosa, Mrs.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 123 
 
 RounceAvell 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 be- 
 fore they have well 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 ex- 
 position. Her grandson is so attentive to it, that 
 Rosa is shyer than ever — and prettier. Thus they 
 pass on from room to room, raising the pictured 
 Dedlocks for a few brief minutes as the young gar- 
 dener admits the light, and reconsigning them to their 
 graves as he shuts it out again. It appears to the 
 alflicted Mr. Guppy and his inconsolable friend, that 
 there is no end to the Dedlocks, whose family great- 
 ness seems to consist in their never having done any- 
 thinsr to distinguish themselves, for seven hundred vears. 
 
 Even the long drawing-room of Chesney Wold 
 cannot revive Mr. Guppy's spirits. He is so low that 
 he droops on the threshold, and has hardly strength 
 of mind to enter. But a portrait over the chimney- 
 piece, painted by the fashionable 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 fire-place," says Ro.'-a, "is 
 the portrait of the present Lady Dcdlock. It is con-
 
 124 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 sidered a perfect likeness, and the best work of the 
 master." 
 
 '"Blest!" says Mr. Giippy, 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 Lei- 
 cester has always refused permission." 
 
 "Well!" says Mr. Guppy in a low voice, "I'll be 
 shot if it an'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 Lei- 
 cester Dedlock. The picture on the left is his father, 
 the late Sir Leicester." 
 
 Mr. Guppy has no eyes for either of these mag- 
 nates. "It's unaccountable to me," he says, still 
 staring at the portrait, "how well I know that picture! 
 I'm dashed!" adds Mr. Guppy, looking round, "if 
 I don't think I must have had a dream of that picture, 
 you know!" 
 
 As no one present takes any especial interest in 
 Mr. Guppy's dreams, the probability is not pursued. 
 But he still remains so absorbed by the portrait, that 
 he stands immoveable before it until the young gar- 
 dener 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 the weather that bored her to 
 death. All things have an end — even houses that
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 125 
 
 people take infinite pains to see, and are tired of be- 
 fore 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 
 housekeeper can guarantee that. Mr. Guppy is obliged 
 to her for the information; and is, moreover, generally 
 obliged. He retires with his friend, guided down an- 
 other staircase by the young gardener; and presently 
 is heard to drive away. It is now dusk. Mrs. Rounce- 
 well can trust to the discretion of her two young 
 hearers, and may tell them how the terrace came to 
 have that ghostly name. She seats herself in a large 
 chair by the fast-darkening window, and tells them: 
 
 "In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles 
 the First — I mean, of course, in the wicked days of 
 the rebels who leagued themselves against that ex- 
 cellent King — Sir Morbury Dedlock was the owner
 
 12G BLEAK nOCSE. 
 
 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. Roiincewell holds this opinion, because she 
 considers that a family of such antiquity and impor- 
 tance has a right to a ghost. She regards a ghost as 
 one of the privileges of the upper classes; a genteel 
 distinction to which the common people have no claim. 
 
 "Sir Morbury Dedlock," says Mrs, Rouncewell, 
 "was, I. have 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 w'as in correspon- 
 dence 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, AVatt?" 
 
 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 brotlier, a young 
 gentleman, was killed in the civil wars (by Sir Mor- 
 bury's near kinsman), her feeling was so violent that
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 127 
 
 she hate^.-4be-4:a^£jnt:a-wliMih-_sJie_had_m 
 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." 
 
 The housekeeper has dropped her voice to little 
 more th^n a whisper, ^ 
 
 She had been a lady of a handsome figure and a 
 noble carriage. She never complained of the change; 
 she never spoke to any one of being crippled, or of 
 being in pain; but, day by day, she tried to walk upon 
 the terrace; and, with the help of a stick, and with 
 the help of the stone balustrade, M'-ent up and down, 
 up and down, up and down, in sun and shadow, wilh 
 greater difficulty every day. At last, one afternoon, 
 her husband (to whom she had never, on any per- 
 suasion, opened her lips since that night), standing at 
 the great south window, saw her drop upon the pave- 
 ment. He hastened down to raise her, but she re- 
 pulsed him as he bent over her, and looking at him 
 fixedly and coldly, said 'I will die here., whei-e I have ' / 
 walked. And I will walk here, though I am in my *W-^ 
 grave. I will walk here, until the pride of this house ^ 
 is humbled. And when calamity, or when disgrace 
 is coming to it, let the Dedlocks listen for my 
 step!'"
 
 128 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Watt looks at Rosa. Rosa in the deepening gloom 
 looks down upon the ground, half frightened, and half 
 shy. 
 
 "There and then she died. And from those days," 
 says Mrs. Rouncewell, "the name has come down — 
 The Ghost's Walk. If the tread is an echo, it is an 
 echo that is only heard after dark, and is often un- 
 heard 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." 
 
 "-7— 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 no- 
 thing, admits that when it is there, it must be heard. 
 You cannot shut it out. Watt, there is a tall French 
 clock behind you (placed there, 'a 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 everything?" 
 
 "I certainly can!" 
 
 "So my lady says."
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 129 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Covering a multitude of sins. 
 
 It was interesting, when I dressed before daylight, 
 to peep out of window, where my candles were re- 
 flected in the black panes like two beacons, and, find- 
 ing all beyond still enshrouded in the indistinctness of 
 last night, to watch how it turned out when the day 
 came on. As the prospect gradually revealed itself, 
 and disclosed the scene over which the wind had wan- 
 dered 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 faint- 
 ly discernible in the mist, and above them the later 
 stars still glimmered. That pale interval over, the pic- 
 tifre began to enlarge and fill up so fast, that, at every 
 new peep, I could have found enough to look at for 
 an hour. Imperceptibly, my candles became the only 
 incongruous part of the morning, the dark places in 
 my room aU 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 learntj, 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 try- 
 ing to remember the contents of each little store-room 
 drawer, and cupboard; and what with making notes 
 on a slate about jams, and pickles, and preserves, and 
 bottles, and glass, and china, and a great many other 
 things; and what with being generally a methodical, 
 Bleak House. I. 9
 
 180 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 responsi- 
 bility of the tea-pot; and then, as they were all rather 
 late, and nobody was down yet, I thought I would 
 take a peep at the garden and get some knowledge of 
 that too. I found it quite a delightful place; in front, 
 the pretty avenue and drive by which we had ap- 
 proached (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, com- 
 fortable, 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 assumptions of Bees. He didn't 
 at all see why the busy Bee should be proposed as a
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 131 
 
 model to him; he supposed the Bee liked to make 
 honey, or he wouldn't do it — nobodv asked him. It 
 was not necessary for the Bee to make such a merit 
 of his tastes, ^f every confectioner went buzzing about 
 thejsLorid, banging against everything that came in his 
 way, and egotistically calling upon everybody to take 
 notice that he was going to his work and must not be 
 interrupted, the world would be quite an insupportable 
 place,^^Then, after all, it was a ridiculous position, to 
 beTsmoked 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 can- 
 not attend to the shop! 1 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 easv fellow alwavs 
 was, if the consequential creature would only let him, 
 and not be so conceited about his honey I 
 
 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 withdrew to attend to my 
 new duties. They had occupied me for some time, 
 and I was passing through the passages on my return
 
 132 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 with my basket of keys on my arm, when Mr. Jarn- 
 dyce called me into a small room next his bedchamber, 
 which I found to be in part a little library of books 
 and papers, and in part quite a little 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 deceived or disappointed in — the wind, and it's 
 Easterly, I take refuge here. Thej jrowle ry is the -be^st- 
 
 used rx)om 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 
 grows up, and more than justifies my good opinion, 
 and 1 remain her guardian and her friend. What is
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 133 
 
 there in all this? So, so! Now, we have cleared oflf 
 old scores, and I have before me thy pleasant, trust- 
 ing, 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 under- 
 stand this Chancery business?" 
 
 And of course I shook my head. 
 
 "I don't know who does," he returned. "The 
 Lawvers have twisted it into such a state of bedevil- 
 ment 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 inter- 
 rogating, and filing, and cross-filing, and arguing, and 
 sealing, and motioning, and referring, and reporting, 
 and revolving about the Lord Chancellor and all his 
 satellites, and equitably waltzing ourselves off to dusty 
 death, about Costs. That's the great question. All the 
 rest, by some extraordinary means, has melted away." 
 
 "But it was. Sir," said I, to bring him back, for 
 he befran to rub his head, "about a Will?" 
 
 "Why, yes, it was about a Will when it was about 
 anything," he returned. "A certain Jarndyce, in an 
 evil hour, made a great fortune, and made a great 
 Will. In the question how the trusts under that Will
 
 134 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 are to be administered, the fortune left by the Will is 
 squandered away; the lej^atees under the Will are re- 
 duced to such a miserable condition that they would 
 be sufficiently punished, if they had committed an 
 enormous crime in having money left them; and the 
 Will itself is made a dead letter. All through the de- 
 plorable 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, everybody 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 
 tlie middle and up again, through such an infernal 
 country-dance of costs and fees and nonsense and cor- 
 ruption, as was never drjeamed of in the wildest visions 
 of a Witch's Sabbath, ^^quity sends questions to Law, 
 Law sends questions hack to Equity; Law finds it can't 
 do this, Equity finds it can't do that; neither can so 
 much as say it can't do anything, without this solicitor 
 instructing and this counsel appearing for A, and that 
 solicitor instructing and that counsel appearing for B; 
 and so on through the whole alphabet, like the his- 
 tory of the Apple Pie. And thus, through years and 
 years, and lives and lives, everything goes on, con- 
 stantly beginning over and over again, and nothing 
 ever ends. And we can't get out of the suit on any 
 terms, for we are made parties to it, and must be 
 parties to it, whether we like it or not. But it won't 
 do to think of it! When my great Uncle, poor Tom 
 Jarndyce, began to think of it, it was the beginning 
 of the end!" 
 
 y
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 135 
 
 \^ "TheMr. Jcarncljce, Sir, whose story I have heard?" 
 i^ He nodded gravely. "I has his heir, and this was 
 his house, Esther. AVhen I came here, it was bleak, 
 indeed. He had, left the signs of hi& misery uponit/^ 
 
 "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 brokeja j^f, the weeds choked the pas- 
 sage to the _ rotting door. "VVlien I brought what re- 
 mained of him home here, the brains seemed to me to 
 have been blown out of the house too; it was so 
 sha ttered and_ ruiiL£d>" 
 
 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 1?" 
 
 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 pro- 
 perty of ours, meaning of the Suit's, but I ought to 
 call it the property of Costs;, for -Costs is the only 
 power ,o n ear"tl i that will ever get anything out of it 
 now, or will ever know it for anything but an eyesore 
 and a heartsore. It is a street of perishing blind
 
 / 
 
 136 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 houses, with their eyes stoned out; wirhout a pane of 
 glass, without so much as a window-frame, with the 
 bare blank shutters tumbling from their hinges and 
 falling asunder; the iron rails peeling away in flakes 
 of rust; the chimneys sinking in; the stone steps to 
 every door (and every door might be Death's Door) 
 turning stagnant green; the very crutches on which 
 the ruins are propped, decaying. Although Bleak 
 House was not in Chancery, its master was, and it 
 was stamped with the same seal. These are the Great 
 Seal's impressions, my dear, all over England — the 
 children know them!" 
 
 "How changed it is!" I said again. 
 
 "Why, so it is," he answered much more cheer- 
 fully; "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 con- 
 sider it right to mention them to Rick and Ada," look- 
 ing seriously at me, "you can. I leave it to your dis- 
 cretion, Esther." 
 
 "I hope. Sir" — said I. 
 
 "I think you had better call me Guardi^, my dear." 
 
 I felt that I was choking agam — I taxed myself 
 with it, "Esther, now, you know you are!" — when 
 'ne 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. 
 
 "1 hope. Guardian," said I, "that you may not 
 trust too much to my discretion. I hope you may
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 137 
 
 not mistake me. I am afraid it will be a disappoint- 
 ment to you to know that I am not clever — but it 
 really is the truth; and you would soon find it out if 
 I had not the honesty to confess it." 
 
 He did not seem at all disappointed: quite the con- 
 trary. 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," skid I, "but I am 
 much afraid of it. Guardian." 
 
 "You are clever enouorh to be the srood little wo- 
 man of our lives here, my dear," he returned, play- 
 fully; "the little old woman of the Child's (I don't 
 mean Skimpole's) Rhyme. 
 
 "^'^ittle old woman , and whither so high ? ' — ^ ^—^ 
 
 _/^ 'To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.'^x^ 
 
 ^ou will sweep theirTso neatly out of our sky, in the 
 course of your housekeeping, Esther, that one of these 
 days, whe 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 TJobweb, and 
 Mrs. Shipton, and Mother Hubbard, and Dame Dur- 
 den, 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 pro- 
 mise. 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, com- 
 fortably putting his hands in his pockets and stretch- 
 ing out his legs. "He must have a profession; he
 
 138 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 must make some choice for himself. There will be a 
 world more Wiglomeration 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 C han- 
 
 cery, my dear. Kenge and Carboy will have some- 
 thing^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 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 af- 
 flicted with Wiglomeration, or for whose sins these 
 young people ever fell into a pit of it, I don't know; 
 
 • J. ■ 5 J 
 
 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,
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 139 
 
 and see what you all make of it. We are sure to come 
 at the heart of the matter by your means, little woman." 
 
 1 really was frightened at the thought of the im- 
 portance 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 Richar4. 
 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 my 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?" 
 
 He looked so attentively at me, that I looked at- 
 tentively 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. Jf my 
 whole reliance and confidence were not placed in you, 
 I must have a hard heart indeed. I have nothin^^ 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 House; 
 for we had to become acquainted with many residents
 
 HO BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 in and out of the neighbourhood who knew Mr. Jarn- 
 dyce. It seemed to Ada and me that everybody knew 
 him, who wanted to do anything with anybody else's 
 money. It amazed us, when we began to sort his 
 letters, and to answer some of them for him in the 
 Growlery of a morning, to find how the great object 
 of the lives of nearly all his correspondents appeared 
 to be to form themselves into committees for getting 
 in and laying out money. The ladies were as desperate 
 as the gentlemen; indeed, I think they were even more 
 so. They threw themselves into committees in the 
 most impassioned manner, and collected subscriptions 
 with a vehemence quite extraordinary. It appeared 
 to us that some of them must pass their whole lives 
 in dealing out 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 wanted autographs, they 
 wanted flannel, they wanted whatever Mr. Jarndyce 
 had — or had not. Their objects were as various as 
 their demands. They were going to raise new build- 
 ings, they were going to pay off debts on old build- 
 ings, they were going to establish in a picturesque 
 building (engraving of proposed WestEIevation 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 pre- 
 sented to his mother-in-law, whose deep devotion to 
 him was well known; they were going to get up every- 
 thing, I really believe, from five hundred thousand 
 tracts to an annuity, and from a marble monument to
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 141 
 
 a silver tea-pot. They took a multitude of titles. Thej 
 were the Women of England, the Daughters oi^ri^ 
 ^tam7 the Sisters of all the Cardinal Virtues separately, 
 the^ -F-emaieB-oT America, the Ladieg^ofa^ hundred de- 
 nominations. 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 benerolen^e. (if I may use the expres- 
 sion), was a Msr. Pardiggle. who seemed, as I judged 
 from the numtrernrf'Trer' leftelrs 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 conversa- 
 tion: and that it invariably interrupted Mr. Jarndyce, 
 and prevented his going any farther, when he had 
 remarked that there, were two classes of charitable _ \ 
 pe^ople; one, the people who~"3t3r~a irttTe~and made a /^\ 
 
 great" deal of noise; the other, the people who did a ' 
 
 great deal and made no noise at all. We were there- 
 fore 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^^ve young sons. 
 
 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 really 
 did, for she knocked down 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
 
 142 BLEAK HOCSE. 
 
 to come in like cold weather, and to make the little 
 Pardisfgles 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-three- 
 pence, 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-six-pence-halfpenny; 
 Felix, my fourth (seven), eightpence to the Super- 
 annuated 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 weazen and shrivelled 
 — though they were certainly that too — but they 
 looked absolutely ferocious with discontent. At the 
 mention of the Tockahoopo Indians, I could really 
 have supposed Egbert to be one of the most baleful 
 members of that tribe, he gave me such a savage 
 frown. The face of each child, as the amount of his 
 contribution was mentioned, darkened in a peculiarly 
 vindictive manner, but his was by far the worst. I 
 must except, however, the little recruit into the Infant 
 Bonds of Joy, who was stolidly and evenly miserable. 
 
 "You have been visiting, I understand," said Mrs. 
 Pardiggle, "at Mrs. Jellyby's?" 
 
 We said yes, we had passed one night there.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 143 
 
 "Mr«. Jellyby," pursued the lady, always speaking 
 in the same dem onstrati ve, loud, hard tone, so that 
 her voice impressed my fancy as if it had a sort of 
 spectacles on too — and I may take the opportunity 
 of remarking that her spectacles were made the less 
 engaging by her eyes being what Ada called "choking 
 eyes," meaning very prominent: "Mrs. Jellyby is a 
 benefactor to society, and deserves a helping hand. 
 ]My boys have contributed to the African project — 
 Egbert, one-and-six, being the entire allowance of 
 nine weeks; Oswald, one-and-a-penny-halfpenny, being 
 the same; the rest, according to their little means. 
 Nevertheless, I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in all 
 things. I do not go with Mrs^Jellyby in her treat- 
 ment of her young family. -"Tc has been noticed. It 
 has been observed that her young family are excluded 
 from participation in tlie objects to which she is 
 devoted. She may be right, she may be wrong; but, 
 right or wrong, this is not my course with my young 
 family. I take them everywhere." 
 
 I was afterwards convinced (and so was Ada) that 
 from the ill-conditioned eldest child, these words ex- 
 torted a sharp yell. He turned it off into a yawn, 
 but it began as a veil. 
 
