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B L E A K  HO U S E.
BY
CHARLES DICKENS.
(BOZ.)
WITH THIRTY-SEVEN ILLUSTRATIONS,
FROM DESIGNS BY PHIZ AND CRUIKSHIANK.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL., II.
l.B.   il. 102 clpi  STa:
T. B. PETERSON, NO. 102 CHESTNUT STREET.








CHAPTER XXXII.
THE APPOINTED TIME.
IT is night in Lincoln's Inn-perplexed and troublous valley:f
the shadow of the law, where suitors generally find but little day
-and fat candles are snuffed out in offices, and clerks have rattled down the crazy wooden stairs, and dispersed. The bell that
rings at nine o'clock, has ceased its doleful clangor about nothing;
the gates are shut; and the night-porter, a solemn warder, with
a mighty power of sleep, keeps guard in his lodge. From tiers of
staircase windows, clogged lamps like the eyes of Equity, bleared
Argus, with a fathomless pocket for every eye, and an eye upon
it, dimly blink at the stars. In dirty upper casements, here and
there, hazy little patches of candle-light reveal where some wise
draughtsman and conveyancer yet toils for the entanglement of
real estate in meshes of sheepskin, in the average ratio of about
a dozen of sheep to an acre of land. Over which bee-like industry, these benefactors of their species linger yet, though officehours be past: that they may give, for every day, some good
account at last.
In the neighboring court, where' the Lord Chancellor of the
Rag and Bottle shop dwells, there is a general tendency toward
beer and supper. Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins, whose respective
sons, engaged with a circle of acquaintance in the game of hide
-and seek, have been lying in ambush about the by-ways of Chancery Lane for some hours, and scouring the plain of the same
thoroughfare to the confusion of passengers-Mrs. Piper and Mrs.
Perkins have but now exchanged congratulations on the children
being a-bed; and they still linger on a door-step over a few parting words. Mr.'Krook and his lodger, and the fact of Mr. Krook's
being " continual in liquor," and the testamentary prospects of
the young man are, as usual, the staple of their conversation.
But they have something to say, likewise, of the Harmonic
Meeting at the Sol's Arms; where the sound of the piano through
(497)




498                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
the partly-opened windows jingles out into the court, and where
little Swills, after keeping the lovers of harmony in a roar like a
very Yorick, may now be heard taking the gruff line in a concerted piece, and sentimentally adjuring his friends and patrons
to Listen, listen, listen, Tew the wa-ter-Fall! Mrs. Perkins and
Mrs. Piper compare opinions on the subject of the young lady of
professional celebrity who assists at the Harmonic Meetings, and
who has space to herself in the manuscript announcement in the
window; Mrs. Perkins possessing information that she has been
married a year and a half, though announced as Miss M. Melvilleson, the noted siren, and that her baby is clandestinely conveyed to the Sol's Arms every night, to receive its natural nourishment during the entertainments.  "Sooner than which, myself," says Mrs. Perkins, " I would get my living by selling lucifers." Mrs. Piper, as in duty bound, is of the same opinion;
holding that a private station is better than public applause, and
thanking Heaven for her own (and, by implication, Mrs. Perkins's)
respectability. By this time, the pot-boy of the Sol's Arms appearing with her supper-pint well frothed, Mrs. Piperaccepts that
tankard, and retires in-doors, first giving a fair good-night to Mrs.
Perkins, who has kad her own pint in her hand ever since it was
fetched from the same hostelry by young Perkins before he was
sent to bed.  Now, there is a sound of putting up shop-shutters
in the court, and a smell as of the smoking of pipes; and shooting-stars are seen in upper windows, further indicating retirement
to rest. Now, too, the policeman begins to push at doors; to try
fastenings; to be suspicious of bundles; and to administer his beat.
on the hypothesis that every one is either robbing or being robbed.
It is a close night, though the damp cold is searching, too; and
there is a laggard mist a little way up in the air. It is a fine,
steaming night to turn the slaughter-houses, the unwholesome
trades, the sewerage, bad water, and burial-grounds to account,
and give the Registrar of Deaths some extra business. It may'be
something in the air-there is plenty in it-or.it may be something in himself, that is in fault; but Mr. Weevle, otherwise Job.
ling, is very ill at ease.  He comes and goes, between his own
room and the open street-door, twenty times an hour. He has
been doing so, ever since it fell dark. Since the Chancellor shut
up his shop, which he did very early to-night, Mr. Weevle has




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        499
been down and up, and down and up (with a cheap tight velvet
skull-cap on his head, making his whiskers look out of all proportion), oftener than before.
It is no phenomenon that Mr. Snagsby should be ill at ease
too; for he always is so, more or less, under the oppressive influence of the secret that is upon him. Impelled by the mystery,
of which he is a partaker, and yet in which he is not a sharer,
Mr. Snagsby haunts what seems to be its fbuntain-head-the rag
and bottle shop in the court. It has an irresistible attraction for
him.  Even now, coming round by the Sol's Arms with the intention of passing down the court, and out at the Chancery Lane
end, and so terminating his unpremeditated after-supper stroll of
ten minutes long from his own door and back again, Mr. Snagsby
approaches.
"What, Mr. Weevle?" says the stationer, stopping to speak.
"Are yozu there?"
"Ay!" says Weevle.  "Here I am, Mr. Snagsby."
"Airing yourself, as I am doing, before you go to bed?" the
stationer inquires.
"Why, there's not much air to be got here; and what there is,
is not very freshening," Weevle answers, glancing up and down
the court.
" Very true, sir. Don't you observe," says Mr. Snagsby, pausing to sniff and taste the air a little; "don't you observe, Mr.
Weevle, that you're-not to put too fine a point upon it-that
you're rather greasy here, sir?"
"Why, I have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of
flavor in the place to-night," Mr. Weevle rejoins.  " I suppose
it's chops at the Sol's Arms."
"Chops, do you think? Oh!'Chops, eh?" Mr. Snagsby snifis
and tastes again.  "Well, sir, I suppose it is.  But I should say
their cook at the Sol wanted a little looking after. She has been
burning'em, sir! And I don't think;" Mr. Snagsby sniffs and
tastes again, and then spits and wipes his mouth; "I don't think
— not to put too fine a point upon it-that they were quite fresh,
when they were shown the gridiron."
"That's very likely.  It's a tainting sort of weather."
"It is a tainting sort of weather," says Mr. Snagsby; "and I
find it sinking to the spirits."