 "The 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, 1 am a Reading lady, I am a 
 Distributing lady; I am on the local Linen Box Com- 
 mittee, and many general Committees; and my canvass- 
 ing alone is very extensive — perhaps no one's more
 
 144 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 gene- 
 ral — in short, that taste for the sort of thing — 
 which will render them in after life a service to their 
 neighbours, and a satisfaction to themselves. My 
 young family are not frivolous; they expend the entire 
 amount of their allowance, in subscriptions, under my 
 direction; and they have attended as many public 
 meetings, and listened to as many lectures, orations, 
 and discussions, as generally fall to the lot of few 
 grown people. Alfred (five), who, as I mentioned, has 
 of his own election joined the Infant Bonds of Joy, 
 was one of the very few children who manifested con- 
 sciousness on that occasion, after a fervid address of 
 two hours from the chairman of the evening." 
 
 Alfred glowered at us as if he never could, or 
 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 con- 
 cluded with the name of 0. A. Pardiggle, F. R. S., 
 one pound. That is their father. We usually observe 
 the same routine. I put down my mite first; then my 
 young family enrol their contributions, according to 
 their ages and their little means; and then Mr. Par- 
 diggle 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. Jel- 
 lyby, and suppose Mr. Jellyby were to relieve his mind
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 145 
 
 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 pro- 
 spect, on which the spectacles appeared to me to rest 
 with curious indifference. 
 
 "You know Mr. Gusher?" said our visitor. 
 
 We were-oblig^ to say that we had not the plea- 
 sure of^Mj:,__Gusher!3 acciuaintance. 
 
 "The-loss is yours, I assure you," said Mrs. Par- 
 diggle, with her commanding deportment. "He is a 
 very fervid impassioned speaker — full of fire! Sta- 
 tione'd^Tn a waggofPoTrihis^awn now, which, from 
 the shape of the land, is naturally adapted to a public 
 meeting, he would improve almost any occasion you 
 could mention for hours and hours! By this time, 
 young ladies," said Mrs. Pardiggle, moving back to 
 her chair, and overturning, as if by invisible agency, 
 a little round table at a considerable distance with my 
 work-basket on it, "by this time you have found me 
 out, I dare say?" 
 
 This was really such a confusing question that Ada 
 looked at me in perfect dismay. As to the guilty na- 
 ture 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 
 prominent point in my character. I am aware that it 
 is so prominent as to be discoverable imnuJiately. I 
 Bleak House. I. iQ
 
 146 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 lay myself open to detection, I know. WellLXirfiely 
 admit, I am a woman of business. I love hard work; 
 i_enjoj hard^work. The excitement does me goo^~ I 
 am so accustomed and inured to hard work, that I 
 don't know what fatigue is." . 
 
 We murmured that it was very astonishing and 
 very gratifying; or something to that effect. I don't 
 think we knew why it was either, but this was what 
 our politeness expressed. 
 
 "I do not understand what it is to be tired; you 
 cannot tire me if you try!" said 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. 
 
 "This gives me a great advantage when I am ma- 
 king 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 Sum- 
 merson, I hope I shall have your assistance in my vi- 
 siting rounds immediately , and Miss Clare's very soon ? " 
 
 At first I tried to excuse myself, for the present, 
 on the general ground of having occupations to attend 
 to, which I must not neglect. But as this was an in-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 147 
 
 / 
 
 effectual protest, I then said, more particularly, that I 
 was not sure of my qualifications. That I was inex- 
 perienced in the art of adapting my mind to_minds -- 
 very diSerently situated, and addressing them from ' — 
 siiiTable points of view. ThatJ[^ad. not that delicate 
 knowIedge"~of~lhe heart which must be essential to 
 such a work. That I had much to learn, myself, be- 
 fore 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 gra- 
 dually 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 — with my young family — to visit a 
 brickmaker in the neighbourhood (a very bad charac- 
 ter), and shall be glad to take you with me. Miss 
 Clare also, if she will do me the favour." 
 
 Ada and I interchanged looks, and, as we were 
 going out in any case, accepted the offer. When we 
 hastily returned from putting on our bonnets, we found 
 the young family languishing in a corner, and Mrs. 
 Pardiggle sweeping about the room, knocking down 
 nearly all the light objects it contained. Mrs. Pardiggle 
 took possession of Ada, and I followed with the family. 
 
 Ada told me afterwards that Mrs. Pardiggle talked 
 in the same loud tone (that, indeed, I overheard), all 
 
 10*
 
 148 BLEAK. HOUSE. 
 
 the way to iKe brickmaker's, about an exciting con- 
 test which she had for two or three years waged 
 against another lady, relative to the bringing in of 
 their rival candidates for a pension somewhere. There 
 had been a quantity of printing, and promising, and 
 proxying, and polling; and it appeared to have im- 
 parted 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 re- 
 spect, but on this occasion it gave me great uneasi- 
 ness. As soon as we were out of doors, Egbei'ty 
 with the manner of a little footpad, demanded a shil- 
 ling 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 
 nie 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 in- 
 flamed his mind, and the minds of Oswald andjFrajicii^ 
 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 149 
 
 course of a walk TNath young people, as from these 
 unnaturally constrained children, when they paid me 
 the compliment of being natural. 
 
 I was glad when we came to the brickmaker's 
 house; though it was one of a cluster of wretched 
 hovels in a brickfield, with pigsties close to the broken 
 windows, and miserable little gardens before the doors, 
 growing nothing but stagnant pools. Here and there, 
 an old tub was put to catch the droppings of rain- 
 water from a roof, or they were banked up with mud 
 into a little pond like a large dirt-pie. At the doors and 
 windows, some men and women lounged or prowled 
 about, and took little notice of us, except to laugh to 
 one another, or to say something as we passed, about 
 gentlefolks minding their own business, and not trou- 
 bling their heads and muddying their shoes with co- 
 ming to look after other people's. 
 
 Mrs. Pardiggle, leading the way with a great show 
 of moral determination, and talking with much volu- 
 bility 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 groundfloor room of which we nearly filled. 
 Besides ourselves, there were in this damp offensive 
 room — a woman with a black eye, nrrrsmg''^ poor 
 Itttte 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 
 youg 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.
 
 150 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "No, my friend," said Mrs. Pardiggle, seating her- 
 self on one stool, and knocking down another. "We 
 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, gpoa people," said Mrs. Par- 
 diggle 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 you 're a 
 going to poll-pry and question according to custom — 
 I know what you're a going to be up to. AVell! You 
 haven't got no occasion to be up to it. I '11 save you 
 the trouble. Is my daughter a washin? Yes, she is 
 a washin. Look at the water. Smell it! That's wot 
 we drinks. How do you like it, and what do you 
 think of gin, instead! An't my place dirty? Yes, it
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 151 
 
 is dirty — it's nat'rally dirty, and it's nat'rally on- 
 wholesome; 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. 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 re- 
 garding 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
 
 152 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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. Jar^idyce 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 shutting his eyes with an oath, "you may 
 do wot you like!" 
 
 Mrs. Pardiggle accordingly rose, and made a litlle 
 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,
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 153 
 
 in this, as in everything else, a show that was not 
 conciliatory, of doing charity by wholesale, and of 
 dealing i£L-it..tQ_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 appea- 
 rance, 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 be- 
 side 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 tried to comfort the motlier, 
 and we whispered to her what Our Saviour said of 
 children. She answered nothing, but sat weeping — 
 weeping very much.
 
 154 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 When I turned, I found that the young man had 
 taken out the dog, and was standing at the door look- 
 ing 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. 
 
 ~1 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 un- 
 interrupted. 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 ac- 
 count, but we perceived that he did, and thanked him. 
 He made no answer.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 155 
 
 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 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 morning 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, was the father of the little 
 child. At a short distance, we passed the young man 
 and the dog, in congenial company. The sister was 
 standing laughing and talking with some other young 
 women, at the corner of the row of cottages; but she 
 seemed ashamed, and turned away as we went by. 
 
 We left our escort within sight of the brickmaker's 
 dwelling, and proceeded by ourselves. When 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. " I 'm a watching for my master. My heart 's 
 in my mouth. If he was to catch me away from home, 
 he 'd pretty near murder me." 
 
 "Do you mean your husband?" said I. 
 
 "Yes, Miss, my master. Jenny 's asleep, 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, we went softly in, and
 
 156 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 handker- 
 chief, which still covered the poor baby, a little bunch 
 of sweet herbs had been laid by the same rough 
 scarred hands, so lightly, so tenderly! 
 
 "May Heaven reward you!" we said to her. "You 
 are a good woman." 
 
 "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 handker- 
 chief 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 un- 
 conscious of the woman who replaced it with so com- 
 passionate a hand; not all unconscious of her pre- 
 sently, when we had taken leave, and left her at the 
 door, by turns looking, and listening in terror for her- 
 self, and saying in her old soothing manner, "Jenny, 
 Jenny!"
 
 -y 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 157 
 
 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 com- 
 pany. 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 quiet, and I was as quiet as a mouse. 
 They were as quiet as mice, too, so far as any words
 
 158 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 were concerned; but the innocent manner in which 
 they relied more and more upon me, as they took 
 more and more to one another, was so charming, 
 that I had great difficulty in not showing how it 
 interested me. 
 
 "Our dear little old woman is such a capital old 
 woman," Richard would say, coming up to meet me 
 in the garden early, with his pleasant laugh and per- 
 haps 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 com- 
 fortable 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. 
 We 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 159 
 
 (to whom she perfectly remembered that she was allied 
 by remote consanguinity), and trusted that he would 
 ever do his duty in any honourable profession to which 
 he might devote himself." 
 
 "So I apprehend it 's pretty clear," said Richard 
 to me, "that I shall have to work my own way. 
 Never mind! Plenty of people have had to do that 
 before now, and have done it. I only wish I had 
 the command of a clipping privateer, to begin with, 
 and could carry off the Chancellor and keep him on 
 short allowance until he frave iudgrment in our cause. 
 He 'd find himself growing thin , if he didn't look sharp I " 
 
 With a buoyancy and hopefulness and a gaiety 
 that hardly ever flagged, Eichard 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. Jarndvce 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."
 
 160 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "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." 
 
 In exactly the same way, when he was persuaded 
 out of the sacrifice of these five pounds by being con- 
 vinced 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 affair; 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 Avas 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 
 interested, and always so happy, sanguine, and light- 
 hearted. I am sure that I, sitting with them, and 
 walking with them, and talking with them, and noti-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 161 
 
 cing 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 look- 
 ing 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 Boy- 
 thorn," said Mr. Jarndyce, tapping the letter as he laid 
 it on the table, "more than five-and-forty years ago. 
 He was then the most impetuous boy in the world, 
 and he is now the most impetuous man. He was then 
 the loudest boy in the world, and he is now the loudest 
 man. He was then the heartiest and sturdiest boy in 
 the world , and he is now the heartiest and sturdiest 
 man. He is a tremendous fellow." 
 
 "In stature, Sir?" asked Richard. 
 
 "Pretty well. Rick, in that respect," said Mr. Jarn- 
 dyce; "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." 
 Bleak House, I. 11
 
 162 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 super- 
 lative degree. In his condemnation he is all ferocity. 
 You might suppose him to be an Ogre, from what he 
 says; and I believe he has the reputation of one with 
 some people. There! 1 tell you no more of him be- 
 forehand. 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 friend- 
 ship 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 for- 
 ward to his arrival with some curiosity. The after- 
 noon wore away, however, and he did not appear. 
 The dinner-hour arrived, and 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 misdirected, Jarndyce, by a most 
 abandoned ruffian, who told us to take the turning to
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 163 
 
 the ri^ht instead of to the left. He is the most in- 
 tolerable scoundrel on the face of the earth. His 
 father must have been a most consummate villain, 
 ever to have had such a son. I would have that fellow 
 shot without the least remorse!" 
 
 "Did he do it on purpose?" Mr. Jarndyce enquired. 
 
 "I have not the slightest doubt that the scoundrel 
 has passed his whole existence in misdirecting tra- 
 vellers!" 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 scoun- 
 drels. 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 mar- 
 ried, I would have turned back at the garden gate, 
 and gone away to the remotest summits of the Hima- 
 laya Mountains, sooner than I would have presented 
 myself at this unseasonable hour." 
 
 "Not quite so far, I hope?" said Mr. Jarndyce.
 
 164 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 the house waiting all this time, for 
 any earthly consideration. I would infinitely rather 
 destroy myself — infinitely rather!" 
 
 Talking thus, they went up-stairs; and presently 
 we heard him in his bedroom thundering "Ha, ha, 
 ha!" and again "Ha, ha, ha!" until the flattest echo 
 in the neighbourhood seemed to catch the contagion, 
 and to laugh as enjoyingly as he did, or as we did 
 when we heard him laugh. 
 
 We all conceived a prepossession in his favour; for 
 there was a sterling quality in this laugh, and in his 
 vigorous healthy voice, and in the roundness and ful- 
 ness 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 — up- 
 right 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 iu 
 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 165 
 
 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. Jarn- 
 dyce into some great volley of superlatives, or threw 
 up his head like a blood-hound, and gave out that tre- 
 mendous Ha, ha, ha I 
 
 "You Jiave brought your bird with you, I sup- 
 pose?" said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 "By Heaven, he is the most astonishing" bird 
 in Europe!" replied the other. "He is the most won- 
 derful creature! I wouldn't take ten thousand guineas 
 for that bird. I have left an annuity for his sole sup- 
 port, in case he should outlive me. He is, in sense 
 and attachment, a phenomenon. And his father before 
 him was one of the most astonishing birds that ever lived!" 
 
 The subject of this laudation was a very little 
 canary, who was so tame that he was brought down 
 by Mr. Boythorn's man, on his forefinger, and, after 
 taking a gentle flight round the room, alighted on his 
 master's head. To hear Mr. Boythorn presently ex- 
 pressing 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 thoueht. 
 
 "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
 
 166 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 you with the greatest satisfaction!" (All this time, 
 the very small canary was eating ont 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 Chancery, on the face of the earth!" said Mr. 
 Boythorn. "Nothing but a mine below it on a busy 
 day in term time, with all its records, rules, and pre- 
 cedents 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 the Devil, 
 and the whole blown to atoms with ten thousand hun- 
 dred-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 mea- 
 sure 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 was brought actions against me for 
 trespass, and T have brought actions against hhn for 
 trespass," returned INIr. Boythorn. "By Heaven, he 
 is the proudest fellow breathing. It is morally im-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 167 
 
 possible 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 ^Ir. Car- 
 stone'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 comfor- 
 table distance." 
 
 "Or he keeps us," suggested Richard. 
 
 "By my soull" 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 any sta- 
 tion of life but a walking-stick's! The whole of that 
 family are the most solemnly conceited and consum- 
 mate blockheads! — But it's no matter; he should not 
 shut np my path, if he were fifty baronets melted into 
 one, and living in a hundred Chesney Wolds, one 
 within another, like the ivory balls in a Chinese car- 
 ving. The fellow, by his agent, or secretary, or some- 
 body, 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 a ten-
 
 168 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 tion 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 path- 
 way, that he will be glad to see the man who may 
 undertake to do it.' The fellow sends a most aban- 
 doned villain with one eye, to construct a gateway. I 
 play upon that execrable scoundrel with a fire-engine, 
 until the breath is nearly driven out of his body. The 
 fellow erects a gate in the night. I chop it down and 
 burn it in the morning. He sends his myrmidons to 
 come over the fence, and pass and repass. I catch 
 them in humane man-traps, fire split peas at their 
 legs, play upon them with the engine — resolve to 
 free mankind from the insupportable burden of the 
 existence of those lurking ruffians. He brings actions 
 for trespass; I bring actions for trespass. He brings 
 actions for assault and battery; I defend them, and 
 continue to assault and batter. Ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 To hear him say all this with unimaginable energy, 
 one might have thought him the angriest of mankind. 
 To see him, at the very sanietimTe, 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. 
 
 "No, no," he said, "no closing up of my paths, 
 by any Dedlock! Though I willingly confess," here he 
 softened in a moment, "that Lady Dedlock is the most 
 accomplished lady in the world, to whom I would do 
 any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 169 
 
 with a head seven hundred years thick, may. A man 
 who joined his regiment at twenty, and, within a week, 
 challenged the most imperious and presumptuous cox- 
 comb 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. Boythorn, clapping 
 him on the shoulder with an air of protection, that 
 had something 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. JaVndyce. 
 
 "Nothing, Guardian." 
 
 "Much obliged!" said IVfr. Boythorn. "Had no 
 need to ask, after even my slight experience of j\IIss 
 Summerson's forethought for every one about her." 
 (They all encouraged me; they were determined to do 
 it.) "I enquired because, coming from Lincolnshire, 
 I of course have not yet been in town, and I thought 
 some letters might have been sent down here. I dare 
 say they will report progress to-morrow morning." 
 
 I saw him so often, in the course of the evening, 
 which passed very plea.santly, contemplate Richard and 
 Ada with an interest and a satisfaction that made his 
 fine face remarkably agreeable as he sat at a little
 
 170 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 distance from the piano listening to the music — and 
 he had small occasion to tell us that he was pas- 
 sionately fond of music, for his face showed it — that 
 I asked my Guardian, as we sat at the backgammon 
 board, whether Mr. Boythorn had ever been married. 
 
 "No," said he. "No." 
 
 "But he meant to be?" said I. 
 
 "How did you find out that?" he returned, with 
 a smile. 
 
 "Why, Guardian," I explained, not without red- 
 dening a little at hazarding what was in my thoughts, 
 "there is something 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. — It's 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 ques- 
 tions. I was interested, but not curious. I thought 
 a little while about this old love story in the night,
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 171 
 
 when I was awakened by Mr. Boylhorn'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 god- 
 mother's house. I am not sufficiently acquainted with 
 such subjects, to know whether it is at all remarkable 
 that I almost always dreamed of that period of my life. 
 
 With the morning, there came a letter from Messrs. 
 Kenge and Carboy to Mr. Boythorn, informing him 
 that one of their clerks would wait upon him at noon. 
 As it was the day of the week on which I paid the 
 bills, and added up my books, and made all the house- 
 hold affairs as compact as possible, I remained at 
 home while Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and Richard, took ad- 
 vantage 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 gentleman who had met me at the 
 coach-office; and I was glad to see him, because he 
 was associated with my present happiness. 
 