500                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
"By George! I find it gives me the horrors," returns Mr. Weevie.
Then, you see, you live in a lonesome way, and in a lonesome
room, with a black circumstance hanging over it," says Mr.
Snagsby, looking il past the other's shoulder along the dark
passage, and then falling back a step to look up at the house.
" I couldn't live in that room alone, as you do, sir. I should get
so fidgety and worried of an evening, sometimes, that I should
be driven to come to the door, and stand here, sooner than sit
there. But then it's very true that you didn't see, in your room,
what I saw there.  That makes a difference."
" I know quite enough about it," returns Tony.
"It's not agreeable, is it?" pursues Mr. Sriagsby, coughing his
cough of mild persuasion behind his hand. " Mr. Krook ought
to consider it in the rent. I hope he does, I am sure."
"I hope he does," says Tony. " But I doubt it!"
"You find the rent high, do you, sir?" returns the stationer.
"Rents are high about here.  I don't know how it is exactly,
but the law seems to put things up in price.  " Not," adds Mr.
Snagsby, with his apologetic cough, " that I mean to say a word
against the profession I get my living by."
Mr. VWeevle again glances up and down the court, and then
looks at the stationer.  Mr. Snagsby, blankly catching his eye,
looks upward for a star or so, and coughs a cough expressive of
not exactly seeing his way out of this conversation.
"It's a curious fact, sir," he observes, slowly rubbing his
hands, " that he should have been-"
"Who's he?" interrupts Mr. Weevle.
"The deceased, you know," says Mr. Snagsby, twitching his
lhead' and right eyebrow toward the staircase, and tapping his
acquaintance on the button.
"Ah, to be sure!" returns the other, as if he were not over-'ond of the subject.  "I thought we had done with him."
"I was only going to say, it's a curious fact, sir, that he should
have come and lived here, and been one of my writers, and then
that you should come and live here, and be one of my writers, too.
Which there is nothing derogatory, but far from it in the appellation," says Mr. Snagsby, breaking off with a mistrust that he may
have unpolitely asserted a kind of proprietorship in Mr. Weevle,
"because I have known writers that have gone into Brewers'




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        501
houses and done really very respectable indeed.  Eminently respectable, sir," adds Mr. Snagsby, with a misgiving that he has
not improved the matter.
"It's a curious coincidence, as you say," answers Weevle,
once more glancing up and down the court.
" Seems a Fate in it, don't there?" suggests the stationer.
"There does."
" Just so," observes the stationer, with his confirmatory cough.
"Quite a Fate in it.  Quite a Fate.  Well, Mr. Weevle, I am
afraid I must bid you good-night;" Mr. Snagsby speaks as if it
made him desolate to go, though he has been casting about foi
any means of escape ever since he stopped to speak; "my little
woman will be looking for me, else.  Good-night, sir!"
If Mr. Snagsby hastens home to save his little woman the.
trouble of looking for him, he might set his mind at rest on that
score.  His little woman has had her eye upon him round the
Sol's Arms all this time, and now glides after him with a pocket
handkerchief wrapped over her head; honoring Mr. Weevle and
his doorway with a very searching glance as she goes past.
"You'll know  me again, ma'am, at all events," says Mr.
Weevle to himself; "and I can't compliment you on your appearance, whoever you are, with your head tied up in a bundle.
Is this fellow never coming!"
This fellow approaches as he speaks. Mr. Weevle softly holds
up his finger, and draws him into the passage, and closes the
street door. Then, they go up-stairs; Mr. Weevle heavily, and
Mr. Guppy (for it is he) very lightly indeed.  When they are
shut into the back room, they speak low.
"I thought you had gone to Jericho at least, instead of coming
here," says Tony.
"Why, I said about ten."
"You said about ten," Tony repeats.  "Yes, so you did say
about ten.  But, according to my count, it's ten times ten-it's
a hundred o'clock.  I never had such a night in my life!"
What has been the matter?"
"That's it!" says Tony.' Nothing has been the matter.
But, here have I been stewing and fuming in this jolly old crib,
till I have had the horrors falling on me as thick as hail. There's
a blessed-looking candle!" says Tony, pointing to the heavily



502                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
burning taper on his table with a great cabbage head and a long
winding sheet.
"That's easily improved," Mr. Guppy observes, as he takes
the snuffers in hand.
" Is it?" returns his friend. " Not so easily as you think. It
has been smouldering like that, ever since it was lighted.
"Why, what's the matter with you, Tony?" inquires Mr.
Guppy, looking at him, snuffers in hand, as he sits down with
his elbow on the table.
"William  Guppy," replies the other, "I am in the Downs.
It's this unbearably dull, suicidal room-and old Boguey down
stairs, I suppose."  Mr. Weevle moodily pushes the snuffer-tray
fiom him with his elbow, leans his head on his hand, puts his
feet on the fender, and looks at the fire. Mr. Guppy, observing
him, slightly tosses his head, and sits down on the other side of
the table in an easy attitude.
" Wasn't that Snagsby talking to you, Tony?"
" Yes, and be -    yes, it was Snagsby," says Mr. Weevle, altering the construction of his sentence.
" On business?"
" No. No business. He was only sauntering by, and stopped
to prose."
"I thought it was Snagsby," says Mr. Guppy, "and thought it
as well that he shouldn't see me; so I waited till he was gone."
" There we go again, William  G.!" cries Tony, looking up
for an instant. " So mysterious and secret! By George, if we
were going to commit a murder, we couldn't have more mystery
about it!"
Mr. Guppy affects to smile; and with the view of changing
the conversation, looks with an admiration, real or pretended,
round the room at the Galaxy gallery of British beauty; terminating his survey with the portrait of Lady Dedlock over the
mantle-shelf, in which she is represented on a terrace, with a
pedestal upon the terrace, and a vase upon the pedestal, and her
shawl upon the vase, and a prodigious piece of fur upon the
shawl, and her arm on the prodigious piece of fur, and a bracelet on her arm.
"That's very like Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Guppy.  "It's a
speaking likeness."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       503
"I wish it was," growls Tony, without changing his position.." I should have some fashionable conversation here, then."
Finding, by this time, that his friend is not to be wheedled
into a more sociable humor, Mr. Guppy puts about upon the illused tack, and remonstrates with him.
" Tony," says he, " I can make allowances for lowness of spirits, for no man knows what it is when it does come upon a man,
better than I do; and no man, perhaps, has a better right to
know it, than a man who has an unrequited image imprinted
on his art.  But there are bounds to these things when an unoffending party is in question, and I will acknowledge to you,
Tony, that I don't think your manner on the present occasion is
hospitable or quite gentlemanly."
"This is strong language, William Guppy," returns Mr. Weevle.
" Sir, it may be," retorts Mr. William Guppy, " but I feel strongly when I use it."
Mr. Weevle admits that he has been wrong, and begs Mr.
William Guppy to think no more about it. Mr. William Guppy,
however, having got the advantage, can not quite release it without a little more injured remonstrance.
" No! Dash it, Tony," says that gentleman, "you really'
ought to be careful how you wound the feelings of a man, \hc
has an unrequited image imprinted on his art, and who is not
altogether happy in those chords which vibrate to the tenderest
emotions. You, Tony, possess in yourself all that is calculated
to charm  the eye, and allure the taste.  It is not-happily for
you, perhaps, and I may wish that I' could say the same-it is
not your character to hover around one flower. The ole garden
is open to you, and your airy pinions carry you through it. Still,
Tony, far be it from me, I am sure, to wound even your feelings
without a cause "
Tony again entreats that the subject may be no longer pursued, saying emphatically, "William  Guppy, drop it!"  Mr.
Guppy acquiesces, with the reply, "I never should have taken
it up, Tony, of my own accord."
"And now," says Tony, stirring the fire, "touching this same
bundle of letters.  Isn't it an extraordinary thing of Krook to
have appointed twelve o'clock to-night to hand'em over to me?"
Very. What did he do it for?"