 I scarcely knew him again, he was so uncommonly 
 smart. He had an entirely new suit of glossy clothes 
 on, a shining hat, lilac-kid gloves, a neckerchief of a 
 variety of colours, a large hot -house flower in his 
 button-hole, and a thick gold ring on his little finger. 
 Besides which, he quite scented the dining-room with
 
 172 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 bear's-grease, and other perfumery. He looked at me 
 with an attention that quite confused me, when I begged 
 him to take a seat until the servant should return; and 
 as he sat there, crossing and uncrossing his legs in a 
 corner, and I asked him if he had had a pleasant ride, 
 and hoped that Mr. Kenge was well, I never looked 
 at him, but I found him looking at me, in the same 
 scrutinizing and curious way. 
 
 When the request was brought to him that he 
 would go up -stairs to Mr. Boythorn's room, I men- 
 tioned that he would find lunch prepared for him when 
 he came down, of which Mr. Jarndyce hoped he would 
 partake. He said with some embarrassment, holding 
 the handle of the door, "Shall I have 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 rising every now 
 and then like a high wind, and evidently blowing 
 perfect broadsides of denunciation. 
 
 At last Mr. Guppy came back, looking something 
 the worse for the conference. "My eye. Miss," he 
 said in a low voice, "he's a Tartar!" 
 
 "Pray take some refreshment, Sir," said I. 
 
 Mr. Guppy sat down at the table , and began 
 nervously sharpening the carving-knife on the carving-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 173 
 
 fork; Still looking at me (as I felt quite sure without 
 looking at him), in the same unusual manner. The 
 sharpening lasted so long, that at last I felt a kind of 
 obligation on me to raise my eyes, in order that I 
 might break the spell under which he seemed to labour, 
 of not being able to leave off. 
 
 He immediately looked at the dish, and began to 
 carve. 
 
 "What will you take yourself, Miss? You'll take 
 a morsel 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, I'm sure. 
 I 've every thing I can require to make me comfort- 
 able — at least 1 — not comfortable — I 'm never 
 that:" he drank off two more glasses of wine, one 
 after another. 
 
 I thought I had better go. 
 
 "I beg your pardon. Miss?" said Mr. Guppy, ri- 
 sing, 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. 
 
 "1 don't understand what you mean," said I, 
 wondering. 
 
 "It's one of our law terms, Miss. You won't make 
 any use of it to my detriment, at Kenge and Carboy's, 
 or elsewhere. If our conversation shouldn't lead to
 
 174 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 anything, I am to be as I was, and am not to be pre- 
 judiced 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 pla- 
 ning his forehead with his handkerchief, or tightly rub- 
 bing the palm of his left hand with the palm of his 
 right. "If you would excuse my taking another glass 
 of wine. 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 op- 
 portunity of moving well behind my table. 
 
 "You wouldn't allow me to offer you one, would 
 you-, Miss?" said Mr. Guppy, apparently refreshed. 
 
 "Not any," said I. 
 
 "Not half a glass?" said Mr. Guppy; "quarter? No! 
 Then, to proceed. 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 lengthen- 
 ed 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 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
 
 BLEAK HOirsE. 175 
 
 dispopi'tion easy. She has her faih'n^rs — as who has 
 not? — but I never knew her do it when company was 
 present; at which time von may freely trust her with 
 wines, spii'its, or malt liquors. My own abode is lod- 
 gings 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 pro- 
 mise and ring the belli" 
 
 i "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 be- 
 hind 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."
 
 176 ^ BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "I am aware," said Mr. Guppy, leaning forward 
 over the tray, and regarding me, as I again strangely 
 felt, though my eyes were not directed to him, with 
 his late intent look, "I am aware that in a worldly 
 point of view, according to all appearances, my offer is 
 a poor one. But, Miss Summerson! Angel! — No, 
 don't ring! — I have been brought up in a sharp 
 school, and am accustomed to a variety of general 
 practice. Though a young man, I have ferreted out 
 evidence, got up cases, and seen lots of life. Blest 
 with your hand, what means might I not find of ad- 
 vancing 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! 1 think you must have seen that I was struck 
 with those charms, on the day when I waited at the 
 Whytorseller. I think you must have remarked that 
 I could not forbear a tribute to those charms when I 
 put up the steps of the 'ackney-coach. It was a feeble 
 tribute to Thee, but it was well meant. Thy image 
 has ever since been fixed in my breast. I have walked 
 up and down, of an evening, opposite Jellyby's house, 
 only to look upon the bricks that once contained Thee. 
 This out of 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 177 
 
 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 anyone who was sincere, the injustice of slighting 
 any honest feeling, however disagreeably expressed. 
 If you have really meant to give me a proof of your 
 good opinion, though ill-timed and misplaced, I feel 
 that I ought to thank you. I have very little reason 
 to be proud, and I am not proud. I hope," I think 
 I added, without very well knowing what I said, "that 
 you will now go away as if you had never been so 
 exceedingly foolish, and attend to Messrs. Kenge and 
 Carboy's business." 
 
 "Half a minute, Miss!" cried Mr. Guppy, check- 
 ing me as I was about to ring. "This has been with- 
 out 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, that's no 
 consequence, for my feelings can never alter — of 
 anything I have said, particularly what might I not 
 do — Mr. William Guppy, eighty-seven, Penton Place, 
 or, if removed, or dead (of blighted hopes or anything 
 of that sort), care of Mrs. Guppy, three hundred and 
 two, Old Street Road, will be sufficient." 
 
 I rang the 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. 
 Bleak House. I. 12
 
 178 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 every- 
 thing away, and was so composed and cheerful that I 
 thought I had quite dismissed this unexpected inci- 
 dent. But, when I went up -stairs to ray 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 law- 
 ful 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 part- 
 nership with Peffer. On that occasion. Cook's Court 
 was in a manner revolutionised by the new inscription
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 179 
 
 in fresh paint, Peffer and Snagsey, 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 "expected 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 roar- 
 ing past him, all the day and half the night, like one 
 great dragon. If he ever steal forth when the dragon 
 is at rest, to air himself again in Cook's Court, until 
 admonished to return by the crowing of the sanguine 
 cock in the cellar at the little dairy in Cursitor Street, 
 whose ideas of daylight it would be curious to ascer- 
 tain, 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-sta- 
 tioner in the trade can positively deny, he comes in- 
 visibly, 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 com- 
 pressed about the waist, and with a sharp nose like a 
 sharp autumn evening, inclining to be frosty towards 
 the end. The Cook's-Courtiers had a rumour flying 
 among them, that the mother of this niece did, in her 
 daughter's childhood, moved by too jealous a solici- 
 tude 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 
 
 12*
 
 180 BLEAK HOUSE, 
 
 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 Rumour this frothy report origi- 
 nated, 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 differ, is unquestionably 
 so far precious, that there is mighty little of it. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are not only one bone and 
 one flesh, but, to the neighbours' thinking, one voice 
 too. That voice, appearing to proceed from Mrs. 
 Snagsby alone, is heard in Cook's Court very 
 often. Mr. Snagsby, otherwise than as he finds ex- 
 pression through these dulcet tones, is rarely heard. 
 He is a mild, bald, timid man, with a shining head, 
 and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the 
 back. He tends to meekness and obesity. As he 
 stands at his door in Cook's 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 
 retiring and unassuming man. From beneath his feet, 
 at such times, as from a shrill ghost unquiet in its 
 grave, there frequently arise complainings and lamen- 
 tations 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!"
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 181 
 
 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, Glister, in compliment to her stormy 
 character. It is, however, the possession, and the only 
 possession, except fifty shillings per annum and a very 
 small box 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 circumstances, "has fits" — 
 which the parish can't account for. 
 
 Guster,- really aged three or four and twenty, but 
 looking a round ten years older, goes cheap with this 
 unaccountable drawback of fits; and is so apprehensive 
 of being 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 satisfaction to the parents and guardians of 
 the 'Prentices, who feel that there is little danger 
 of her inspiring tender emotions in the breast of 
 youth; she is a satisfaction to Mrs. Snagsby, who can 
 always find fault with her; she is a satisfication 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
 
 .182 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 most elegant apartment in Christendom. The view it 
 commands of Cook's Court at one end (not to mention a 
 squint into Cursitor Street), and of Coavins's the she- 
 riflTs officer's backyard at the other, she regards as a 
 prospect of unequalled beauty. The portraits it dis- 
 plays in oil — and plenty of it too — of Mr. Snagsby 
 looking at Mrs. Snagsby, and of Mrs. Snagsby look- 
 ing at Mr. Snagsby, are in her eyes as achievements 
 of Rapliael or Titian. Guster has some recompenses 
 for Iier many privations. 
 
 Mr. Snagsby refers everything not in the practical 
 mysteries of the business, to Mrs. Snagsby. She 
 manages the money, reproaches the Tax-gatherers, 
 appoints the times and places of devotion on Sundays, 
 licenses Mr. Snagsby's entertainments, and acknow- 
 ledges 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 difiference 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 oat at every- 
 body'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; aud that nobody does so with greater 
 superciliousness than one particular lady, whose lord
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 183 
 
 is more than suspected of laying his umbrella on her 
 as an instrument of correction. But these vague 
 whisperings may arise from Mr. Snagsby's being, in 
 his way, rather a meditative and poetical man; loving 
 to walk in Staple Inn the summer time, and to ob- 
 serve how countrified the sparrows and the leaves are; 
 also to lounge about the Rolls Yard of a Sunday after- 
 noon, 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 '11 be bound, 
 if you was to dig for it. He solaces his imagination, 
 too, by thinking of the many Chancellors and Vices, 
 and Masters of the 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 eflfective, for it is not quite dark. Mr. 
 Snagsby standing at his shop-door looking up at the 
 clouds, sees a crow, who is out late, skim westward 
 over the leaden slice of sky belonging to Cook's Court. 
 The crow flies straight across Chancery Lane and Lin- 
 coln's Inn Garden, into Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 
 Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn. It is let off in sets of chambers now; 
 and in those shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers 
 lie like maggots in nuts. But its roomy staircases, 
 passages, and antechambers, still remain; and even its 
 painted ceilings, where Allegory, in Roman helmet and 
 celestial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars.
 
 184 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 jQowers, 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. Tulking- 
 horn , when not speechlessly at home in country- 
 houses where the great ones of the earth are bored to 
 death. Here he is to-day, quiet at his table. An 
 Oyster of the old school, whom nobody can open. 
 
 Like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in 
 the dusk of the present afternoon. Rusty, out of date, 
 withdrawing from attention, able to afford it. Heavy 
 broad-backed old-fashioned mahogany and horse-hair 
 chairs, not easily lifted, obsolete tables with spindle- 
 legs and dusty baize covers, presentation prints of the 
 holders oP-gfeat titles in the last generation, or the 
 last but one, environ him. A thick and dingy Turkey- 
 carpet muffles the floor where he sits, attended by two 
 candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks, that give a 
 very insufficient light to his large room. The titles 
 on the backs of his books have retired into the bind- 
 ing; everything that can have a lock has got one; no 
 key is visible. Very few loose papers are about. Pie 
 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, Tulk-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 185 
 
 inghorn 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 drawn by special-pleaders 
 in the Temple on mysterious instructions; fair copies 
 that he requires to be made, are made at the stationer's, 
 expense being no consideration. The middle-aged man 
 in the Pew, knows scarcely more of the 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, 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 crow came — not 
 quite so straight, but nearly — to Cook's Court, Cur- 
 sitor Street. To Snagsby's, Law 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,
 
 186 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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; con- 
 sequently, 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." 
 
 "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.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 187 
 
 "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 hand- 
 writing 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 k)oked 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 seems to have stopped short, eyes the affidavit 
 aside, and brings his right forefinger travelling down 
 a page of the Book. "Jewby — Packer — Jarndyce." 
 
 "Jarndyce! Here we are, Sir," says Mr. Snagsby. 
 "To be sure! I might have remembered it. This was 
 given out. Sir, to a W^riter who lodges just over on 
 the opposite side of the lane." 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before 
 the Law-stationer, read it while the forefinger was 
 coming down the hill. 
 
 " IVJiat do you call him? Nemo?" says Mr. Tulk- 
 inghorn. 
 
 Nemo, Sir. Here it is. Forty-two folio. Given 

 
 188 BLEAK HODSE. 
 
 out on the Wednesday night, at ei^rht o'clock; brought 
 in on the Thursday morning, at half after nine." 
 
 "Nemo!" repeats Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemo is Latin 
 for no one." 
 
 "It must be English for some one, Sir, I think," 
 Mr. Snagsby submits, with his deferential cough. "It 
 is a person's name. Here it is, you see. Sir! Forty- 
 two folio. Given out, Wednesday night, eight o'clock; 
 brought in, Thursday morning, half after nine." 
 
 The tail of Mr. Snagsby's eye becomes conscious 
 of the head of Mrs. Snagsby looking in at the shop- 
 door to know what he means by deserting his tea. 
 Mr. Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough to Mrs. 
 Snagsby, as who 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 it'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 docu- 
 ment. Sir — wanting employ?" 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window 
 at the back of Coavins's, the sherifTs officer's, where 
 lights shine in Coavins's windows. Coavins's coffee- 
 room is at the back, and the shadows of several gen- 
 tlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds. 
 Mr. Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning 
 his head, to glance over his shoulder at his little 
 woman, and to make apologetic motions with his mouth 
 to this effect: "Tul-king-horn — rich — in-flu-en-tial!" 
 
 "Have you given this man work before?" asks Mr. 
 Tulkinghorn.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 189 
 
 "0 dear, yes, Sir! Work of yours." 
 
 "Thinking of more important matters, I forget 
 where you said he lived!" 
 
 "Across the lane, Sir. In fact, he lodges at a — " 
 Mr. Snagsby makes another bolt, as if the bit of bread and 
 butter were insurmountable — "at aRag andBottle shop." 
 
 "Can you show me the place as 1 go back?" 
 
 "With the greatest pleasure. Sir!" 
 
 Mr. Snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his grey coat, 
 pulls on his black coat, takes his hat from its peg. 
 "Oh! here is my little woman!" he says aloud. "My 
 dear, will you be so kind as to tell one of the lads to 
 look after the shop, while I step across the lane with 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn? Mrs. Snagsby, Sir — I shan't be 
 two minutes, my love!" 
 
 Mrs. Snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind 
 the counter, peeps at them through the window-blind, 
 goes softly into the back office, refers to the entries 
 in the book 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 ac- 
 quired their full effect. Jostling against clerks going 
 to post the day's letters, and against counsel and 
 attornies 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
 
 190 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 law-stationer 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 
 unconcernedly. "Thank you." 
 
 "Are you not going in, Sir?" 
 
 "No, thank you, no; I am going on to the Fields 
 at present. Good evening. Thank you I" 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 
 liim by sight. Has an indistinct impression of his 
 aristocratic repute. 
 
 "Did you wish to see him, Sir?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 191 
 
 "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 I" 
 Mr. Krook, Avith 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 her wicked mouth, and snarls at him. 
 
 "Order, Lady Jane! Behave yourself to visitors, 
 my lady! You know what they say of my lodger?" 
 whispers Krook, going up a step or two. 
 
 "What do they say of him?" 
 
 "They say he has sold himself to the Enemy; but 
 you and I know better — he don't buy. I '11 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 extin- 
 guishes his candle in doing so. 
 
 The air of the room is almost bad enough to have 
 extinguished it, if he had not. It is a small room, 
 nearly black with soot, and grease, and dirt. In the 
 rusty skeleton of a grate, pinched at the middle as if 
 Poverty had gripped it, a red coke 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
 
 192 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 of a starved man. The floor is bare; except that one 
 old mat, trodden to shreds of rope-yarn, lies perish- 
 ing upon the hearth. No curtain veils the darkness 
 of the night, but the discoloured shutters are drawn to- 
 gether; and through the two gaunt holes pierced in 
 them, famine might be staring in — the Banshee of 
 the man upon the bed. 
 
 For, on a low bed opposite the fire, a confusion 
 of dirty patchwork, lean -ribbed ticking, and coarse 
 sacking, the lawyer, hesitating just within the door- 
 way, 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 guttered 
 down, until the whole length of its wick (still burn- 
 ing) has doubled over, and left a tower of winding- 
 sheet above it. His hair is ragged, mingling with his 
 whiskers and his beard — the latter, ragged too, and 
 grown, like the scum and mist around him, in neglect. 
 Foul and filthy as the room is, foul and filthy as the 
 air, it is not easy to perceive what fumes those are 
 which most oppress the senses in it| but through the 
 general sickliness and faintness, and the 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 
 candlestick against the door. 
 
 He thinks he has awakened his friend. He lies a 
 little turned away, but his eyes are surely open. 
 
 "Hallo, my friend!" he cries again. "Hallo! Hallo!" 
 
 As he rattles on the door, the candle which has 
 drooped so long, goes out, and leaves him in the 
 dark; with the gaunt eyes in the shutters staring down 
 upon the bed.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 193 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Our Dear Brother. 
 
 A TOUCH on the lawyer's wrinkled hand, as he 
 stands in the dark room, irresolute, makes him start 
 and say "What's that?" 
 
 "It 's me," returns the old man of the house, 
 whose breath is in his ear. "Can't you wake him?'* 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What have you done with your candle?" 
 
 "It's gone out. Here it is." 
 
 Krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the 
 red embers, and tries to get a light. The dying ashes 
 have no light to spare, and his endeavours are vain. 
 Muttering, after an ineffectual call to his lodger, that 
 he will go down stairs and bring a lighted candle 
 from the shop, the old man departs. Mr. Tulking- 
 horn, 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 fol- 
 lowing 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, darken- 
 ing, seem to close. Not so the eyes upon the bed. 
 
 "God save us!" exclaims Mr, Tulkinghorn. "He 
 is dead!" 
 
 Krook drops the heavy hand he has taken up, so 
 suddenly that the arm swings over the bedside. 
 
 They look at one another for a moment. 
 Bleak House. J, 13
 
 194 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Send for some doctor! Call for Miss Flite up the 
 stairs, Sir. Here's poison by the bed! Call out for 
 Flite, will you?" says Krook, with his lean hands 
 spread out above the body like a vampire's wings. 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing, and calls 
 "Miss Flite! Flite! Make haste, here, whoever you 
 are! Flite!" Krook follows him with his eyes, and, 
 while he is calling, finds opportunity to steal to the 
 old portmanteau, and steal back again. 
 
 "Run, Flite,; run! The nearest doctor! Run!" 
 So Mr. Krook addresses a crazy little woman, who is 
 his female 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 examina- 
 tion. "He's just as dead as Phairy!" 
 
 Mr, Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portman- 
 teau) inquires if he has been dead any time? 
 
 "Anytime, Sir?" says the medical gentleman. "It's 
 probable he wuU have been dead aboot three hours." 
 
 "About that time, I should say," observes a dark 
 young man, on the other side of the bed. 
 
 "Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, 
 Sir?" inquires the first. 
 
 The dark young man says yes. 
 
 "Then I'll just tak' my depairture," replies the 
 other; "for I'm nae gude here!" With which remark, 
 he finishes his brief attendance, and returns to finish 
 his dinner. 
 
 The dark young surgeon passes the candle across 
 and across the face, and carefully examines the law-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 195 
 
 writer, who has established his pretensions to his name 
 by becoming indeed No one. 
 
 "I knew this person by sight, very well," says he. 
 *'He has purchased opium of me, for the last year 
 and "a half. Was anybody present related to him?" 
 glancing round upon the three bystanders. 
 
 "I was his landlord," grimly answers Krook, taking 
 the candle 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 circumstarnces to me." 
 
 "Did he owe you any rent?" 
 
 "Six weeks." 
 
 "He will never pay it!" says the young man, re- 
 suming 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 
 
 13*
 
 196 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 says this, not unfeelingly, while sitting on the bed- 
 stead's edge, with his face towards that other face, and 
 his hand upon the region of the heart. "I recollect 
 once thinkins: there was something in his manner, iin- 
 couth as it was, that denoted a fall in life. Was that 
 so?" he continues, looking round. 
 
 Krook replies, "You might as well ask me to de- 
 scribe 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, no- 
 ticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the 
 deceased as an individual; from the old man's unction; 
 and the little crazy woman's awe. His imperturbable 
 face has been as inexpressive as his rusty clothes. 
 One could not even say he has been thinking all this 
 while. He has shown neither patience nor 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 his 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 197 
 
 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 hope- 
 less investigation, and covers its subject with the 
 patchwork counterpane. Mr. Krook and he inter- 
 change a word or two. Mr. Tulkinghorn says no- 
 thing; but stands, ever, near the old portmanteau. 
 
 Mr. Snagsby arrives hastily, iri his grey coat and 
 his black sleeves. "Dear me, dear me," he says; "and 
 it has come to this, has it! Bless my soul!" 
 
 "Can you give the person of the house any infor- 
 mation about this unfortunate creature, Snagsby?" in- 
 quires 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 apo- 
 logetic 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. Tulking- 
 horn. "/ could advise — " 
 
 ("No one better. Sir, I am sure," says Mr. Snagsby, 
 with 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 pre- 
 facing his reply with his cough of general propitia- 
 tio'n, "that I no more know where he came from, than 
 1 know — " 
 
 /
 
 198 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the 
 surgeon, to help him out. 
 
 A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law- 
 stationer. Mr. Krook, with his mouth 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, 
 strengthened, "he came into our place one morning 
 after breakfast, and, finding ray little woman (which I 
 name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that appellation) in 
 our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting, 
 and gave her to understand that he was in wants of 
 copying work to do, and was* — not to put too fine 
 a point upon it — " a favourite apology for plain- 
 speaking with Mr. Snagsby, which he always offers 
 with a sort of argumentative frankness, "hard up! My 
 little woman is not in general partial to strangers, par- 
 ticular — not to put too fine a point upon it — when 
 they want anything. But she was rather took by 
 something about this person; whether by his being 
 unshaved, or by his hair being in want of attention, 
 or by what other ladies' reasons, I leave you to judge; 
 and she accepted of the specimen, and likewise of the 
 address. My little woman hasn't a good ear for 
 names," proceeds Mr. Snagsby, after consulting his 
 cough of consideration behind his hand, "and she
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 199 
 
 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 Nim- 
 rod 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 con- 
 dition 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 I\Ir. Tulkinghorn, "look over the 
 room for him. He will' get into some trouble or dif- 
 ficulty, otherwise. Being here, I '11 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 '11 
 soon see whether there is anything to help you." 
 
 "In the first place, here's an old portmanteau. 
 Sir," says Snagsby. 
 
 Ah, to be sure, so there is! Mr. Tulkinghorn does 
 not appear to have seen it before, though he is stand-
 
 200 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 ing 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 a corner of the chimney-piece; Miss Flite peeps 
 and trembles just within the door. The apt old scho- 
 lar 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 
 neck-kerchief 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 the 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. .201 
 
 furtively down stairs, winding 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 its inhabitants assemble to discuss the 
 thing; and the outposts of the army of observation 
 (principally boys) are pushed forward to Mr. Krook's 
 window, which they closely invest. A policeman has 
 already walked up to the room, and walked down 
 again to the door, where he stands like a tower, only 
 condescending to see the boys at his base occasionally; 
 but whenever he does see them, they quail and fall 
 back. Mrs. Perkins, who has not bea^for some weeks 
 on speaking terms with Mrs. Piper, in consequence of 
 an unpleasantness originating in young Perkins having 
 "fetched" young Piper "a crack," renews her friendly 
 intercourse on this auspicious occasion. The potboy 
 at the corner, who is a privileged amateur, as pos- 
 sessing official knowledge of life, and having to deal 
 with drunken men occasionally, exchanges confidential 
 communications with the policeman, and has the ap- 
 pearance of an impregnable youth, unassailable by 
 truncheons and unconfinable in station-houses. People 
 talk across the court out of window, and bare-headed 
 scouts come hurrying in from Chancery Lane to know 
 what 's the matter. The general feeling seems to be 
 that it 's a blessing Mr. Krook warn't made away with 
 first, mingled with a little natural disappointAent that 
 he was not. In the midst of this sensation, the beadle 
 arrives. 
 
 The beadle, though generally understood in the 
 neighbourhood to be a ridiculous institution , is not
 
 202 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 without a certain popularity for the moment, if it were 
 only as a man who is going to see the body. The 
 policeman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant 
 of the barbarous watchmen-times; but gives him ad- 
 mission, 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 in- 
 tensifying 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 an^ J^T anything whatever respecting 
 the deceased. Is immediately referred to innumerable 
 people who can tell nothing whatever. Is made more 
 imbecile by being constantly informed that Mrs. Green's 
 son "was a law-writer his-self, and knowed him better 
 than anybody" — which son of Mrs. Green's appears, 
 on inquiry, to be at the present time aboard a vessel 
 bound for China, three months out, but considered 
 accessible by telegraph, on application to the Lords of 
 the Admiralty. Beadle goes into various shops and 
 parlours, examining the inhabitants; always shutting 
 the door first, and by exclusion, delay, and general 
 idiotcy, exasperating the public. Policeman seen to 
 smile to potboy. Public loses interest, and undergoes 
 reaction. Taunts the beadle, .in shrill youthful voices, 
 with ha\^ng boiled a boy; choruses fragments of a po- 
 pular song to that effect, and importing that the boy 
 was made into soup for the workliouse. Policeman at 
 last finds it necessary to support the law, and seize a 
 vocalist; who is released upon the flight of the rest,
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 203 
 
 on condition of his getting out of this then, come! and 
 cuttins it — a condition he immediately observes. So 
 the sensation dies off for the time; and the unmoved 
 poh"ceman (to whom a little opium, more or less, is 
 nothing), with his shining hat, stiiF 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 sum- 
 monses, in which every Juror's name is wrongly spelt, 
 and nothing is rightly spelt but the beadle's own name, 
 which nobody can read or wants to know. The sum- 
 monses served, and his witnesses forewarned, the 
 beadle goes to Mr. Krook's, to keep a small appoint- 
 ment he has made with certain paupers; who, pre- 
 sently arriving, are conducted up-stairs; where they 
 leave the great eyes in the shutter something new to 
 stare at, in that last shape which earthly lodgings 
 take for No one — and for Every one. 
 
 And, all that night, the coffin stands ready by the 
 old portmanteau; and the lonely figure on the bed, 
 whose path in life has lain 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 wath that excellent 
 woman. The coroner is to sit in the first-floor room 
 at the Sol's Arms, where the Harmonic Meetings take
 
 204 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 place twice a-week, and where the chair is filled by a 
 gentleman of professional celebrity, faced by little 
 Swills, the comic vocalist, who hopes (according to 
 the bill in the window) that his friends will rally 
 round him and support first-rate talent. The Sol's 
 Arms does a brisk stroke of business all the morning. 
 Even children so require sustaining, under the general 
 excitement, that a pieman, who has established him- 
 self for the occasion at the corner of the court, says* 
 his brandy-balls go off like smoke. What time the 
 beadle, hovering between the door of Mr. Krook's 
 establishment and the door of the Sol's Arms, shows 
 the curiosity in his keeping to a few discreet spirits, and . 
 accepts the compliment of a glass of ale or so in return. 
 At the appointed hour arrives the Coroner, for 
 whom the Jurymen are waiting, and who is received 
 with a Salute of skittles from the good dry skittle- 
 ground attached to the Sol's Arms. The Coroner 
 frequents more public-houses than any man alive. The 
 smell of sawdust, beer, tobacco-smoke, and spirits, is 
 inseparable in his vocation from death in its most 
 awful shapes. He is conducted by the beadle and the 
 landlord to -the Harmonic Meeting Room, where he 
 puts his hat on the piano, and takes a Windsor-chair 
 at the head of a long table, formed of several short 
 tables put together, and ornamented with glutinous 
 rings in endless involutions, made by pots and glasses. 
 As many of the Jury as can crowd together at the 
 table sit there. The rest get among the spittoons and 
 pipes, or lean against the piano. Over the Coroner's 
 head is a small iron garland, the pendant handle of a 
 bell, which rather gives the Majesty of the Court the 
 appearance of going to be hanged presently.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 205 
 
 Call over and swear the Jury! While the cere- 
 mony is in progress, sensation is created by the en- 
 trance 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 con- 
 sidered not ulilikely that he will get up an imitation 
 of the Coroner, and make it the principal feature of 
 the Harmonic Meeting in the evening. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen — " the Coroner begins. 
 
 "Silence there, will you!" says the beadle. Not 
 to the Coroner, though it might appear so. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen!" resumes the Coroner. "You 
 are impanelled here, to inquire into the death of a 
 certain man. Evidence will be given before you, as 
 to the circumstances attending th^t 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 Jurymen retire pale and pre- 
 cipitately. The beadle is very careful that two gen- 
 tlemen not very neat about the cuffs and buttons (for 
 whose accomn^odation 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
 
 206 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 infirmity, but hopes to read in print what "Mooney," 
 the active and intelligent beadle of 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. Tul- 
 kinghorn is received with distinction, and seated near 
 the Coroner; "between that high judicial officer, a ba- 
 gatelle board, and the coal-box. The inquiry pro- 
 ceeds. The Jury learn how the subject of their in- 
 quiry died, and learn no more about him. "A very 
 eminent solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen," says 
 the Coroner, "who, I am informed, was 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 ? 
 
 Why, Mrs. Piper has a good deal to say, chiefly 
 in parenthesis and without punctuation^ but not much 
 to tell. Mrs. Piper lives in the court (which her hus- 
 band is a cabinet-maker) and it has long been well 
 beknown among the neigbours (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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 207 
 
 the sufferings gentlemen of that chihl in his gums) as 
 the Plaintive — so Mrs. Piper insists on calling the 
 deceased — was reported to have sold himself. Thinks 
 it was the Plaintive's air in which that report origi- 
 natinin. See the Plaintive often, and considered as 
 his air was feariocious; and not to be allowed to go 
 about some children being timid (and if doubted hoping 
 Mrs. Perkins may be brought forard for she is here 
 and will do credit to her husband and herself and fa- 
 mily). Has seen the Plaintive wexed and worrited 
 by the children (for children they will ever be and you 
 cannot expect them specially if of playful dispositions 
 to be Methoozellers which you was not yourself). On 
 accounts of this and his dark looks has often dreamed 
 as she see him take a pickaxe 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 pickaxe 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.in- 
 telligent, the Coroner converses with Mr. Tulkinghorn. 
 
 O! Here's the boy, gentlemen I 
 
 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.
 
 208 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 with 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 '11 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!" says the Coroner, 
 with a melancholy shake of the head. 
 
 "Don't you think you can receive his evidence, 
 Sir?" asks an attentive Juryman. 
 
 "Out of the question," says the Coroner. "You 
 have heard the boy. 'Can't exactly say' won't do, 
 you know. We can't take that, in a Court of Justice, 
 gentlemen. It's terrible depravity. Put the boy 
 aside." 
 
 Boy put aside; to the great edification of the au- 
 dience; — especially of Little Swills, the Comic Vo- 
 calist. 
 
 Now. Is there any other witness? No other 
 witness. 
 
 Very w^ell, 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 conclusion that he committed sui-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 209 
 
 cide, you will come to that conclusion. If you think 
 it is a case of accidental death, you will find a Ver- 
 dict accordingly. 
 
 Verdict accordingly. Accidental death. No doubt. 
 Gentlemen, you are discharged. Good afternoon. 
 
 While the Coroner buttons his great coat, Mr. 
 Tulkinghorn and he give private audience to the re- 
 jected 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 cross- 
 ing, 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 ttTe boy most heartily be- 
 lieves) been glad to give him some. 
 
 "He was wery good to me," 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-crown in his hand. "If ever 
 you see me coming past your crossing with ray little 
 
 Bleak House. I. n
 
 210 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 woman — I mean a lady — " says Mr. Snagsby, with 
 his linger 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 Sol's Arms; two stroll to Hamp- 
 stead; 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 >vhanie 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. , ,_ ^-nr .^ 
 
 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 professional celebrity takes the chair; is faced (red- 
 faced) by Little Swills; tlieir friends rally round them, 
 and support first-rate talent. In the zenith of the 
 evening. Little Swills says. Gentlemen, if you '11 permit 
 me, I'll attempt a short description of a scene of real 
 life that came off here to-day. Is much applauded 
 and encouraged; goes out of the room as Swills; 
 comes in as the Coroner (not the least in the world 
 like him); describes the Inquest, with recreative inter- 
 vals 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 Har- 
 monic friends rally round their pillows Then there
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 211 
 
 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, what an impossibility the vision 
 would have seemed! 0, if, in brighter days, the now- 
 extinsruished fire within him ever burned for one wo- 
 man 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 
 miaht have been imairination, but for Tooting and her 
 patron saint. Be it what it may, now, it was so dire- 
 fully impressed at tea-time by Mr. Snagsby's account 
 of the enquiry at which he had assisted, that at supper- 
 time she projected herself into the kitchen, preceded 
 by a flying Dutch-cheese, and fell into a fit of unusual 
 duration: which she only came out of to go into an- 
 other, and another, and so on through a chain of fits, 
 with short intervals between, of which she has patheti- 
 cally 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 dis-
 
 212 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 interested ecstasy of his on the subject of daylight, 
 says, drawing a long breath, thought the most patient 
 of men, "I thought you was dead, I am sure!" 
 
 What question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he 
 settles when he strains himself to such an extent, or 
 why he should thus crow (so men crow on various 
 triumphant pubhc occasions, however) about what can- 
 not be of any moment to him, is his aflfair. It is 
 enough'that daylight comes, morning comes, noon comes, 
 ^..^^hen the active and intelligent, who has got into 
 the morning papers as such, comes with his pauper 
 company to Mr. Krook's, and bear^ off the body oi. 
 pur dear brother here departed, to a hemmed-in church- 
 '■ yard, pestiferous and obscene,- whence malignant dis- 
 eases 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 complacent and agreeable. Into a beastly scrap 
 of ground which a Turk would reject as a savage abo- 
 mination, and a Caffre would shudder at, they bring 
 our dear brother here departed, to receive Christian 
 
 buriaJU:' 
 
 ^p^jWith houses looking on, on every side, save where 
 ^^ reeking 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 ac- 
 tion close on life — here, they lower our dear brother 
 down a foot or two: here, sow him in corruption, to 
 J 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. / 
 
 ^ ^
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 213 
 
 Come night, come darkness, for you cannot come 
 too soon, or stay too long, by such a place as this! 
 Come, strasf^ling lights into the windows of the ugly 
 houses; and you who do iniquity therein, do it at least 
 with this dread scene shut out! Come, flame of gas, 
 hurninsr so sullenly above the iron 2rate. 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. 
 
 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 men's, thou art not quite in 
 outer darkness. There is something like a distant ray 
 of light in thy muttered reason for this: 
 
 "He wos wery good to me, he wos!" 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 On the Watch. 
 
 It has left off raining down in Lincolnshire, at 
 last, and Chesney Wold has taken heart. IMrs. Rounce- 
 well is full of hospitable cares, for Sir Leicester and 
 my Lady are coming home from Paris. The fashion- 
 able intelligence has found it out, and communicates 
 the glad tidings to benighted England. It has also 
 found out, that they will entertain a brilliant and dis-
 
 214 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 tinguished circle of the elite of the heaii monde (the 
 fashionable intelh'gence is weak in English, but a giant- 
 refreshed in French), at the ancient and hospitable 
 family seat in Lincolnshire. 
 
 For the greater honour of the brilliant and dis- 
 tinguished 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 be- 
 holds 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 contemplated 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. 
 