504                 BLEAK HOUSE.
"What does he do any thing for?  He don't know. Said,
to-day was his birthday, and he'd hand'em over to-night at.
twelve o'clock. He'll have drunk himself blind by that lime.
He has been at it all day."
He hasn't forgotten the appointment, I hope?"
"Forgotten? Trust him for that. He never forgets any thing.
I saw him to-night, about eight-helped him  to shut up his
shop-and he had got the letters then in his hairy cap.  He
pulled it off, and showed'em me. When the shop was closed,
he took them out of his cap, hung his cap on the chair-back, and
stood turning them over before the fire. I heard him a little
while afterward through the floor here, humming, like the wind,
the only song he knows —about Bibo, and old Charon, and Bibo
being drunk when he died, or something or other. He has been
as quiet, since, as an old rat asleep in his hole."
" And you are to go down at twelve?"
"At twelve. And, as I tell you, when you came it seemed to
me a hundred."
" Tony," says Mr. Guppy, after considering a little with his
legs crossed, " he can't read yet, can he?"
" Read! He'll never read. He can make all the letters separately, and he knows most of them separately when he sees them;
he has got on that much, under me; but he can't put them together. He's too old to acquire the knack of it now-and too drunk."
"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs;
"how do you suppose he spelt out that name of Hawdon?"
" He never spelt it out. You know what a curious power of
eye he has, and how he has been used to employ himself in
copying things by eye alone. He imitated it-evidently from the
direction of a letter; and asked me what it meant."
"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs
again; " should you say that the original was a man's writing,
or a woman's?"
"A woman's. Fifty to one a lady's-slopes a good deal, and
the end of the letter' n,' long and hasty."
Mr. Guppy has been biting his thumb-nail during this dialogue,
generally changing the thumb when he has changed the crossed
leg. As he is going to do so again, he happens to look at his
coat-sleeve.  It takes his attention.  He stares at it, aghast.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       505
"Why, Tony, what on earth is going on in this house tonight?  Is there a chimney on fire?"
"Chimney on fire!"
"Ah!" returns Mr. Guppy. " See how the soot's falling. See
here, on my arm! See again, on the table here! Confound the
stuff, it won't blow off —smears, like black fat!"
They look at one another, and Tony goes listening to the door,
and a little way up stairs, and a little way down stairs. Comes
back, and says it's all right, and all quiet; and quotes the remark he lately made to Mr. Snagsby, about their cooking chops
at the Sol's Arms.
"And it was then," resumes Mr. Guppy, still glancing with
remarkable aversion at his coat-sleeve, as they pursue their conversation before the fire, leaning on opposite sides of the table
with their heads very near together, " that he told you of his
having taken the bundle of letters from his lodger's portmanteau?"
" That was the time, sir," answers Tony faintly adjusting his
whiskers. " Whereupon I wrote a line to my dear boy, the Hon
orable William  Guppy, informing him  of the appointment for
to-night, and advising him not to call before: Boguey being a
Slyboots."
The light vivacious tone of fashionable life which is usually
assumed by Mr. Weevle, sits so ill upon him' to-night, that he
abandons that and his whiskers together; and, after looking over
his shoulder, appears to yield himself up, a prey to the horrors
again.
"You are to bring the letters to your room to read and compare, and to get yourself into a position to tell him all about
them. That's the arrangement, isn't it, Tony?" asks Mr. Guppy,
anxiously, biting his thumb-nail.
"You can't speak too low.  Yes.  That's what he and I
agreed."
"I tell you what, Tony-"
"You can't speak too low," says Tony once more. Mr. Guppy
nods his sagacious head, advances it yet closer, and drops into a
whisper.
" I tell you what.  The first thing to be done is, to make
another packet, like the real one; so that, if he should ask to see




606                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
the real one while it's in my possession, you can show him the
dummy."
" And suppose he detects the dummy as soon as he sees itwhich with his biting screw of an eye, is about five hundred
times more likely than not," suggests Tony.
"Then we'll face it out. They don't belong to him, and they
never did.  You found that; and you placed them in my hands
-a legal friend of yours-for security.  If he forces us to it,
they'll be producible, won't they?"
" Ye-es," is Mr. Weevle's reluctant admission.
" Why, Tony," remonstrates his friend, " how you look-! You
don't doubt William Guppy?  You don't suspect any harm?"
"I don't suspect any thing more than I know, William," returns the other, gravely.
"And what do you know?" urges Mr. Guppy, raising his
voice a little; but on his friend's once more warning him, "I
tell you, you can't speak too low," he repeats his question without
any sound at all; forming with his lips only the words, "What
do you know?"
" I know three things.  First, I know that here we are whis
pering in secrecy; a pair of conspirators."
"Well!" says iMr. Guppy, " and we had better be that, than
a pair of noodles, which we should be, if we were doing any
thing else; for it's the only way of doing what we want to do
Secondly?"
" Secondly, it's not made out to me how it's likely to be profitable, after all."
Mr. Guppy casts up his eyes at the portrait of Lady Dedlock
over the mantle-shelf, and replies, " Tony, you are asked to leave
that to the honor of your friend. Besides its being calculated to
serve that friend, in those chords of the human mind whichwhich need not be called into agonizing vibration on the present
occasion-your fiiend is no fool.  What's that?"
"It's eleven o'clock striking by the bell of Saint Paul's.  Listen, and you'll hear all the bells in the city jangling."
Both sit silent, listening to the metal voices, near and distant,
resounding from towers of various heights, in tones more various
than their situations.  When these at length cease, all seems
more mysterious and quiet than before.  One disagreeable result