 Through the same cold sunshine, and the same 
 sharp wind, my Lady and Sir Leicester, in their 
 travelling chariot, (my Lady's woman, and Sir Leicester's 
 man affectionate in the rumble,) start for home. With 
 a considerable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, 
 and many plunging demonstrations 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 215 
 
 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, -^sembly, opera, theatre, drive, nothing is 
 new to my Lady, under the worn-out heavens. Only 
 last Sunday, when poor wretches were gay'^ — within 
 the walls, playing with children among the clipped 
 trees and the statues in the Palace Garden; walking, 
 a score abreast, in the Elysian Fields, made more Ely- 
 sian 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, anirjiate and inanimate — only last Sunday, my 
 Lady, ip*<&e desolation of Boredom and the clutch of 
 GianfL)espair, 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 — 
 hefiVriel has put a girdle of it round the whole earth, 
 and it cannot be unclasped — but the imperfect re- 
 medy is always to fly, from the last place where it has 
 been experienced. Fling Paris back into the distance, 
 then, exchansring 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
 
 216 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 of it, and light and shadow descending on it aslant, 
 like the angels in Jacob's dream! 
 
 Sir Leicester is generally in a complacent state, 
 and rarely bored. When he has nothing else to do, 
 he can always contemplate his own greatness. It is a 
 considerable advantage to a man, to have so inex- 
 haustible a subject. After reading his letters, he leans 
 back in his corner of the carriage, and generally re- 
 views 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 ad- 
 miration. 
 
 "Ha!" sighs my Lady. "He is the most tiresome 
 of men!" 
 
 "He sends — I really beg your pardon — he 
 sends," says vSir 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 '11 excuse me. He 
 says • — " • Sir Leicester is so long in taking out his 
 eye-glass and adjusting it, that my Lady looks a little 
 irritated. "He says 'In the matter of the right of 
 way — ' I beg your 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 some-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 217 
 
 thing to tell her on her return, in reference to the 
 person who copied the affidavit in the Chancery suit, 
 which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. I have 
 seen him.' " 
 
 My Lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window. 
 
 "That's the message," observes Sir Leicester. 
 
 "I should like to walk a little," says my Lady, 
 still looking out of her window. 
 
 "Walk?" repeats Sir Leicester, in atone of surprise. 
 
 "I should like to walk a little," says my Lady, 
 with unmistakeable distinctness. "Please to stop the 
 carriage." 
 
 The carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights 
 from the rumble, opens the door, and lets down the 
 steps, obedient to 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 before 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-cracking, and more or less plunging of Cen- 
 taurs 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,
 
 218 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 standing, hat in band, to help my Lady to and from 
 the carriage. One observes my Lady, how recogni- 
 sant 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, vi^iose 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. 
 
 Throu2:h the same cold sunliofht — colder as the 
 day declines, — and through the same sharp wind •-— 
 shkrper as the separate shadows of bare trees gloom 
 together in the woods , and as the Ghost's Walk, 
 touched at the western corner by a pile of iire 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 carriage as it passes under- 
 neath; some agreeing that Sir Leicester and my Lady 
 are come down; some arguing with malcontents who 
 won't admit it; now, all consenting to consider the 
 question disposed of; now, all breaking out again in 
 violent debate, incited by one obstinate and drowsy 
 bird, who will persist in putting in a last contradic- 
 tory croak. Leaving them to swing and caw, the 
 travellinsr 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 expres-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 219 
 
 sion to the darkening mass of front. But the brilliant 
 
 and distinouished circle will soon do that. 
 
 o - — — ■-. 
 
 Mrs. ivoiincewell is in attendance, and receives Sir 
 Leice^ter% "customarry shake of the hand with a pro- 
 found 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. 
 Rouncewell, 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 observation, whatever else she may have con- 
 quered, asks: 
 
 "Who is that girl?" 
 
 "A voung scholar of mine, mv Ladv. Rosa." 
 
 "Cotne here, Rosa!" Lady Dedlock beckons her, 
 with even an appearance of interest. "Why, do you 
 know how pretty you are, child?" she says, touching 
 her shoulder with her two forefingers. 
 
 !MOS^>very much abashed, says "No, if you please, 
 ly 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."
 
 220 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 aflfability. Mrs. Rouncewell is not 
 quite sure as to that. Heaven forbid that she should 
 say a syllable in dispraise of any member of that ex- 
 cellent 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 sup- 
 pose 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." 
 
 "Might not that have made her still more proud, 
 grandmother?" says Watt; who has been home and 
 come back again, he is such a good grandson,„ 
 
 "More and most, my dear," returns the house- 
 keeper with dignity, "are words it's not my place to
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 221 
 
 use — nor so much as to hear — applied to any 
 drawback on my Lady." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, grandmother. But she is 
 proud, is she not?" 
 
 "If she is, she has reason to be. The Dedlock 
 family have always reason to be." 
 
 "Well!" says Watt, "it 's to be hoped they line 
 out of their Prayer-Books a certain passage for the 
 common people about pride and vain-glory. Forgive 
 me, grandmother! Only a joke!" 
 
 "Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, my dear, are 
 not fit subjects for joking." 
 
 "Sir Leicester is no joke, by any means," says 
 Watt; "and I humbly ask his pardon. I suppose, 
 grandmother, that, even with the family and their 
 guests down here, there is no objection to my pro- 
 longing 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 — 
 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 sur- 
 passing 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 tight-
 
 222 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 ness of face, rendering the jaws too eager, and the 
 skull too prominent. There is something indefinably 
 keen and wan about her anatomy; and she has a 
 watchful way of looking out of the corners of her eyes 
 without turning her head, which 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 
 so express themselves, that she seems to go about 
 like a very neat She-Wolf imperfectly tamed. Besides 
 being accomplished in all the knowledge appertaining 
 to her post, she is 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 companion, the affectionate man, is 
 rather relieved when she arrives at the spoon stage 
 of that performance. ''^^^/'•''''''"V'X 
 
 Ha, ha, ha! She, Etortense;, "been in my Lady's 
 service since five years^^-.,-aia*Htltways kept at the 
 distance, and this doll, this puppet, caressed — abso- 
 lutely caressed — by my Lady on the moment of her 
 arriving at the house I Ha, 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 Made- 
 moiselle 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,
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 223 
 
 relapses into silent enjoyment ol 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 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 Saint James's to their 
 being run down to Death. The place in Lincolnshire 
 is all alive. By day, guns and voices are heard 
 ringing in the woods, horsemen and carriages enliven 
 the park-roads, servants and hangers-on pervade the 
 Village and the Dedlock Arms. -*^' Seen by night, from 
 distant openings in the trees, the row of windows in 
 the long drawing-room, where my Lady's picture 
 hangs over the great chimney-piece, is like a row 
 of jewels set in a black frame*' On Sunday, the chill 
 little church is almost warrtied 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? "^liere is no King George the Fourth
 
 224 BLEAK HODSE. 
 
 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 reviv^ed by other dainty creatures, 
 poking long -necked scent- bottles at their noses. 
 There is no beau whom it takes four men at once 
 to shake into his buckskins, or who goes to see all 
 the Executions, or who is troubled with the self- 
 reproach of having once consumed a pea. But is 
 . there Dandyism in the brilliant and 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 
 particularly object? 
 
 Why, yes. It cannot be disguised. There are, 
 at Chesney Wold this January week, some ladies 
 and gentlemen of the newest fashion, who have set up 
 a Dandyism — in 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 Avanting, 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 225 
 
 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 dis- 
 turbed 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 supposing 
 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 consequence of the breach arising out of that 
 affair with Hoodie. Then, giving the Home Depart- 
 ment and the Leadership of the House of Commons to 
 Joodle, the Exchequer to Koodle, the Colonies to 
 Loodle, and the Foreign Office to Moodle, what are 
 you to do with Noodle? You can't offer him the Pre- 
 sidency of the Council; tliat is reserved for Poodle. 
 You can't put him in the AV'oods and Forests; that is 
 hardly good enough for Quoodle. What follows? That 
 the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces 
 Bleak House, 1. lo
 
 226 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 (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 Cufiy. If you had done 
 with Cuffy what you ought to have done when he first 
 came into Parliament, and had prevented him from 
 going over to Duffy, you would have got him into 
 alliance with 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, know- 
 ledge and the business habits of Muffy. All this, instead 
 of being, as you now are, dependent on the mere 
 caprice of Puffy! 
 
 As to this point, and as to some minor topics, there 
 are differences of opinion; but it is perfectly clear to 
 the brilliant and distinguished circle, all round, that 
 nobody is in question but Boodle and his retinue, and 
 Buffy and his retinue. These are the great actors for 
 whom the stage is reserved. A People there are, no 
 doubt — a certain large number of supernumeraries, 
 who are to be occasion all}'" 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 others can appear upon the scene for ever and 
 ever.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 227 
 
 In this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at 
 Chesney Wold than the brilliant and distinguished circle 
 will find good for itself in the long run. For it is, 
 even with the stillest and politest circles, as with the 
 circle the necromancer draws around him — very strange 
 appearances may be seen in active motion outside. 
 With this difference; that, being realities and not 
 phantoms , there is the greater danger of their break- 
 ing in. 
 
 /^Chesney Wold is quite full, anyhow; so full, that a 
 burning 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 any- 
 body 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 down here, his black figure may be seen walking 
 before breakfast like a larger species of rook. 
 
 Every day before dinner, my Lady looks for him 
 in the dusk of the library, but he is not there. Every 
 day at dinner, my Lady glances down the table for the 
 vacant place, that would be waiting to receive him if 
 
 15'
 
 228 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 he had just arrived; but there is no vacant place. 
 Every night, my Lady casually asks her maid: 
 
 "Is Mr. Tnlkini^horn come?" 
 
 Every night the answer is, "No, my Lady, not 
 yet." 
 
 One night, while having her hair undressed, my 
 Lady loses herself in deep thought after this reply, 
 until she sees her own brooding face in the opposite 
 glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously observing her. 
 
 "Be so good as to attend," says my Lady then, 
 addressing the reflection of Hortense, "to your 
 business. You can contemplate your beauty at another 
 time." 
 
 "Pardon! It was your Ladyship's beauty." 
 
 "That," says my Lady, "you needn't contemplate 
 at 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. He wears his usual 
 expressionless mask — if it be a mask — and carries 
 family secrets in every limb of his body, and every 
 crease of his dress. Whether his whole soul is devoted 
 to the great, or whether he yields them nothing beyond 
 the services he sells, is his personal secret. He keeps 
 it, as he keeps the secrets of his clients; he is 
 his own client in that matter, and will never betray 
 himself. 
 
 "How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?" says Sir 
 Leicester, giving him his hand.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 229 
 
 Mr. Tulki'ngliorn is quite well. Sir Leicester is 
 quite well. My Lady is quite well. All highly satis- 
 factory. 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. Tulking- 
 horn, 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 I have been much engaged with those 
 matters in the several suits between yourself and Boy- 
 thorn." ^-^ • 
 
 "A man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes 
 Sir Leicester, with severity. "An extremely dangerous 
 person in any community. A man of a very low cha- 
 racter 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."
 
 230 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Mr. Tulkinghorn," returns Sir Leicester, "there 
 can be no minor point between myself and Mr. Boy- 
 thorn. 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, "^o give trouble. An ex- 
 ceedingly ill-conditioned, levelling person. A person 
 who, fifty years ago, would probably have been tried 
 at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding, 
 and severely punished — if not," adds Sir Leicester, 
 after a moment's pause, "if not hanged, drawn, and 
 quartered." 
 
 Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast 
 of a burden, in passing this capital sentence; as if it 
 were the next satisfactory thing to having the sentence 
 executed. 
 
 "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 writi^ I happened to inquire about. It was 
 like you to remember the circumstance; I had quite 
 forgotten it. Your message reminded me of it again. 
 I can't imagine what association I had, with a hand 
 like that; but I surely had some."
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 231 
 
 "You had some?" Mr. Tnlkinghorn repeats. 
 
 "0 yes!" returns ray 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 I" 
 
 They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the 
 ground-floor, liahted in the day by two deep windows. 
 It is now twiliglit. The fire glows brightly on the 
 panelled \^all, and palely on the window -glass, where, 
 throusrh 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."
 
 232 BLEAK HOrSE. 
 
 "You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn," observes 
 Sir Leicester. "1 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?" 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn re -asserts it by another in- 
 clination 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 Jiad died by 
 his own hand or not, it was beyond my power to tell 
 you. I should amend that phrase, however, by saying 
 that he had unquestionably died of his own act; though 
 whether by his own deliberate intention, or by mis- 
 chance, can never certainly be known. The coroner's 
 jury found that he took the poison accidentally." 
 
 "And what kind of man," my Lady asks, "was 
 this deplorable creature?" 
 
 "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 ap- 
 pearance and condition."
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 233 
 
 "What did they call the wretched being?" 
 "They called him what he had called himself, but 
 
 no one knew his name." 
 
 "Not even any one who had attended on him?" 
 "No one had attended on him. He was found 
 
 dead. In fact, I found him." 
 
 "Without any clue to anything more?" 
 
 "Without any; there was," says the lawyer, medi- 
 tatively, "an old portmanteau; but — No, there were 
 no papers." 
 
 During the utterance of every word of this short 
 dialogue. Lady Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, with- 
 out any other alteration in their customary deportment, 
 have looked very steadily at one another — as was 
 natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a 
 subject. Sir Leic^ter has looked at the fire, with the 
 general expression of the Dedlock on the staircase. 
 The story being told, he renews his stately protest, 
 saying, that as it is quite clear that no association in 
 my Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor 
 wretch (unless he was a begging -letter writer), he 
 trusts to hear no more about a subject so far removed 
 from my Lady's station. 
 
 "Certainly, a collection of horrors," says my Lady, 
 gathering up her mantles and furs; "but they^terest 
 one for the moment! Have the kindness, Mr. Tulking- 
 horn, to open the door for me." 
 
 Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference, and holds 
 it open while she passes out. She passes close to him, 
 with her usual fatigued manner, and insolent grace. 
 They meet again at dinner — again, next day — 
 again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is
 
 234 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by wor- 
 shippers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, 
 even while presiding at her own shrine. Mr. Tnlking- 
 horn is always the same speechless repository of noble 
 confidences: so oddly out of place, and yet so per- 
 fectly at home. They appear to take as little note of one 
 another, as any two people, enclosed within the same 
 walls, could. But, whether each evermore watches 
 and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some 
 great reservation; w^hether each is evermore prepared 
 at all points for the other, and never to be taken un- 
 awares; what each would give to know how much the 
 other knows — all this is hidden, for the time, in 
 their own hearts. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Esther's Narrative. 
 
 We held many consultations about what Richard 
 was to be; first, without Mr. Jarndyce, as he had re- 
 quested, and afterwards with him; but it was a long 
 time before we seemed to make progress. Richard 
 said he was ready for anything. When Mr. Jarndyce 
 doubted whether he might not already be too old to 
 enter the Navy, Richard said he had thought of that, 
 and pec^iaps 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 him- 
 self, whether his old preference for the sea was an 
 ordinary boyish inclination, oi; a strong impulse, 
 Richard answered. Well, he really Aac? tried very often, 
 and he couldn't make out.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 235 
 
 "How much of this indecision of character," Mr. 
 Jarndyce said to me, "is chargeable on that incom- 
 prehensible heap of uncertainty and procrastination on 
 which he has been thrown from his birth, I don't pre- 
 tend 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 cha- 
 racter of much older and steadier people may be even 
 changed by the circumstances surrounding them. It 
 would be too much to expect that a boy's, in its for- 
 mation, should be the subject of such influences, and 
 escape them." 
 
 I felt this to be true; though, if I may venture to 
 mention what 1 thought besides, I thought it much to 
 be regretted that Richard's education had not coun- 
 teracted those influences, or directed his character. 
 He had been eight years at a public school, and had 
 learnt, I understood, to make Latin Verses of several 
 sorts, in the most admirable manner. But I never 
 heard that it had been anybody's business to find out 
 what his natural bent 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 re- 
 mained 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 iijiproving, 
 and very sufficient for a great many purposes of life,
 
 236 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 ex- 
 tent — 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. 
 
 "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 mucU chance of finding out for himself what he 
 was fitted for, and having never been guided to the
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 237 
 
 discovery, he was taken by the newest idea, and was 
 glad to get rid of the trouble of consideration, I won- 
 dered 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 de- 
 ceive himself in so important a matter. Richard was 
 a little grave after these interviews; but invariably 
 told A-da and me "that it was all right," and then 
 began to talk about something else. 
 
 "By Heaven!" cried Mi*. Boy thorn, 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 gentleman of spirit and gallantry 
 devoting himself to that noble profession! The more 
 spirit there is. in it, the better for mcfnkind, and 
 tfre'^ivofSe for tliose mercenary taskmasters and low 
 tricksters who delight in piuting that illustrious art at 
 a disadvantage in the world. By all that is base and 
 despicable," cried I\Ir. 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 trans- 
 portable offence in any qualified practitioner to set 
 them, if the system were not wholly changed in eight- 
 and-forty hours!" 
 
 "Wouldn't you give them a week?" asked Mr. 
 Jarndyce. 
 
 "No!" cried Mr. Boythorn, firmly. "Not on any 
 consideration! Eight-and-forty hours! As to Corpora- 
 tions, Pari.shes, Vestry-Boards, and similar gatherings 
 of jolter-headed clods, who assemble to exchange such
 
 238 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 speeches that, by Heaven! they ought to be worked 
 in quicksilver mines for the short remainder of their 
 miserable existence, if it were only to prevent their 
 destestable English from contaminating a language 
 spoken in the presence of the Sun — as to those fel- 
 lows, who meanly take advantage of the ardour of 
 gentlemen in the pursuit of knowledge, to recompense 
 the inestimable services of the best years of their lives, 
 their long study, and their expensive education, with 
 pittances too small fot" 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, liow thick skulls may be- 
 come!" 
 
 He wound up this vehement declaration by looking 
 round upon us with a most agreeable smile, and sud- 
 denly thundering, 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 to say that he was fixed 
 in his choice, after repeated periods for consideration 
 had been recommended by Mr. Jarndyce, and had ex- 
 pired; and as 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 in 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.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 239 
 
 "Ah!" said Mr. Keuge. "Yes. Well! A very good 
 profession, Mr. Jarndyce; a very good profession." 
 
 "The course of study and preparation requires to 
 be diligently pursued j" observed my Guardian, with a 
 glance at Richard. 
 
 "0, no doubt," said Mr. Kenge. "Diligently." 
 
 "But that being the case, more or less, with all 
 pursuits that are. worth much," said Mr. Jarndyce, 
 "it is not a special consideration which another choice 
 would be likely to escape." 
 
 "Truly," said Mr. Kengfe. "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 versifica- 
 tion 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 ex- 
 pressions; "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.
 
 240 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Quite so!" observed Mr. Kenge. "As to situa 
 tion, 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 suffi- 
 ciently eligible practitioner; and, as soon as we make 
 our want — and, shall I add, our ability to pay a 
 premium? — known, our only difficulty will be in the 
 selection of one from a large number. We have only, 
 in the second place, to observe those little formalities 
 which are rendered necessary by our time of life, and 
 our being under the guardianship of the Court. We 
 shall soon be — shall I 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 coin- 
 cidences which may or may not require an explanation 
 beyond our present limited faculties, that I have a 
 cousin in the medical profession. Pie mi^ht 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 T^ 
 
 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.
 
 BLEAK HOUJSE. 2il 
 
 Mr. Boythorn leaving us within a week, we took 
 up our abode at a cheerful lodging near Oxford Street, 
 over an upholsterer's shop. London was a great wonder 
 to us, and we w^ere 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 w^as in the place he liked best, be- 
 hind 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 wuth a carefully prepared 
 expression of the deepest misery and the profoundest 
 d e j e c 1 1 ri7~ 
 
 It quite spoiled my pleasure for that night, be- 
 cause it was so very embarrassing and so very ridi- 
 culous. But, from that time forth, we never went to 
 the play, without my seeing 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 ex- 
 pected it, and, from that time, to be quite sure that 
 they were fixed upon me all the evening. 
 Bleak House. I. 1*3
 
 242 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 1 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 de- 
 spondency, 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 na- 
 turally. 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 any body 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 possi- 
 bility of his fighting 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 convinced 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 coming out, and even to get 
 up behind our fly — where I am sure T saw him, two
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 243 
 
 or three times, struggling among the most dreadful 
 spikes. After we got home, he haunted a post op- 
 posite 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 1 went upstairs, lest I should 
 see him (as I did one moonlight night) leaning against 
 the post, and evidently catching cold. If I\Ir. 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 at- 
 tended 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 as 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 engage- 
 ment to dine at Mr. Badger's house. We were to be 
 "merely a family party," ^Irs. Badger's note said; and 
 we found no lady there but Mrs. Badger herself. She 
 was surrounded in the drawing-room by various ob- 
 jects, indicative of her painting a little, playing the 
 piano a little, playing the guitan a little, playing the 
 harp a little, singing a little, working a little, reading 
 a little, writing poetry a little, and botanising a little. 
 
 IG*
 
 244 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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. 
 
 Mr. Bayham Badger himself was a pink, fresh- 
 faced, crisp-looking gentleman, with a weak voice, 
 white teeth, light hair, and surprised eyes: some years 
 younger, I should say, than Mrs. Bayham Badger. 
 He admired her exceedingly, but principally, and to 
 begin with, on the curious ground (as it seemed to 
 us) of her having had three husbands. We had barely 
 taken our seats, when he said to Mr, Jarndyce quite 
 triumphantly, 
 
 "You would hardly suppose that I am Mrs. Bayham 
 Badger's third!" 
 
 "Indeed?" said Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 "Her third!" said Mr. Badger. "Mrs. Bayham 
 Badger has not the 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 was Mrs. Badger's first husband, was a 
 very distinguished officer indeed. The name of Pro- 
 fessor 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 Summer- 
 son, that vou had had two former husbands — both
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 245 
 
 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 Mediterranean with him; I am quite a Sailor. 
 On the twelfth anniversary of my wedding-day, I be- 
 came the wife of Professor Dingo." 
 
 ("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." 
 
 "So that Mrs. Badger has been married to three 
 husbands — two of them highly distinguished 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. Jarn- 
 dyce, "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 afTectation of dis- 
 paraging such professional distinction as I may have 
 attained (which our friend Mr. Carstone will have many 
 opportunities of estimating), I am not so weak — no, 
 really," said Mr. Badger to us generally, "so unrea- 
 sonable — as to put my reputation on the same foot-
 
 246 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 ing with such first-rate men as Captain Swosser and 
 Professor Dingo. Perhaps you may be interested, Mr. 
 Jarndyce," continued Mr. Bayham 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!" 
 
 AYe 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 be- 
 speaks the first-class man that Captain Swosser pre- 
 eminently was. On the other side. Professor Dingo. 
 I knew him well — attended him in his last illness — 
 a speaking likeness! Over the piano, Mrs. Bayham 
 Badger when Mrs. Swosser. Over the sofa, Mrs. 
 Bayham Badger when Mrs. Dingo. Of Mrs. Bayham 
 Badger in esse, I possess the original, and have no 
 copy." 
 
 Dinner was now announced, and we went down 
 stairs. It was a very genteel entertainment, very 
 handsomely served. But the Captain and the Profes- 
 sor still ran in Mr. Badger's head, and, as Ada and I 
 had the honour of being under his 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.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 247 
 
 "They were presented to Mrs. Bayliam Badger when she 
 was in the JMediterranean." 
 
 He invited Mr. Jarndyee 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. Jarndyee, this is a wine that 
 wa.s imported by the Captain, we will not say how 
 many years ago. You will find it very curious. ' My 
 dear, 1 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, w^hen we ladies retired, we took Mrs. 
 Badger's first and second husband with us. Mrs. 
 Badger gave us, in the drawing-room, a Biographical 
 sketch of the life and services of Captain Swosser be- 
 fore 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, sha- 
 king 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. Cap- 
 tain 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
 
 248 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Swosser used to say) by the fire from my tops. It 
 was his naval way of mentioning my eyes." 
 
 Mrs. Badger shook her head, sighed, and looked 
 in the glass. 
 
 "It was a great change from Captain Swosser to 
 Professor Dingo," she resumed, with a plaintive smile. 
 "I felt it a good deal at first. Such an entire revo- 
 lution in my mode of life! But custom, combined 
 with science — particularly science — inured me to 
 it. Being the Professor's sole companion in his bota- 
 nical excursions, I ahnost forgot that I had ever been 
 afloat, and became cpiite 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 
 seemed 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. Bad- 
 ger 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 consigned 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 sepa- 
 rated so soon. I was therefore not very much sur- 
 prised, when we got home, and Ada and I retired up-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 249 
 
 stairs, to find Ada more silent than usual; though I 
 was not quite prepared for her coming into my arras, 
 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. 
 
 "O no! Don't! Pray, don't!" 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 sur- 
 prise, and hold me round the neck, and laugh, and 
 cry, and blush, and laugh, was so pleasant!
 
 250 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "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 1. "I waited to be told." 
 
 "But now I have told you, you don't think it 
 wrong of me; do you?" returned Ada. She might 
 have coaxed me to say No, if I had been the hardest- 
 hearted Duenna in the world. Not being that yet, I 
 said No, very freely. 
 
 "And now," said I, "I know the worst of it." 
 
 "O, that's not quite the worst of it, Esther dear!" 
 cried Ada, holding me tighter, and laying down her 
 face again upon my breast. 
 
 "No?" said I. "Not even that?" 
 
 "No, not even that!" said Ada, shaking her head. 
 
 "Why, you never mean to say — !" I was be- 
 ginning in joke. 
 
 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 1 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.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 251 
 
 "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 Ri- 
 chard's coming in. Dame Durden?" 
 
 "O! Richard is outside, is he, my dear?" said I. 
 
 "I am not quite certain," returned Ada, with a 
 bashful simplicity that would have won my heart, if 
 she had not won it long before; "but I think he's 
 waiting at the door." 
 
 There he was, of course. They brought a chair on 
 either side of me, and put me between them, and really 
 seemed to have fallen in love with me, nnstead 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 years before this early love could 
 come to anything, and how it could come to happi- 
 ness only if it were real and lasting, and inspired 
 them with a steady resolution to do their duty to 
 each other, with constancy, fortitude, and perseverance: 
 each always for the other's sake. AVelll Richard 
 said that he would work his fingers to the bone for 
 Ada, and Ada said that slie 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.
 
 252 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 So, when to-morrow came, I went to my Guardian 
 after breakfast, in the room that was our town-sub- 
 stitute 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 it." 
 
 "I hope not. Guardian," said I. "I can guarantee 
 that there is no secresy in it. For it only happened 
 yesterday." 
 
 "Aye? And what is it, Esther?" 
 
 "Guardian," said I, "you remember the happy 
 night when we first came down to Bleak House? When 
 Ada was singing in the dark room?" 
 
 I Avished to recall 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 encircle Ada with one arm, in his fatherly way, 
 and addressed himself to Richard with a cheerful 
 gravity.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 253 
 
 "Rick," said Mr. Jarndyce, "T 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 -contem- 
 plate, 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 speaking to you according to that assump- 
 tion 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 mon- 
 strous 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 
 nothincr to forfeit it." 
 
 "I am very sure, Sir," returned Richard, "that I 
 speak for Ada, too, when I say that you have the
 
 254 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 as- 
 sumption. Now we lift our eyes up, and look hope- 
 fully 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 abili- 
 ties 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 For- 
 tune by fits and starts, leave that wrong idea here, or 
 leave your 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,
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 255 
 
 Rick, in your active life, no less than in her home 
 when you revisit it, and all \vill 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-Hbis face, listening, and 
 seemed to see nothing else.^^So young, so 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 ma- 
 king them all years of brightness. So thev passed 
 away into the shadoAv, and were gone. It was only 
 a burst of light tliat had been so radiant. The room 
 darkened as they went out, and the sun was clouded 
 over. 
 
 "Ain 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, tlie quality he wants. 
 Wants, at the core of so much that is good!" said 
 Mr. Jarndyce, shaking his head. "I have said no- 
 thing to Ada, Esther. She has her friend and coun-
 
 256 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 seller always near." And he laid his hand lovingly 
 upon my head. 
 
 I could not help shoM'^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 hap- 
 piest creature in the world!" 
 
 "I believe so too," said he. "But some one may 
 find out, what Esther never will — that the little wo- 
 man is to be held in remembrance above all other 
 people!" 
 
 I have omitted to mention in its place, that there 
 was some one else at the family dinner party. It was 
 not a lady. It- was a gentleman. It was a gentleman 
 of a dark complexion — a young surgeon. He was 
 rather reserved, but I thought him very sensible and 
 agreeable. At least, Ada asked me if 1 did not, and 
 I said yes.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 257 
 
 CHAPTER Xiy. 
 
 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 faitliful 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 was to 
 observe how resolute and persevering he would be; 
 I was to be Ada's bridesmaid when they were married; 
 I was to live with them afterwards; I was to keep all 
 the keys of their house; I was to be made happy for 
 ever and a day. 
 
 "And if the suit should make us rich, Esther — 
 which it may, you know!" said Richard, to crown all. 
 
 A shade crossed Ada's face. 
 
 "My dearest Ada," asked Richard, pausing, "why 
 not?" 
 
 "It had better declare us poor at once," said Ada. 
 
 "O! I don't know about that," returned Richard; 
 "but, at all events, it won't declare anything at once. 
 It hasn't declared anything in Heaven knows how 
 many years." 
 
 "Too true," said Ada. 
 
 "Yes, but," urged Richard, answering what her 
 look suggested rather than her words, "the longer 
 it goes on, dear cousin, the nearer it must be to a 
 
 Bltuk IhiWiC. I. i7
 
 258 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 settlement one way or other. Now, is not that rea- 
 sonable?" 
 
 "You know best, Richard. But I am afraid if we 
 trust to it, it will make us unhappy." 
 
 "But, my Ada, we are not going to trust to it!" 
 cried Richard gaily. " We know it better than to 
 trust to it. We only say that if it should make us 
 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, Avell!" cried Richard, "then we will forget 
 all about it! We consi^jn the whole thinjr to oblivion. 
 Dame Durden puts on her approving face, and it's 
 done!" 
 
 "Dame Durden's approving face," said I, looking 
 cut 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. 
 Jai-ndyce at Mrs. Jellyby's, but had not been so for- 
 tunate as to find her at home. It appeared that she 
 had gone somewhere, to a tea-drinking, and had taken
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 259 
 
 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 
 coflfee, conjointly with natives, at the Settlement of 
 Borrioboola Gha. All this involved, no doubt, suffi- 
 cient active exercise of pen and ink, to make her 
 daughter's part in the proceedings, anything but a 
 holiday. 
 
 It being, now, beyond the time appointed for Mrs. 
 Jellyby's return, we called again. She was in town, 
 but not at home, having gone to Mile End, directly 
 after breakfast, on some Borrioboolan business, arisino' 
 out of a Society called the East London Branch Aid 
 Ramification. As I had not seen Peepy on the occa- 
 sion 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 
 enquired 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." AVhen we re- 
 peated, 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 pre- 
 sentable, 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 
 
 17*
 
 260 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 
 haby. His boots were, on a small scale, the boots 
 of a ploughman: while his legs, so crossed and re- 
 crossed with scratches that they looked like maps, 
 were bare, below a very short pair of plaid drawers 
 finished ofif with two frills of perfectly diflferent patterns. 
 The deficient buttons on his plaid frock had evidently 
 been supplied from one of Mr. Jellyby's coats, they 
 were so extremely brazen and so much too large. 
 Most extraordinary specimens of needlework 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 appearance, and looked very pretty. She was 
 conscious 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 pre- 
 sented 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 '11 be interested to hear that. I have 
 brought one of them with me. Ma's compliments." 
 With which she presented it sulkily enough. 
 
 "Thank you," said my Guardian. "I am much 
 obliged to Mrs. Jellyby. O dear me! This is a very 
 trying wind!"
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 261 
 
 We were busy with Peepy; faking 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 allowed me to take 
 him on my lap, where he sat munching quietly. Mr. 
 Jarndyce then withdrawing into the temporary Grow- 
 lery. 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 worse off if I was a what's-his- 
 name — man and a brother!" 
 
 I tried to say something soothing. 
 
 "O, it's of no use, Miss Summerson," exclaimed 
 Miss Jellyby, "though I thank you for the kind in- 
 tention all the same. I know how I am used, and I 
 am not to be talked over. You wouldn't be talked 
 over, if you were used so. Peepy, go and play at 
 Wild Beasts under the piano!" 
 
 "I shan't!" said Peepy. 
 
 "Very well, you ungrateful, naughty, hard-hearted 
 boy!" returned Miss Jellyby, with tears in her eyes. 
 "I'll never take pains to dress you any more." 
 
 "Yes, I will go, Caddy!" cried Peepy, who was 
 really a good child, and who was so moved by his 
 sister's vexation that he went at once. 
 
 "It seems a little thing to cry about," said poor 
 Miss Jellyby, 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. Was there 
 ever such a fright as he is!"
 
 262 BT.EAK HOUSE. 
 
 Peepy, happily nnconscions of the defects in his 
 appearance, 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. 
 
 "1 have sent him to the other end of the room," 
 observed Miss Jellyby, 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 '11 be nobody but Ma to thank for it " 
 
 We said we hoped Mr. Jellyby's affairs were not in 
 so bad a state as that. 
 
 "It's of no use hoping, though it's very kind of 
 you!" returned Miss Jellyby, shaking her head. "Pa 
 told me, only yesterday morning, (and dreadfully un- 
 happy he is) that he couldn't weather the storm. 1 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 im- 
 prove things if I knew how, and Ma don't care about 
 anything, I should like to make out how Pa is to 
 weather 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 Summer- 
 son," 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 home, from week's-end 
 to week's-end, is like one great washing-day — only 
 nothing's washed!"
 
 BLEAK norsE. _2G3 
 
 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 proposed to by Mr. Quale. 
 A pretty thing, indeed, to marry a Philanthropist. As 
 if I hadn't had enough of that!'^ said poor Miss 
 Jellybur. y 
 
 , r 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, "1 should 
 have been ashamed to come here to-dav, 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/m."
 
 264 BLEAK IIODSE. 
 
 "Bnt would it not be aclding to his nnhappiness, 
 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 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 touched, 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 in my lap, and had shown him that 
 Caddy was laughing (she laughed expressly for the 
 purpose), that we could recal 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 yet 
 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 provoking way of hers as if I 
 wasn't in sight; but, I was quite determined to be
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 2G5 
 
 taught to dance, and so I went to Mr. Turvejdrop's 
 Academy in Newman Street. 
 
 "And was is there, my dear — "I began. 
 
 *'Yes, it was there," said Caddy, "and lam engaged 
 to Mr. Turveydrop. There are two Mr. Tiirveydrops, 
 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 re- 
 torted 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 share in the connexion, and it might 
 break his heart, or give him some other shock, if he 
 was told of it abruptly. Old Mr. Turveydrop is a very 
 gentlemanly man indeed — very gentlemanly." 
 
 "Does his wife know of it?" asked Ada. 
 
 "Old Mr. Turveydrop's wife. Miss Clare?" returned 
 Miss Jellyby, opening her eyes. "There 's no such 
 person. He is a widower." 
 
 We were here interrupted by Peepy, whose leg had 
 undergone so much on account of his sister's uncon- 
 sciously jerking it like a bell-rope whenever she was 
 emphatic, that the afflicted child now bemoaned his 
 suSerings with a very low-spirited noise. As he ap- 
 pealed to me for compassion, and as I was only a 
 listener, I undertook to hold him. Miss Jellyby pro- 
 ceeded, 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. AVe
 
 266 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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. Tur- 
 veydrop knows there is such a place, it 's as much as 
 he does." 
 
 "It was he who was very gentlemanly, I think?" 
 said I. 
 
 "Very gentlemanly, indeed," said Caddy. "He is 
 celebrated, almost everywhere, for his Deportment." 
 
 "Does he teach?" asked Ada. 
 
 "No, he don't teach anything in particular," replied 
 Caddy. "But his Deportment is beautiful." 
 