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        507
of whispering is, that it seems to evoke an atmosphere of silence
haunted by the ghosts of sound-strange cracks and tickings, the
rustling of garmrents that have no substance in them, and the
tread of dreadful feet, that would leave no mark on the sea-sand
or the winter snow. So sensitive the two friends happen to be,
that the air is full of these phantoms; and the two look over
their shoulders by one consent, to see.that the door is shut.
" Yes, Tony?" says Mr. Guppy, drawing nearer to the fire, and
biting his unsteady thumb-nail. "You were going to say, thirdly?"
"It's far from a pleasant thing to be plotting about a dead
inaan in the room where he died, especially when you happen to
live in it."
" But we are plotting nothing against him, Tony."
" Maybe not, still I don't like it.  Live here yourself, and see
how you like it."
"As to dead men, Tony," proceed's Mr. Guppy, evading this
proposal, " there have been dead men in most rooms."
" I know there have; but in most rooms you let them alone,
and-zand they let you alone," Tony answers.
The two look at each other again. Mr. Guppy makes a hurried remark to the efiect that they may be doing the deceased a
service; that lie hopes so. There is an oppressive blank, until
Mr. Weevle, by stirring the fire suddenly, makes Mr. Guppy
start as if his heart had jeen stirred instead.
" Pah! Here's more of this hateful soot hanging abont," says
he.  "Let us open the window a bit, and get a mouthful of air.
It's too close."
He raises the sash, and they both rest on the window-sill,
half in and half out of the room.  The neighboring houses are
too near, to admit of their seeing any sky without craning their
necks and looking up; but lights in frowsy windows here and
there, and the rolling of distant carriages, and the new expression
that there is of the stir of men, they find to be comfortable.  Mr.
G uppy, noiselessly tapping on the window-sill, resumes his whispering in quite a light-comedy tone.
"By-the-by, Tony, don't forget old Smallweed;" meaning the
Younger of that name.  " I have not let him irto this, you know.
That grandfather of his is too keen by half.  It runs in the
family"




508                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
" I remember," says Tony.  " I am up to all that."
"And as to Krook," resumes Mr. Guppy.  "Now, do you
suppose he really has got hold of any other papers of import
ance, as he has boasted to you since you have been such
allies?"
Tony shakes his head.  "I don't know.  Can't imagine.  If
we get through this business without rousing his suspicions, I
shall be better informed, no doubt.  How can I know, without
seeing them, when he don't know himself?  He is always spelling out words from them, and chalking them over the table and
the shop-wall, and asking what; this is, and what that is; but
his whole stock, from beginning to end, may easily be the waste
paper he bought it as, for any thing I can say.  It's a monomania with him, to think he is possessed of documents.  He has
been going to learn to read them this last quarter of a century, I
should'judge, fiom what he tells me."
"How did he first come by that idea, though? that's the
question," Mr. Guppy suggests with one eye shut, after a little
forensic meditation.  "He may have found papers in something
he bought, where papers were not supposed to be; and may have
got into his shrewd head, from the manner and place of their
concealment, that they are worth something."
"Or he may have been taken in, in some pretended bargain.
Or he may have been muddled altogether, by long staring at
whatever he has got, and by drink, and by hanging about the
Lord Chancellor's court and hearing of documents forever," returns Mr. Weevle.
Mr. Guppy sitting on the window-sill, nodding his head and
balancing all these possibilities in his mind, continues thoughtfully to tap it, and clasp it, and measure it with his hand, until
he hastily draws his hand away.
"What, in the Devil's name," he says, " is this! Look at
my fingers!"
A thick, yellow liquor defiles them, which is offensive to the
touch and sight, and more offensive to the smell.  A stagnant,
sickening oil, with some natural repulsion in it that makes them
both shudder.
"What have you been doing here?  What have you been
pouring out of window?"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        509
"I pouring out of the window! Nothing, I swear! Never,
since I have been here!" cries the lodger.
And yet look here-and look here! When he brings the
candle, here, from the corner of the window-sill, it slowly drips
and creeps away down the bricks; here, lies in a little thick
nauseous pool.
" This is a horrible house," says Mr. Guppy, shutting down
the window.  "Give me some water, or I shall cut my hand
off."
He so washes, and rubs, and scrubs, and smells, and washes,
that he has not long restored himself with a glass of'brandy, and
stood silently before the fire, when St. Paul's bell strikes twelve,
and all those other bells strike twelve from their towers of various heights in the dark air, and in their many tones. When all
is quiet again, the lodger says:
"It's the appointed time at last.  Shall I go?"
Mr. Guppy nods, and gives him a "lucky touch" on the back,
but not with the washed hand, though it is his right hand.
He goes down stairs; and Mr. Guppy tries to compose himself,
before the fire, for waiting a long time.  But in no mo'e than a
minute or two the stairs creak, and Tony comes swiftly back.' Have you got them?"
" Got them! No. The old man's not there."
He has been so horribly frightened in the short interval, that
his terror seizes the other, who makes a rush at him, and asks
loudly, " What's the matter?"
" I couldn't make him hear, and I softly opened the door and
looked in.  And the burning smell is there-and the soot is
there, and the oil is there-and he is not there!"-Tony ends
this with a groan.
Mr. Guppy takes the light.  They go down, more dead than
alive, and holding one another, push open the door of the back
shop.  The cat has retreated close to it, and stands snarling —
not at them; at something on the ground, before the fire.  There
is very little fire left in the grate, but there is a smouldering,
suffocating vapor in the room, and a dark greasy coating on the
walls and ceiling.  The chairs and table, and the bottle so rarely
absent from the table, all stand as usual.  On one chair-back,
hang the old manil's hairy cap and coat.




510                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
"Look!" whispers the lodger, pointing his friend's attention to
these objects with a trembling finger.  " I told you so. When I
saw him last, he took his cap off, took out the little bundle of old
letters, hung his cap on the back of the chair-his coat was there
already, for he had pulled that off, before he went to put the
shutters up-and I left him turning the letters over in his hand,
standing just where that crumbled black thing is upon the floor."
Is he hanging somewhere?  They look up.  No.
"See!" whispers Tony.  "At the foot of the same chair, there
lies a dirty bit of thin red cord that they tie up pens with. That
went round the letters. He undid it slowly, leering and laughing at me, before he began to turn them over, and threw it there.
I saw it fall."
"     What's the matter with the cat?" says Mr. Guppy.  "Look
at her!"
" Mad, I think. And no wonder, in this evil place."
They advance slowly, looking at all these things. The cat
remains where they found her, still snarling at the something on
the ground, before the fire and between the two chairs. What is
it! Hold up the light?
Here is a small burnt patch of flooring; here is the tinder.from a little bundle of burnt paper, but not so light as usual,
seeming to be steeped ih something; and here is-is it the cinder
of a small charred and broken log of wood sprinkled with white'
ashes, or is it coal? 0 Horror he is here! and this, from which
we run away, striking out the light and overturning one another
into the street, is all that represents him.
Help, help, help! come into this house for Heaven's sake!
Plenty will come in, but none can help. The Lord Chancellor
of that Court, true to his title in his last act, has died the death
of all Lord Chancellors in all Courts, and of all authorities in all
places under all names soever, where false pretenses are made,
and where injustice is done.  Call the death by any name Your
Highness will, attribute it to whom you will, or say it might have
been prevented how you will, it is the same death eternallyinborn, inbred, engendered in the corrupted humors of the vicious
body itself, and that only-Spontaneous Combustion, and none
other of all the deaths that can be died.




CHAPTER XXXIII
INTERLOPERS.
Now do those two gentlemen not very neat about the Guffs
and buttons who attended the last Coroner's Inquest at the Sol's
Arms, reappear in the precincts with surprising swiftness (being
in fact, breathlessly fetched by the active and intelligent beadle),
and institute perquisitions through the court, and dive into the
Sol's parlor, and write with ravenous little pens on tissue-paper.
Now do they note down, in the watches of the night, how the
neighborhood of Chancery Lane was yesterday, at about midnight, thrown into a state of the most intense agitation and excitement by the following alarming and horrible discovery. Now
do they set forth how it will doubtless be remembered, that some
time back a painful sensation was created in the public mind, by
a case of mysterious death from opium occurring in the first floor
of the house occupied as a rag, bottle, and general marine storeshop, by an eccentric individual of intemperate habits, far ad
vanced in life, named Krook; and how, by a remarkable coincidence, Krook was examined at the inquest, which it may be recollected was held on that occasion at the Sol's Arms, a well-conducted tavern, immediately adjoining the premises in question,
on the west side, and licensed to a highly respectable landlord;
Mr. James George Bogsby.  Now do they show (in as many
words as possible), how during some hours of yesterday evening
a very peculiar smell was observed by the inhabitants of the
court, in which the tragical occurrence which forms the subject
of that present account transpired; and which odor was at one
time so powerful, that Mr. Swills, a comic vocalist, professionally
engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby, has himself stated to our reporter
that he mentioned to Miss M. Mlelvilleson, a lady of some preten
32                                           (511)




512                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
sions to musical ability, likewise engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby
to sing at a series of concerts called Harmonic Assemblies or
Meetings, which it would appear are held at the Sol's Arms,
under Mr. Bogsby's direction, pursuant to the Act of George the
Second, that he (Mr. Swills) found his voice seriously affected by
the impure state of the atmosphere; his jocose expression, at the
time, being, "that he was like an empty post-office, for he hadn't
a single note in him." How this account of Mr. Swills is entirely
corroborated by two intelligent married females residing in the
same court, and known respectively by the names of Mrs. Piper
and Mrs. Perkins; both of whom observed the fcetid effluvia, and
regarded them as being emitted from the premises in the occupa
tion of Krook, the unfortunate deceased. All this and a great
deal more, the two gentlemen, who have formed an amicable
partnership in the melancholy catastrophe, write down on the
spot; and the boy population of the court (out of bed in a moment) swarm up the shutters of the Sol's Arms' parlor, to behold
the tops of their heads while they are about it.
The whole court, adult as well as boy, is sleepless for that
night, and can do nothing but wrap up its many heads, and talk
of the ill-fated house, and look at it. Miss Flite has been bravely
rescued from her chamber, as if it were in flames, and accorn
modated with a bed at the Sol's Arms.  The Sol neither turns
off its gas nor shuts its door, all night; for any kind of public excitement makes good for the Sol, and causes the court to stand
in need of comfort.  The house has not done so much in the
stomachic article of cloves, or in brandy and water warm, since
the Inquest. The moment the potboy heard what had happened,
he rolled up his shirt-sleeves tight to his shoulders, and said,
"There'll be a run upon us!" In the first outcry, Young Piper
dashed off for the fire-engines; and returned in triumph at a jolting gallop, perched up aloft on the Phoenix, and holding on to
that fabulous creature with all his might, in the midst of helmets
and torches.  One helmet remains behind, after careful investigation of all chinks and crannies; and slowly paces up and down
before the house, in company with one of the two policemen who
have been likewise left in charge thereof.  To this trio, every
body in the court, possessed of sixpence, has an insatiate desire to
exhibit hospitality in a liquid form.




LEAK  HOUSE.                       513
Mr. Weevle and his friend Mr. Guppy are within the bar at
the Sol, and are worth any thing to the Sol that the bar contains,
if they will only stay there.  "This is not a time," says Mr.
Bogsby, "to haggle about money," though he looks something
sharply after it, over the counter; "give your orders, you two
gentlemen, and you're welcome to whatever you put a name to."
Thus entreated, the two gentlemen (Mr. Weevle especially)
put names to so many things, that in course of time they find it
difficurt to put a name to any thing quite distinctly; though they
still relate, to all new-corners, some version of the night they have
had of it, and of what they said, and what they thought, anti
what they saw. Meanwhile, one or other of the policemen often
flits about the door, and pushing it open a little way at the full
length of his arm, looks in from outer gloom.  Not that he has
any suspicions, but that he may as well know what they are up.to, in there.
Thus, night pursues its leaden course; finding the court still
out of bed through the unwonted hours, still treating and being
treated, still conducting itself similarly to a court that has had a
little money left it unexpectedly. Thus, night at length with
slow-retreating steps departs, and the lamp-lighter going his
rounds, like an executioner to a despotic king, strikes off the little
heads of fire that have aspired to lessen the darkness. Thus, the
day cometh, whether or no.
And the day may discern, even with its dim London eye, that
the court has been up all night.  Over and above the faces that
have fallen drowsily on tables, and the heels that lie prone on
hard floors instead of beds, the brick and mortar physiognomy of
the very court itself looks worn and jaded.  And now the neighborhood waking up, and beginning to hear of what has happened,
comes streaming in, half-dressed to ask questions; and the two
policemen and the helmet (who are far less impressible externally:han the court) have enough to do to keep the door.
" Good gracious, gentlemen!" says Mr. Snagsby, coming up.
" What's this I hear!"
" Why, it's true," returns one of the policemen. "That's what
it is. Now move on here, come!"
"Why, good gracious, gentlemen," says Mr. Snagsby, some.
What promptly backed away, "I was at this door last night be