 Caddy went on to say, with considerable hesitation 
 and reluctance, that there was one thing more she 
 wished us to know, and felt we ought to know, and 
 which she hoped would not offend us. It was, tljat 
 she had improved her acc|uaintance with Miss Flit^, 
 the little crazy old lady; and 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 
 doer, but of course he didn't christen himself. Old 
 Mr. Turveydrop had him christened Prince, in remem- 
 brance of the Prince Regent. Old ]\Ir. Turveydrop 
 adored the Prince Regent on account of his Deport- 
 ment. I hope you won't think the worse of me for 
 having made these little appointments at Miss Flite's, 
 where I first went with you; because I like the poor
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 267 
 
 thins: for her own sake and I believe she likes me. If 
 you could see young Mr. Turreydrop, 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 trembling- 
 ly, "I should be very glad — very glad." 
 
 It happened that we had arranged with my Guar- 
 dian to go to Miss Flite'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 trusted that I might have 
 sufficient influence with Miss Jellyby to prevent her 
 taking any very rash step, if I fully accepted the con- 
 fidence 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 Flite'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 agreement 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 staircase windows. In the same house there 
 were also established, 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 lithogra- 
 phic artist. On the plate which, in size and situation,
 
 268 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 took precedence of all the rest, I read Mr. Turvey- 
 DROP. The door was open, and the hall was blocked 
 np by a grand piano, a harp, and several other musi- 
 cal 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 assem- 
 bled; and I was looking among them for their instruc- 
 tor, when Caddy, pinching my arm, repeated the cere- 
 mony of introduction. "Miss Summerson, Mr. Prince 
 Turveydrop!" 
 
 I curtseyed to a little blue- eyed fair man of youth- 
 ful appearance, with flaxen hair parted in the middle, 
 and curling 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 im-
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 269 
 
 pression that he was like his mother, and that his 
 mother had not been much considered or well used. 
 
 "I am very happy to see ISIiss Jellyby's friend," 
 he said, 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 ex- 
 cuses, 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 com- 
 plexion, false teeth, fal.se 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 neck-doth 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
 
 270 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 brim; and in his hand a pair of white gloves, with 
 whjch 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 everything but any touch of nature; he was not 
 like youth, he was not like age, he was like nothing 
 in the world but a model of Deportment. 
 
 "Father! A visitor. Miss Jelly by 's friend, Miss 
 Summerson." 
 
 "Distinguished," said Mr. Tnrveydrop, "by Miss 
 Sumraerson's presence." As he bowed to me in that 
 tight state, I almost believed 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 condescendingly, "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 his name on the doorplate?"
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 271 
 
 "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 — thread- 
 bare — almost shabby. "Yet the father must be gar- 
 nished and tricked out," said the old lady, "because 
 of his Deporment. I 'd deport him I Transport him 
 would be better!" 
 
 I felt curious to know more, concerning this per- 
 son. 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 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 ex- 
 penses 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
 
 272 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 lead an idle life in the very best clothes. To enable 
 liim to do this, the affectionate little dancinir-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 De- 
 portment 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 in- 
 formant, shaking her head at oldMr. Turveydrop with 
 speechless indignation as he drew on his tight gloves: 
 of course unconscious of the homage she was render- 
 ing. "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. 0!" said the old lady, 
 apostrophising him with infinite vehemence, "I could 
 bite you!" 
 
 I could not help being amused, though I heard the 
 old lady out with feelings of real concern. It was dif- 
 ficult 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 without them, I cannot say. There
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 273 
 
 was a fitness of things in the whole that carried con- 
 viction with it. 
 
 Mv eves were yet wanderinnf, from yoiin'^ ^Iv. 
 Tiirveydrop working so hard to old ]\[r. Tiirveydrop 
 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 was per- 
 fectly aware I should not do that, in any case, tut 
 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 tlie defi- 
 ciencies 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 we 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 De- 
 portment. It develops vulgarity. Perhaps I speak 
 BleakIlou.se. I. 18
 
 274 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 with some little partialit}^ It may not be for me to 
 say that I have been called, for some years now, 
 Gentleman Turveydrop; or that His Royal Highness 
 the Prince Regent did me the honour to inquire, on my 
 removing my hat as he drove out of the Pavilion at 
 Brio:hton (that fine building), 'Who is he? Wlio 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 I. 
 
 He replied with the high-shouldered bow. "Where 
 what is left among us of Deportment," he added, 
 y'*' still lingers. England — alas, my country!— has 
 clegenerated 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 Deport- 
 ment." 
 
 "He appears to be an excellent master," I ob- 
 served. 
 
 "Understand me, my dear Madam, he is an ex- 
 cellent master. All that can be acquired, he has ac- 
 quired. All that can be imparted, he can impart. But 
 there are things" — he took anotlier pinch of snufF 
 and made the bow again, as if to add, "this kind of 
 thing, for instance."
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 275 
 
 I glanced towards the centre of the room, where 
 Miss Jelly by's lover, now engaged with single pupils, 
 was undergoing greater drudgery than ever. 
 
 "My amiable child,'* murmured Mr. Turveydrop, 
 adjusting his cravat. 
 
 "Your son is indefatigable," said I. 
 "It is ray reward," said Mr. Turveydrop, "to hear 
 -you say so. In some respects, he treads in the foot- 
 steps of his sainted mother. She was a devoted crea- 
 ture. But Wooman, lovely Wooman ," said Mr. Turvey- 
 drop, with very disagreeable gallantry, "what a sex 
 you are!" 
 
 I rose and joined ]\Iiss Jellyby, who was, by this 
 time, putting 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 opportunity 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?" 
 
 18*
 
 276 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Yes, my dear. I suppose," said Mr. Turvey- 
 drop, shutting his eyes and lifting up his shoulders, 
 with modest consciousness, "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 Co- 
 lonnade." 
 
 "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 few moments that 
 were occupied by Prince in taking leave of us (and 
 particularly of one of us, as I saw, being in the 
 secret), enhanced my favourable impression of his al- 
 most 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 
 bis cold mutton and his chool 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, 
 wortliy of his shining original. In the same style he 
 presently passed us on the other side of the street, on
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 277 
 
 his way to the aristocratic part of the town, where 
 he was goinj? 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 Deporment. 
 This became so bewildering, and suggested the pos- 
 sibility 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 ac- 
 cordingly 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 neglected, that it was not always easy to read his 
 notes. She said, if he were not so anxious about his 
 spelling, and took less pains to make it clear, he would 
 do better; but he put so many unnecessary letters into 
 short words, that they sometimes quite lost their 
 English appearance. "He does it with the best inten 
 tions," observed Caddy, "but it hasn't the effect ho. 
 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, 
 morning, noon, and night! 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 accom- 
 plished girl who had any right to give herself airs,"
 
 278 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 housekeeping 
 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 en- 
 gaged to Prince, and have been doing all this, I have 
 felt better-tempered, I hope, and more forgiving to Ma. 
 It rather put me out, at first this morning, to see you 
 and Miss Clare looking so neat and pretty, and to feel 
 ashamed of Peepy and myself too; but, on the whole, 
 I hope I am better-tempered than I was, and more 
 forgiving to Ma." 
 
 The poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her 
 heart, and touched mine. "Caddy, my love," I re- 
 plied, "I begin to have a great affection for you, and
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 279 
 
 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 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 Flite had secretly di- 
 rected 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 mournful- 
 ness and even dread. "You look pale," said Caddy, 
 when wo 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 Elite's garret. They were looking at the 
 birds, while a medical gentleman who was so good as 
 to attend Miss Flite with much solicitude and compas- 
 sion, spoke with her cheerfully by the fire. 
 
 "I have finished my professional visit," he said, 
 coming forward. "Miss Flite is much better, and may
 
 230 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 appear in court (as her mind is set upon it) to-morrow. 
 She has been greatly missed there, I understand." 
 
 Miss Flite received the comphment with compla- 
 cency, and dropped a c^eneral curtsey to us. 
 
 "Honoured, indeed," said she, "by another visit 
 from the Wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy to receive 
 Jarndyce of Bleak House beneath my humble roof!" 
 • with a special curtsey. "Fitz- Jarndyce, my dear;" she 
 had bestowed that name on Caddy, it appeared, and 
 always called her by it; "a double welcome!" 
 
 "Has she been very ill?" asked Mr. Jarndyce of 
 the gentleman whom we had found in attendance on 
 her. She answered for herself directly, though he had 
 put the question in a whisper. 
 
 "O decidedly unwell! O very unwell indeed," she 
 said, confidentially. "Not pain, you know — trouble. 
 Not bodily so much as nervous, nervous! The truth 
 is," in a subdued voice and tremblinor, "we have had 
 death here. There was poison in the house. I am 
 very susceptible to such horrid things. It frightened 
 me. Only Mr. A\ oodcourt knows how much. _lVly-^ 
 physician, Mr. AVoodcourt!" with great stateliness. 
 " The Wards in Jarndyce — Jarndyce of Bleak House — 
 Fitz-Jarndyce!" 
 
 "Miss Flite," said Mr. Woodcourt, in a grave kind 
 voice as if he were appealing to her while speaking to 
 us; and laying his hand gently on her arm; "Miss 
 Flite describes her illncs 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 281 
 
 compensated myself for that disappointment by coming 
 here since, and being of some small use to her." 
 
 "The kindest physician in the colIe,Q:e," whispered 
 Miss Flite to me. "I expect a Judgment. On the day 
 of Jud;rment. 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 Conversation K.), places in my hand a paper of 
 shillings. Shillings. I assure you! Always the same 
 number in the paper. Always one for every day in the 
 week. Now you know, really! So well-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 Judg- 
 ment 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 — witii my do- 
 cuments — I taxed him with it, and he almost con- 
 fessed. That is, I smiled at him from my bench, and 
 he smiled at me from his bench. But it's great good 
 fortune, is it not? And Fitz-Jarndyce lays the money
 
 282 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 out for me to great advantage. O, I assure you to 
 the greatest advantasre!" 
 
 1 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 spe- 
 culate 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. "Plave they any names?" 
 
 "I can answer for Miss Flite that they have," said 
 I, "for she promised to tell us what they were. Ada 
 remembers?" 
 
 Ada remembered very well. 
 
 "Did I?" said Miss Flite. — "Who 's that at my 
 door? What are 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. 
 
 "7 warn 't listening, Miss Flite," he said. "I was 
 going to give a rap with my knuckles, only you 're so 
 quick!" 
 
 "Make your cat go down. Drive her away!" the 
 old lady angrily exclaimed. 
 
 "Bah bah! — There ain't no danger, gentlefolks," 
 said Mr. Krook, looking slowly and sharply from one 
 to another, until he had looked at all of us; "she'd 
 never offer at the birds when I was here, unless I 
 told her do it." 
 
 "You will excuse my landlord," said the old lady 
 with a dignitied air. "M, quite M! What do you 
 want, Krook, when I have company?"
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 283 
 
 ^'Hil" said the old man. ''You know I am the 
 Chancellor." 
 
 "Well?" returned Miss Flite. "What of that?" 
 
 "For the Chancellor," said the old man, with a 
 chuckle, "not to be acquainted with a Jarndyce is 
 queer, ain't it. Miss Flite? Mightn't I take the 
 liberty? — Your servant, Sir. I know Jarndvce and 
 Jarndyce a'most as well as you do, Sir. I knowed 
 old Squire Tom, Sir. I never to my knowledge see 
 you afore though, not even in court. Yet, I go there 
 a mortal sight of times in the course of the year, 
 taking one day with another." 
 
 "I never go there," said Mr. Jarndyce (which he 
 never did on any consideration). "I would sooner 
 go — somewhere else." 
 
 "Would you though?" returned 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 little and little into the 
 room, until he now touched my Guardian with his 
 elbow, and looked close up into his face with his 
 spectacled eyes. "It's one of her strange ways, that 
 she'll never tell the names of these birds if she can 
 help it, though she named 'em all." This was in a 
 whisper. "Shall I run 'em over, Flite?" he asked 
 aloud, winking at us and pointing at her as she turn- 
 ed away, affecting to sweep the grate." 
 
 "If you like," she answered hurriedly. 
 
 The old man, looking up at the cages, after another 
 look at us, went through the list.
 
 284 BLEAK PIOUSE. 
 
 "Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, 
 Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cun- 
 ning, Foily, Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Phinder, 
 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. 
 
 "AVhen my noble and learned brother gives his 
 Judgment, they're to be let go free," said Krook, 
 winking at ns again. "And then," he added, whisper- 
 ing and grinning, "if that ever was to happen — 
 which it won't — the birds that have never been 
 caged -would kill 'em." 
 
 "If ever the wind was in the east," said my Guar- 
 dian, 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 Flite who detained us; she 
 was as reasonable a little creature in consulting the 
 convenience of others, as there possibly could be. It 
 was INIr. Krook. lie seemed unable to detach himself 
 from Mr. Jarndyce. If he had been linked to him, he 
 could hardly have attended him more closely. He 
 proposed to show us his Court of Chancery, and all 
 the strange medley it contained; during the whole of 
 our inspection (prolonged by himself) he kept close to 
 Mr. Jarndyce, and sometimes detained him, under one 
 pretence or other, until we had passed on, as if he 
 were tormented by an inclination to enter upon some 
 secret subject, which he could not make up his mind 
 to approach. I cannot imagine a countenance and 
 manner more singularly expressive of caution and in- 
 decision, and a perpetual impulse to do something he
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 285 
 
 conlcl not resolve to venture on, than Mr. Krook's Tva?, 
 that day. His watchfulness of my Guardian was in- 
 cessant. He rarely removed his eyes from his face. 
 If he went on beside 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 eyebrows 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. Plere, 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 m.y 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 Guardiaq. 
 
 "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."
 
 286 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "Wrong?" said my Guardian, with his good-hu- 
 raonred smile. "Who do you suppose would teach 
 you wrong?" 
 
 "I don't know, Mr. Jarndyee of Bleak House!" 
 replied the old man, turning up his spectacles on his 
 forehead, and rubbing his hands. "I don't suppose 
 as anybody would — but I 'd rather trust my own 
 self than another!" 
 
 These answers, and his manner, were strange enough 
 to cause my Guardian to enquire of Mr. Woodcourt, 
 as we all walked across Lincoln's Inn together, whether 
 Mr. Krook were really, as his lodger represented him, 
 deranged? The young surgeon replied, no, he had 
 seen no reason to think so. He was exceedingly dis- 
 trustful, 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 aflfec- 
 tions by buying him a windmill and two flour-sacks, 
 that he would suffer nobody else to take off his hat 
 and gloves, and w^ould 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 niglit 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. A\^oodcourt was the same dark
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 287 
 
 young surgeon- whom we had met at Mr. Badger's. 
 T)f , that Mr. Jarndyoe 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 I" 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 con- 
 stantly beset by the crowd of exciteable ladies and 
 gentlemen whose proceedings had so much astonished 
 us. Mr. Quale"^, who presented himself soon after our 
 arrival. wa> in all such excitements. He seemed to 
 project those two shining knobs of temples of his into 
 everything that went on, and to brush his hair farther 
 and farther 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 lu- 
 minary. Having first seen him perfectly swallowed up 
 in admiration of Mrs. Jelly by, I had supposed her to 
 be the absorbing object of his devotion. I soon dis- 
 covered my mistake, and found him to be train-bearer 
 and organ-blower to a whole procession of people. 
 
 V Mrs. Pardiggle came one day for a subscription to 
 something — and with her, Mr. Quale. Whatever Mrs.
 
 ? 
 
 2S8 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Pardiggle said, Mr. Quale repeated to ns; and just as 
 he had drawn Mrs. Jellyby out, he drew Mrs. Pardiggle 
 out. Mrs. Pardiggle wrote a letter of introduction to 
 my Guardian, in behalf of her eloquent friend, Mr. 
 Gusher. With Mr. Gusher, appeared Mr. Quale again. 
 JMr. 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 was scarcely seated, before Mr. Quale asked 
 Ada and me, not inaudibly, whether he was not a 
 great creature — which he certainly was, flabbily 
 speaking; though Mr. Quale meant in intellectual beauty 
 — and whether we were not struck by his massive 
 configuration 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 
 ecstacies with everybody else's mission, and that it 
 was the most popular mission of all. 
 
 Mr. Jarndyce had fallen into this company, in' the 
 tenderness of his heart and his earnest desire to do all 
 the good in his power; but, that he felt it to be too 
 often an unsatisfactory 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 mean- 
 ness to the great, adulatory of one another, and in- 
 tolerable 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 q^^little 
 way when they were down; he plainly told us./ When
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 289 
 
 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 cha- 
 rity schools of small boys and girls, who were spe- 
 cially reminded of the widow's mite, and requested to 
 come forward with half-pence and be acceptable sacri- 
 fices; I think the wind was in the east for three whole 
 weeks. 
 
 I mention this, because I am coming to Mr. Skim- 
 pole again. It seemed to me, that his off-hand pro- 
 fessions of childishness and carelessness were a great 
 relief to my guardian, by contrast with such things, 
 and were the more readily believed in; since, to find 
 one perfectly undesigning and candid man, among 
 many oppdsites, 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 London, 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 ex- 
 pansive intentions. He had been enriching his medical 
 attendant in the most lavish manner. He had always 
 doiibled, 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 
 
 Bleak House. I. lii
 
 290 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 man- 
 kind 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 haven't had 
 the trouble of coming to ask for the little 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?' 'Why did I eat spring lamb at eighteen- 
 pence a pound, my honest friend?' said I, naturally 
 amazed by the question. 'I like spring lamb!' This 
 was so far convincing. 'Well, Sir,' says he, 'I wish 
 I had meant the lamb as you mean .the money ! ' ' My
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 291 
 
 good fellow,' said I, 'pray let us reason like intellectua 
 beings. How could that be? It was impossible. You 
 had got the lamb, and I have not got the money. You 
 couldn't really mean the lamb without sending it in, 
 whereas I can, and do, really mean the money without 
 paying it!' He had not a word. There was an end 
 of the subject." 
 
 "Did he take no legal proceedings?" inquired my 
 Guardian. 
 
 "Yes, he took legal proceedings," said Mr. Skim- 
 pole. "But, in that, he was influenced by passion; 
 not by reason. Passion reminds me of Bojthorn. He 
 writes me that you and the ladies have promised him 
 a short visit at his bachelor-house in Lincolnshire." 
 