614                 BLEAK  HOUSE
twixt ten and eleven o'clock, in conversation with the young man
who lodges here."
"Indeed?" returns the policeman.  "You will find the young
man next door then.  Now move on here, some of you."
" Not hurt, I hope?" says Mr. Snagsby.
" Hurt?  No. What's to hurt him!"
Mr. Snagsby, wholly unable to answer this, or any other question, in his troubled mind, repairs to the Sol's Arms, and finds
Mr. Weevle languishing over tea and toast; with a considerable
expression on him of exhausted excitement, and exhausted tobacco-smoke.
"And Mr. Guppy likewise!" quoth Mr. Snagsby.  "Dear,
dear, dear! What a Fate there seems in all this! And my
lit-"
Mr. Snagsby's power of speech deserts him in the formation of
the words "my little woman."  For, to see that injured female
walk into the Sol's Arms at that hour of the morning and stand
before the beer-engine, with' her eyes fixed upon him like an accusing spirit, strikes him dumb.
"My dear," says Mr. Snagsby, when his tongue is loosened,
"will you take any thing?  A little-not to put too fine a point
upon it-drop of shrub?"
" No," says Mrs. Snagsby.
" My love, you know these two gentlemen?"
"Yes!" says Mrs. Snagsby; and in a rigid manner acknowledges their presence, still fixing Mr. Snagsby with her eye.
The devoted Mr. Snagsby can not bear this treatment.  He
takes Mrs. Snagsby by the hand, and leads her aside to an adjacent cask.
"My little woman, why do you look at me in that way?
Pray don't do it."
"I can't help my looks," says Mrs. Snagsby, " and if I could
I wouldn't."
Mr. Snagsby, with his cough of meekness, rejoins-" Wouldn't
you really, my dear?" and meditates. Then coughs his cough
of trouble, and says, " This is a dreadful mystery, my love!" still
fearfully disconcerted by Mrs. Snagsby's eye.
"It is," returns Mrs. Snagsby, shaking her head, " a dreadful
mystery."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       515
"My little woman," urges Mr. Snagsby, in a piteous manner,'don't, for goodness sake, speak to me with that bitter expression, and look at me in that searching way! I beg and entreat
of you not to do it.  Good lord, you don't suppose that I would
go spontaneously combusting any person, my dear?"
"I can't say," returns Mrs. Snagsby.
On a hasty review of his unfortunate position, Mr. Snagsby
"can't say," either.  He is not prepared positively to deny that
he may have had something to do with it.  He has had something-he don't know what-to do with so much in this connection that is mysterious, that it is possible he may even be implicated, without knowing it, in the present transaction.  He faintly
wipes his forehead with his handkerchief, and gasps.
" My life," says the unhappy stationer, " would you have any
objections to mention why, being in general so delicately circumnspect in your conduct, you come into a Wine Vaults before breakfast?"
" Why do you come here?" inquires Mrs. Snagsby.
"My dear, merely to know the rights of the fatal accident
which has happened to the venerable party who has beencombusted."  Mr. Snagsby has made a pause to suppress a
groan.  "I should then have related them to you, my love, over
your French roll."
" I dare say you would! You relate every thing to me, Mr.
Snagsby."
"Every-my lit-?"
"I should be glad," says Mrs. Snagsby, after contemplating
his increased confusion with a severe and scornful smile, " if you
would come home with me; I think you may be safer there, Mr.
Snagsby, than any where else."
" My love, I don't know but what I may be, I am sure. I am
ready to go."
Mr. Snagsby casts his' eyes forlornly round the bar, gives
Messrs. Weevle and Guppy good-morning, assures them of the
satisfaction with which he sees them uninjured, and accompanies
Mrs. Snagsby from  the Sol's Arms.  Before night, his doubt
whether he may not be responsible for some inconceivable part
in the catastrophe which is the talk of the whole neighborhood,
is almo.st resolved into certainty by Mrs. Snagsby's pertinacity ini




~516            BLEAK  HOUSE.
that fixed gaze. His mental sufferings are so grea:, that he
entertains wandering ideas of delivering himself up to justice,
and requiring to be cleared, if innocent, and punished with the
utmost rigor of the law, if guilty.
Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, having taken their breakfast,
step into Lincoln's Inn to take a little walk about the square,
und clear as many of the dark cobwebs out of their brains as a
tittle walk may.
" There can be no more favorable time than the present, Tony,"
says Mr. Guppy, after they have broodingly made out the four
sides of the square, " for a word or two between us, upon a point
on which we must, with very little delay, come to an understanding."
" Now, I tell you what, William G!" returns the other, eying
his companion with a bloodshot eye.  "If it's a point of conspiracy, you needn't take the trouble to mention it. I have had
enough of that, and I ain't going to have any more. We shall
have you taking fire next, or blowing up with a bang."
This supposititious phenomenon is so very disagreeable to Mr.
Guppy.that his voice quakes, as he says in a moral way, " Tony,
I should have thought that what we went through last night
would have been a lesson to you never to be personal any more
as long as you lived." To which Mr. Weevle returns, " William,
I should have thought it would have been a lesson to you never
to conspire any more as long as you lived."  To which Mr.
Guppy says, "Who's conspiring?"  To which Mr. Jobling replies, " Why, you are!"  To which Mr. Guppy retorts, "No, I
am not."  To which Mr. Jobling retorts again, " Yes, you are!"
To which Mr. Guppy retorts, "Who says so?"  To which Mr.
Jobling retorts, " I say so!"  To which Mr. Guppy retorts,
" Oh, indeed?" To which Mr. Jobling retorts, " Yes, indeed!"
And both being now in a heated state, they walk on silently for
a while, to cool down again.
"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, then, " if you heard your friend out,
instead of flying at him, you wouldn't fall into mistakes.  But
your temper is hasty, and you are not considerate. Possessing
in yourself, Tony, all that is calculated to charm the eye-"
Oh! Blow the eye!" cries Mr. Weevle. cutting him short.
"' Sa      _ what you have got to say.  Get on with your barrow  "




BLEAK  HOUSE.                      517
Finding his friend in this morose and material condition, Mr.
Guppy only expresses the finer feelings of his soul through the
tone of injury in which he recommences:
"Tony, when I say there is a point on which we must come
to an understanding pretty soon, I say so quite apart from any
kind of conspiring, however innocent. You know it is professionally arranged beforehand, in all cases that are tried, what facts
the witnesses are to prove. Is it, or is it not, desirable that we
should know what facts we are to prove, on the inquiry into the
death of this unfortunate old Mo-gentleman?'" (Mr. Guppy
was going to say, Mogul, but thinks gentleman better suited to
the circumstances.)
" What facts?  The facts."
" Exactly.  The facts bearing on that inquiry.  Those are-"
Mr. Guppy tells them off on his fingers-" what we knew of his
habits; when you saw him last; what his condition was then;
the discovery that we made, and how we made it."
" Yes," says Mr. Weevle.  " Those are about the facts."
" We made the discovery, in consequence of his having, in his
eccentric way, an appointment with you for twelve o'clock at
night, when you were to explain some writing to him, as you
had often done before, on account of his not being able to read.
i, spending the evening with you, was called down —and so forth.
The inquiry being only into the circumstances touching the death
of the deceased, it's not necessary to go beyond these facts, I suppose you'll agree?"
" No!" returns Mr. Weevle.  "I suppose not."
"And this is not a conspiracy, perhaps?" says the injured
Guppy
"No," returns his friend; "if it's nothing worse than this, I
withdraw the observation."
" New, Tony," says Mr. Guppy, taking his arm again, and
walking him slowly on, " I should like to know, in a friendly
way, whether you have yet thought over the many advantages
of your continuing to live at that place?"
"What do you mean?" says Tony, stopping.
Whether you have yet thought over the many advantages of
your continuing to live at that place?" repeats Mr. Guppy, walk-.:,g him on again.




518                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
"At what place?  That place?" pointing in the direction of
the rag and bottle shop.
Mr. Guppy nods.
"Why, I wouldn't pass another night there, for any consideration that you could offer me," says Mr. Weevie, haggardly staring.
"Do you mean it though, Tony?"
" Mean it! Do I look as if I mean it?  I feel as if I do; I
know that," says Mr. Weevle, with a very genuine shudder.
" Then the possibility, or probability-for such it must be considered-of your never being disturbed in possession of those effects, lately belonging to a lone old man who seemed to have no
relation in the world; and the certainty of your being able to
find out what he really had got stored up there; don't weigh
with you at all against last night, Tony, if I understand you?"
says Mr. Guppy, biting his thumb with the appetite of vexation.
" Certainly not. Talk in that cool way of a fellow's living
there?" cries Mr. Weevle, indignantly.  "Go and live there
yourself."
"0! I, Tony!" says Mr. Guppy, soothing him.  "I have never
lived there, and couldn't get a lodging there now; whereas you
have got one."
"You are welcome to it," rejoins his friend, " and-ugh!you may make yourself at home in it."
"Then you really and truly at this point," says Mr. Guppy,
"give up the whole thing, if I understand you, Tony?"
" You never," returns Tony, with a most convincing steadfastness, "said a truer word in all your life.  I do!"
While they are so conversing, a hackney-coach drives into the
square, on the box of which vehicle a very tall hat makes itself
manifest to the public. Inside the coach, and consequently not
so manifest to the multitude, though sufficiently so to the two
friends, for the coach stops almost at their feet, are the venerable
Mr. Smallweed and Mrs. Smallweed, accompanied by their granddaughter Judy.  An air of haste and excitement pervades the
party; and as the tall hat (surmounting Mr. Smallweed the
younger) alights, Mr. Smallweed the elder pokes his head out of
window, and bawls to Mr. Guppy, " How de do, sir! How de
do I"




BLEAK HOUSE.                         519
"What do Chick and his family want here at this time of
the morning, I wonder!" says Mr. Guppy, nodding to his familiar.
"My dear sir," cries Grandfather Smallweed, "would you do
me a favor? Would you and your friend be so very obleeging as
to carry me into the public house in the court, while Bart and his
sister bring their grandmother along? Would you do an old man
that good turn, sir?"
Mr. Guppy looks at his friend, repeating inquiringly, " the public house in the court?"  And they prepare to bear the venerable
burden to the Sol's Arms.
" There's your fare!" says the Patriarch to the coachman with
a fierce grin, and shaking his incapable fist at him. " Ask me
for a penny more, and I'll have my lawful revenge upon you.
My dear young men, be easy with me, if you please.  Allow me
to catch you round the neck. I won't squeeze you tighter than
I can help.  O Lord!  0 dear me!  0 mybones "
It is well that the Sol is not far off, for Mr. Wecovle presents
an apoplectic appearance before half the distance is accomplished.
With no worse aggravation of his symptoms, however, than the
utterance of divers croaking sounds, expressive of obstructed respiration, he fulfills his share of the porterage, and the benevolent
old gentleman is deposited by his own desire in the parlor of the
Sol's Arms.
" 0 Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed, looking about him, breath
less, from an arm-chair.  " 0 dear me! 0 my bones and back.
0 my aches and pains! Sit down, you dancing, prancing, sham
bling, scrambling poll-parrot! Sit down!"
This little apostrophe to Mrs. Smallweed is occasioned by a
propensity on the part of that unlucky old lady, whenever she
finds herself on her feet, to amble about, and " set" to inanimate
objects, accompanying herself with a chattering noise, as in a
witch dance.  A nervous affection has probably as much to do
with these demonstrations, as any imbecile intention in the poor
old woman; but on the present occasion they are so particularly
lively in connection with a Windsor arm-chair, fellow to that in
which Mr. Smallweed is seated, that she only quite desists when
her grandchildren have held her down in it: her lord in the
meanwhile bestowiug upon her, with great volubility, the endcar



520                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
ing epithet of'; a pig-headed Jackdaw," repeated a surprising
number of times.
"My dear sir," Grandfather Smallweed then proceeds, addressing Mr. Guppy, "there has been a calamity here.  Have you
heard of it, either of you?"
"Heard of it, sir I Why, we discovered it."
"You discovered it.  You two discovered it! Bart, they discovered it!"
The two discoverers stare at the Smallweeds, who return the
compliment.
" My dear friends," whines Grandfather Smallweed, putting
out both his hands, " I owe you a thousand thanks for discharging the melancholy office of discovering the ashes of Mrs. Smallweed's brother."
"Ell?" says Mr. Guppy.
" Mrs. Smallweed's brother, my dear friend-her only relation.
We were not on terms, which is'to be deplored now, but he never
would be on terms.  He was not fond of us.  He was eccentric
-he was very eccentric.  Unless he has left a will (which is
not at all likely) I shall take out letters of administration.  I
have come down to look after the property; it must be sealed up,
it must be protected. I have come down," repeats Grandfather
Smallweed, hooking the air toward him with all his ten fingers
at once, " to look after the property."
"I think, Small," says the disconsolate Mr. Guppy, "you might
have mentioned that the old man was your uncle."
" You two were so close about him that I thought you would
like me to be the same," returns that old bird, with a secretly
glistening eye.  " Besides, I wasn't proud of him."
"Besides which, it was nothing to you, you know, whether he
was or not," says Judy. Also with a secretly glistening eye.
"He never saw me in his life, to know me," observes Small;
" I don't know why I should introduce him, I am sure!"
" No, he never communicated with us-which is to be deplored," the old gentleman strikes in; "but I have come to look
after the property-to look over the papers, and to look after the
property.  We shall make good our title.  It is in the hands of
my solicitor.  Mr. Tulkinghorn, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, over the
way there, is so good as to act as my solicitor; and grass don't




BLEAK HOUSE.                         b21
grow under his feet, I can tell ye.  Krook was Mrs. Smallweed's
only brother; she had no relation but Krook, and Krook had no
relation but Mrs. Smallweed.  I am speaking of your brother,
you brimstone black-beetle, that was seventy-six years of age."
Mrs. Smallweed instantly begins to shake her head and pipe
up, " Seventy-six pound seven and sevenpehce! Seventy-six thousand bags of money! Seventy-six hundred thousand million of
parcels of bank notes!"'Will somebody give me a quart pot?" exclaims her exaspr'rated husband, looking helplessly about him, and finding no
missile within his reach. "Will somebody obleege me with a spittoon?  Will somebody hand me any thing hard and bruising to
pelt at her? You hag, you cat, you dog, you brimstone barker!"
Here Mr. Smallweed, wrought up to the highest pitch by his own
eloquence, actually throws Judy at her grandmother in default
of any thing else, by butting that young virgin at the old lady
with such force as he can muster, and then drooping into his
chair in a heap.
" Shake me up, somebody, if you'll be so good," says the voice
from within the faintly struggling bundle into which he has collapsed.  "I have come to look after the property.  Shake me
up; and call in the police on duty at the next house, to be explained to about the property. My solicitor will be here presently
to protect the property.  Transportation or the gallows for any
body who shall touch the property!" As his dutiful grandchildren
set him up, panting, and put him through the usual restorative
process of shaking and punching, he still repeats like an echo,
"the-the property! The property!-property!"
Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy look at each other; the former as
having relinquished the whole affair; the latter with a discom
fited countenance, as having entertained some lingering expectatiors yet.  But there is nothing to be done in opposition to the
Smallweed interest.  Mr. Tulkinghorn's clerk comes down fiom
his official pew in the chambers, to mention to the police that
Mr. Tulkinghorn is answerable for its being all correct about the
next of kin, and that the papers and effects will be formally taken
possession of in due time and course.  Mr. Smallweed is at once
permitted so far to assert his supremacy as to be carried on a visit
of' sentiment intto tile next house, and np-st.airs into Miss.Flite's