 "He is a great favourite with my girls," said Mr. 
 Jarndyce, "and I have promised for them." 
 
 "Nature forgot to shade him off, I think?" ob- 
 served Mr. Skimpole to Ada and me. "A little too 
 boisterous — like the sea? A little too vehement — 
 like a bull, who has made up his mind to consider 
 every colour scarlet? But, I grant a sledge-hammering 
 sort of merit in him!" 
 
 I should hav6 been surprised if those two could 
 have thought very highly of one another; Mr. Boythoru 
 attaching so much importance to many things, and 
 Mr. Skimpole caring so little for anything. Besides 
 which, I had noticed Mr. Boythorn more than once 
 on the point of breaking out into some strong opinion, 
 when Mr. Skimpole was referred to. Of course I 
 merely joined Ada in saying that we had been greatly 
 pleased with him. 
 
 "He has invited me," said Mr. Skimpole; "and if a 
 cliild may trust himself in such hands: which the pre-
 
 292 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 sent child is encouraged to do, with the united tender- 
 ness of two angels to guard him: I shall go. He pro- 
 poses 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 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "0 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 me to come, un- 
 invited, 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 children. No mother. And that Coavinses pro- 
 fession. Being unpopular. The rising Coavinses. Were 
 at a considerable disadvantage." 
 
 Mr. Jarndyce got up, rubbing his head, and began 
 to walk about. Mr. Skimpole played the melody of
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 293 
 
 one of Ada's favourite songs. Ada and I both looked 
 at Mr. Jarndjce, thinking that we knew what was 
 passing in his mind. 
 
 After walking, and stopping, and several times 
 leaving 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 rub- 
 bing 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 misfor- 
 ^-tunes, 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 anotherl" 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 Avant Coa- 
 vinses, instead of Coavinses wan tin jr him! 
 
 He took us, first, to Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, 
 where there was a house with barred windows, which
 
 294 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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." 
 
 "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 ques- 
 tion," murmured my Guardian — "industrious?" 
 
 "Was Neckett?" said the boy. "Yes, wery much 
 so. He was never tired of watching. He 'd set upon 
 a post at a street corner, eight or ten hours at a 
 stretch, if he undertook to do it." 
 
 "He might have done worse," I heard my Guardian 
 soliloquize. "He might have undertaken to do it, and 
 not done it. Thank you. That 's all I want." 
 
 We left the 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 in- 
 quiry. "Yes, surely. Miss. Three pair, if you please.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 295 
 
 Door right opposite the top of the stairs." And she 
 handed me a 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. 
 
 •'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 care-worn 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 glimpse 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
 
 296 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 sub- 
 stitute. 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. 
 
 i "Who has locked you up here alone?" we natural- 
 ly asked. 
 
 "Charley," said the boy, standing still to gaze 
 at us. 
 
 "Is Charley your brother?" 
 
 "No. She 's my sister, Charlotte. Father called 
 her Charley." 
 
 "Are there any more of you besides Charley?" 
 
 "Me," said the boy, "and Emma," patting the limp 
 bonnet of the child he was nursing, "And Charley." 
 
 "Where is Charley now?" 
 
 "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 ofi" her arms.
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 297 
 
 But for this, she might have been a child, playing at 
 washing, and imitating a poor working woman with a 
 quick observation of the truth. 
 
 She had come running from some place in the 
 neighbourhood, and had made all the haste she could. 
 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," wliispered my Guardian, as we 
 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? Look 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. 
 
 "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 compas- 
 sionately and mournfully.
 
 298 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "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? 0! Charley," 
 said my Guardian, turning his face away for a mo- 
 ment, "how do you live?" 
 
 "Since father died. Sir, I 've gone out to work. 
 I 'm out washing to-day." 
 
 "God help you, Charley!" said my Guardian. 
 "You 're not tall enough to reach the tub!" 
 
 "In pattens I am. Sir," she said quickly. "I 've 
 got a high pair as belonged to mother." 
 
 "And when did mother die? Poor mother!" 
 
 "Mother died, just after Emma was born," said 
 the 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.
 
 BLEAK norsE. 299 
 
 "When it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted 
 down in the court, and they show up here quite 
 bright — almost quite bright. Don't they, Tom?" 
 
 "Yes, Charley," said Tom, ''almost quite bright." 
 
 "Then he 's as good as gold," said the little 
 creature — 01 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 gratitude 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 sorrow 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, look- 
 ing 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. 
 
 1 stood at the window wnth Ada. pretending to 
 look at the housetops, and the blackened stacks of 
 chimnies, and the poor plants, and the birds in little 
 cages belonging to the neighbours, when I found that 
 Mrs. Blinder, from the shop below, had come in (per- 
 haps it had taken her all this time to get up stairs) 
 and was talking to my Guardian.
 
 300 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "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 ivas 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?" 
 
 "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 lodere 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;
 
 if 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 301 
 
 he did what he had to do, Sir," said Mrs. Blinder, un- 
 consciously fixing Mr. Skimpole with her eye; "and 
 it's something, in this w^orld, 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 dis- 
 liked in the yard. Mr. Gridley gave his consent gruff 
 
 — but gave it. He was always gruff with him, but 
 he has been kind to the children since. A person is 
 never known till a person is proved." 
 
 "Have many people been kind to the children?" 
 asked Mr. Jarndyce. 
 
 "Upon the whole, not so bad, Sir," said Mrs, 
 Blinder, "but, certainly not so many as would have 
 been, if their father's calling had been different. Mr. 
 Coavins gave a 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 Char- 
 lotte. Some people won't employ her, because she 
 was a follerer's child; some people that do employ her, 
 cast ft'^at'~h'erT some make a merit of havincr 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 fa- 
 vourable opportunity of recovering her breath, ex- 
 hausted anew by so much talking before it was fully
 
 302 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 pre- 
 sence, "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 i-ude as it could be. My Guar- 
 dian 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 im- 
 patiently. "I don't want to argue with ladies and 
 gentlemen. I have had enough of arguing, to last one 
 man his life." 
 
 "You have sufficient reason, I dare say," said Mr. 
 Jarndyce, "for being chafed and irritated — " 
 
 "There again!" exclaimed the man, becoming vio- 
 lently 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 anything of Courts of Equity?" 
 
 "Perhaps I do, to my sorrow."
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 303 
 
 "To your sorrow?" said the man, pausing in his 
 wrath. "If so, I beg your pardon. 1 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 Shrop.shire. I," he said, beating one hand on 
 the other passionately, "am the man from Shrop- 
 shire." 
 
 "I believe, I and my family have also had the 
 honour of furnishing some entertainment in the same 
 grave place," said my Guardian, composedly. "You 
 may have heard my name — Jarndyce." 
 
 "Mr. Jarndyce," said Gridley, with a rough sort 
 of salutation, "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 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."
 
 304 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 ray brother. My mo- 
 ther died. My brother, some time afterwards, claimed 
 his legacy. I, and some of my relations, said that he 
 had had a part of it already, in board and lodging, 
 and some other things. Now, mind! That was the 
 question, and nothing else. No one disputed the will; 
 no one disputed anything but whether part of that 
 three hundred pounds had been already paid or not. 
 To settle that question, my brother filing a bill, I was 
 obliged to go into this accursed Chancery; I was forced 
 there, because the law forced me, and would let me 
 go nowhere else. Seventeen people were made defen- 
 dants to that simple suit! It first came on, after two 
 years. It was then stopped for another two years, 
 while the IStaster (may his head rot off!) inquired 
 whether I was my father's son — about which, there 
 was no dispute at all with any mortal creature. He then 
 found out, that there were not defendants enough — 
 remember, there were only seventeen as yet! — but, 
 that we must have another who had been left out; and 
 must begin all over again. The costs at that time — 
 before the thing was begun! — were three times the 
 legacy. My brother would have given up the legacy,
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 305 
 
 and joyful, to escape more costs. My whole estate, 
 left to me in that will of my father's, has gone in 
 costs. The suit, still undecided, has fallen into rack, 
 and ruin, and despair, with everything else — and 
 here I stand, this day! Now, Mr. Jarndyce, in your 
 suit there are thousands and thousands involved where 
 in mine there are hundreds. Is mine less hard to 
 bear, or is it harder to bear, when my whole living 
 was in it, and has been thus shamefully sucked 
 away?" 
 
 Mr. Jarndyce said that he condoled with him with 
 all his heart, and that he set up no monopoly, him- 
 self, in being unjustly treated by this monstrous 
 system. 
 
 "There againi" said Mr. Gridley, with no diminu- 
 tion of his rage. "The system! 1 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 
 receiv-ed 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! — 1 will accuse the individual workers of that 
 meaV. House. I. 20
 
 306 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 system against me, face to face, before the great eter- 
 nal 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 imbecile. I was 
 a good-enough-tempered man once, I believe. People 
 in my part of the country, say, they remember me so; 
 but, now, I must have this vent under my sense of in- 
 jury, 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 Shrop- 
 shire.' '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, "I'll shame them. To the last, 
 I'll 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 307 
 
 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 me'V 
 
 "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 gingerbread soldier downstairs. 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 downstairs 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 of a robust will, and sur- 
 prising energy — intellectually speaking, a sort of in- 
 harmonious blacksmith — and he could easily imagine 
 that there Gridley was, years ago, wandering about in 
 life for something to expend his superfluous comba- 
 tiveness upon — • a sort of Young Love among the 
 thorns — when the Court of Chancery came in his 
 way, and accommodated him with the exact thing he 
 wanted. There they were, matched, ever afterwards! 
 
 20*
 
 808 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 Otherwise he might have been a great general, blow- 
 ing 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 re- 
 pined 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 deser- 
 ving 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, de- 
 veloping these social virtues! Insomuch that his heart 
 had just now swelled, and the tears had come into 
 his eyes, when he had looked round the room, and 
 thought, "/ 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 child- 
 hood we had seen, that he made my Guardian smile 
 even as he turned towards us from a little private talk 
 with Mrs. Blinder. AVe kissed Charley, and took her
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 309 
 
 down stairs with us, and stopped outside 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-Alonc'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; yester- 
 day, she was at her house in town; to-morrow, she 
 maybe abroad, for anything the fashionable intelligence 
 can with confidence predict. Even Sir Leicester's gal- 
 lantry 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 exclu- 
 sive, even to the levelling process of dying, by dying 
 of their own family gout. It has come down, through
 
 3i0 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 im- 
 pression, though he has never resolved it into words, 
 that the angel of death in the discharge of his neces- 
 sary duties may observe to the shades of the aristo- 
 cracy, "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 extremities, is a liberty taken some- 
 where; 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. Outside, the 
 stately oaks , rooted for ages in the green ground which 
 has never known ploughshare, but was still a Chase 
 when kings rode to battle with sword and shield, and 
 rode a hunting with bow and arrow; bear witness to 
 his greatness. Inside, his forefathers, looking on him 
 from the walls, say, "Each of us was a passing reality 
 here, and left this coloured shadow of himself, and 
 melted into remembrance as dreamy as the distant
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 811 
 
 voices of the rooks now lulling you to rest;" and bear 
 their testimony to his greatness too. And he is very 
 great, this day. And woe to Boy thorn, or other 
 daring wight, who shall presumptuously contest an 
 inch with him! 
 
 My Lady is at present represented, near Sir Lei- 
 cester, 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 in- 
 telligence. The house in town is not prepared for her 
 reception.. It is muffled and dreary. Only one Mer- 
 cury in powder, gapes disconsolate at the hall -win- 
 dow; and he mentioned last night to another Mercury 
 of his acquaintance, also accustomed to good society, 
 that if that sort of thing was to last — which it 
 couldn't, for a man of his spirits couldn't bear it, and 
 a man of his figure couldn't be expected to bear it — 
 there would be no resource for him, upon his honour, 
 but to cut his throat! 
 
 What connexion can there be, between the place 
 in Lincolnshire, the house in town, the Mercury in 
 powder, and the whereabout of Jo the outlaw with 
 the broom, who had that distant ray of light upon 
 him when he swept the churchyard -step? What con- 
 nexion 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 ofT the crossing in dirty weather.
 
 312 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 ad- 
 vanced, by some bold vagrants, who, after establish- 
 ing 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 it- 
 self 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. 
 
 Twice, lately, there has been a crash and a cloud of 
 dust, like the springing of amine, in Tom-all-alone's; 
 and, each time, a house has fallen. These accidents 
 have made a paragraph in the newspapers, and have 
 filled a bed or two in the nearest hospital. The gaps 
 remain, and there are not unpopular lodgings among 
 the rubbish. As several more houses are neai-ly ready 
 to go, the next crash in Tom-all-alone's may be ex- 
 pected 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 313 
 
 the popular representative of the original plaintiff or 
 defendant in Jarndyce and Jarndyce; or, whether Tom 
 lived here when the suit had laid the street waste, all 
 alone, until other settlers came to join him; or, whe- 
 ther 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 know. 
 
 "For /don't," says Jo, "/don't know nothink." 
 It must be a strange state to be like Jo! To shuffle 
 throujrhihe streets, unfamiliaT^ith the shapes, and 
 in utter darkness as to the meaning, of those mysteri- 
 ous symbols, so abundant over the shops, and at the 
 corners' of streets, and on the doors, and in the win- 
 dows! 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 therefor anywhere; and yet to 
 be perplexed by the consideration that I am here some- 
 how, too, and everybody overlooked me until I 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
 
 314 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 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 
 morning 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 accom- 
 modation. He admires the size , of the edifice, and 
 wonders what it's 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 unac- 
 countable reading and writing, which has been sus- 
 pended for a few hours, recommences. 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 in- 
 nocent, and often sorely hurt themselves. Very like 
 Jo and his order; very, very like! 
 
 A band of music comes, and plays. Jo listens to
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 315 
 
 it. So does a dog — a drover's dog, waiting for his 
 master outside a butcher's shop, and evidently think- 
 ing about those sheep he has had upon his mind for 
 some hours, and is happily rid of. He seems per- 
 plexed 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 vaga- 
 bond 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, pro- 
 bably with much the same amount of animal satisfac- 
 tion; 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 be- 
 comes 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 unsavory shelter of Tom-all-alone's. Twi- 
 light 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.
 
 316 BLEAK HOUSE, 
 
 In his chambers, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits meditating 
 an application 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-condi- 
 tioned 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 
 toward the window. Why should Mr. Tulkinghorn, 
 for such no-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. Tulkinghorn 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 whose plain 
 dress, and her refined manner, there is something ex- 
 ceedingly inconsistent. She should be an upper ser- 
 vant 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 317 
 
 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. lie 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 have read of in the papers?" 
 she asks 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 dont know nothink about no — where I was 
 took by the beadle, do you mean?" says Jo. "Was 
 the boy's name at the Inkwhich, Jo?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That's me!" says Jo. 
 
 "Come farther up." 
 
 "You mean about the man?" says Jo, following. 
 "Him as wos dead?" 
 
 "Hush! Speak in a whisper! Yes. Did he look, 
 when he was living, so very ill and poor?" 
 
 "0 jist!" says Jo. 
 
 "Did he look like — not like you?'' says the wo- 
 man 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 hu- 
 mility; for even he has got at the suspicion of her 
 being a lady. 
 
 "I am not a lady. I ara a servant."
 
 318 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 "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 were taken to, and the place where he 
 was buried? Do you know the place where he was 
 buried?" 
 
 Jo answers with a nod; having also nodded as each 
 other place 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 spo- 
 ken; tells them off on his broom-handle, finding them 
 rather hard; pauses to consider their meaning; con- 
 siders it satisfactory, and nods his ragged head. 
 
 "I am fly," says Jo. "But fen larks, you know! 
 Stow hooking it!" 
 
 "What does the horrible creature mean?" exclaims 
 the servant, recoiling from him. 
 
 "Stow cutting away, you know!" says Jo. 
 
 "I don't understand you. Go on before! I will 
 give you more 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. 
 
 Cook's Court. Jo stops. A pause. 
 
 "Who lives here?"
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 319 
 
 "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 his first suspicions, sticks to the terms imposed 
 upon him, and does not look round. By many devious 
 ways, reeking with offence of many kinds, they come 
 to the little tunnel of a court, and to the gas -lamp 
 (lighted nowj, and to the iron gate. 
 
 "He was put there," says Jo, holding to the bars 
 and looking in. 
 
 "Where? 0, what a scene of horror!" 
 
 "There!" says Jo, pointing. "Overyinder. Among 
 them piles of bones, and close to that there kitchin 
 winder! They put him wery nigh the top. They was 
 obliged to stamp upon it to git it in. I could unkiver 
 it for you, with my broom, if the gate was open. 
 That's why they locks it, I s'pose," giving it a shake. 
 "It's always locked. Look at the rat!" cries Jo, ex- 
 cited. "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 con-
 
 320 BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 taminating her dress; and putting out her two hands, 
 and passionately telHng him to keep away from her, 
 for he is loathsome to her, so remains for some mo- 
 ments 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?" re- 
 peats Jo, something troubled in his mind. "It an't 
 done it much good if it is. Blest? I should think 
 it was t'othered myself. But / 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!" 
 
 Joe thrusts the handle of his broom between the 
 bars of the gate, and, with his utmost power of ela- 
 boration, points it out. At length, looking aside to 
 see if he has made himself intelligible, he fin4s 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
 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 321 
 
 one-sided bite at the 6dge, as a test of its quality. 
 His next, to put it in his mouth for safety, and to 
 sweep the step and passage with great care. His job 
 done, he sets off for Tom-all-alone'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 want of society 
 to-night, for my Lady goes to a grand dinner and 
 three or four balls. Sir Leicester is fidgetty, down at 
 Chesney Wold, with no better company than the gout; 
 he complains to Mrs. Rouncewell that the rain makes 
 such a monotonous pattering on the terrace, that he 
 can't read the paper, even by the fireside in his own 
 snug dressing-room. 
 
 "Sir Leicester would have done better to try the 
 other side of the house, my dear," says Mrs. Rounce- 
 well to Rosa. "His dressing-room is on my Lady's 
 side. And in all these years I never heard the step 
 upon the Ghost's Walk, more distinct than it is to- 
 night!" 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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