522                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
deserted room, where he looks like a hideous bird of prey newly
added to her aviary.
The arrival of this unexpected heir soon taking wind in the
court, still makes good for the Sol, and keeps the court upon its
mettle.  Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins think it hard upon the
young man if there really is no will, and consider that a handsome present ought to be made him out of the estate. Young Piper
and young Perkins, as members of that restless juvenile circle
which is the terror of the foot-passengers in Chancery Lane, crumble into ashes behind the pump and under the archway, all day
long; where wild yells and hootings take place over their remains.  Little Swills and Miss M. Melvilleson enter into affable
conversation with their patrons, feeling that these unusual occurrences level the barriers between professionals and non-professionals. Mr. Bogsby puts up " The popular song of KING DEATH!
with chorus by the whole strength of the company," as the great
Harmonic feature of the week; and announces in the bill that
" J. G. B. is induced to do so at a considerable extra expense, in
consequence of a wish which has been very generally expressed
at the bar by a large body of respectable individuals, and in
homage to a late melancholy event which has aroused so much
sensation."   There is one point connected with the deceased,
upon which the court is particularly anxious; namely, that the
fiction of a full-sized coffin should be preserved, though there is
so little to put in it. Upon the undertaker's stating in the Sol's
bar in the course of the day, that he has received orders to construct "a six-footer," the general solicitude is much relieved, and
it is considered that Mr. Smallweed's conduct does him great
honor.
Out of the court, and a long way out of it, there is considerable excitement too; for men. of science and philosophy come to
look, and carriages set down doctors at the corner, who arrive
with the same intent, and there is more learned talk about inflammable gases and phosphuretted hydrogen than the court has
ever imagined.  Some of these authorities (of course the wisest)
hold with indignation that the deceased had no business to die in
the alleged manner; and being reminded by other authorities of a
certain inquiry into the evidence for such deaths, reprinted in the
sixth volume of the Philosophical Transactions; and also of a




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        623
book not quite unknown, on English Medical Jurisprudence; and
likewise of the Italian case of the Countess Cornelia Baudi, as set
forth in detail by one Bianchini, prebendary of Verona, who wrote
a scholarly work or so, and was occasionally heard of in his time
as having gleams of reason in him; and also of the testimony of
Messrs. Fodere and Mere, two pestilent Frenchmen who would
investigate the subject; and further, of the corroborative testimony of Monsieur Le Cat, a rather celebrated French surgeon
once upon a time, who had the unpoliteness to live in a house
where such a case occurred, and even to write an account of it;
-still they regard the late Mr. Krook's obstinacy, in going out
of the world by any such by-way, as wholly unjustifiable and personally offensive. The less the court understands of all this, the
more the court likes it; and the greater enjoyment it has in the
stock in trade of the Sol's Arms. Then, there comes the artist of,a picture newspaper, with a foreground and figures ready drawn
for any thing, from a wreck on the Cornish coast to a review in
Hyde Park, or. a meeting at Manchester-and in Mrs. Perkins's
own room, memorable evermore, he then and there throws in
upon the block, Mr. Krook's house, as large as life; in fact, considerably larger, making a very Temple of it. Similarly, being
permitted to look in at the door of the fatal chamber, he depicts
that apartment as three quarters of a mile long, by fifty yards
high; at which the court is particularly charmed. All this time,
the two gentlemen before mentioned pop in and out of every house,
and assist at the philosophical disputations-go every where, and
listen to every body-and yet are always diving into the Sol's parlor, and writing with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper.
At last came the coroner and his inquiry, like as before, except that the coroner cherishes this case as being out of the common way, and tells the gentlemen of the jury, in his private capacity, that " that would seem to be an unlucky house next doqr,
gentlemen, a destined house; but so we sometimes find it, and
these are mysteries we can't account for!"  After which the
six-footer comes into action, and is much admired.
In all these proceedings Mr. Guppy has so slight a part. except when he gives his evidence, that he is moved on like a
private individual, and can only haunt the secret house on the
outside; where he has the mortification of seeing Mr. Smallweed




524                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
padlocking the door, and of bitterly knowing himself to be shut
out. But before these proceedings draw to a close, that is to say,
on the night next after the catastrophe, Mr. Guppy has a thing
to say that must be said to Lady Dedlock.
For which reason, with a sinking heart, and with that hangdog sense of guilt upon him, which dread and watching, enfolded
in the Sol's Arms, have produced, the young man of the name
of Guppy presents himself at the town mansion at about seven
o'clock in the evening, and requests to see her ladyship.  Mercury replies that she is going out to dinner: don't he see the
carriage at the door?  Yes, he does see the carriage at the door;
but he wants to see my lady too.
Mercury is disposed, as he will presently declare to a fellow
gentleman in waiting, "to pitch into the young man;" but his
instructions are positive. Therefore he sulkily supposes that the
young man must come up into the library.  There he leaves the
young man in a large room, not over-light, while he makes report of him.
Mr. Guppy looks into the shade in all directions, discovering
every where a certain *charred and whitened little heap of coal
or wood.  Presently he hears a rustling.  Is it-?  No, it's no
ghost; but fair flesh and blood, most brilliantly dressed.
"I have to beg your ladyship's pardon," Mr. Guppy stammers,
very downcast.  "This is an inconvenient time-"
" I told you, you could come at any time."  She takes a chair,
looking straight at him as on the last occasion.
"Thank your ladyship.  Your ladyship is very affable."
"You can sit down."  There is not much affability in her
tone.
"I don't know, your ladyship, that it's worth while my sitting down and detaining you, for I-I have not got the letters
that I mentioned when I had the honor of waiting on your ladyship."
" Have you come merely to say so?"
" Merely to say so, your ladyship."  Mr. Guppy, besides being
depressed, disappointed, and uneasy, is put at a further disadvantage by the splendor and beauty of her appearance.  She knows
its influence perfectly; has studied it too well to miss a grain
of its effect on any one.  As she looks at him so steadily and




BLEAI HOUSE.                        625
coldly, he not only feels conscious that he has no guide, in the
least perception of what is really the complexion of her thoughts;
but also that he is being every moment, as it were, removed fur
ther and further from her.
She will not speak, it is plain. So he must.
"In short, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, like a meanly
penitent thief, " the person I was to have had the letters of, has
come to a sudden end, and-" He stops.  Lady Dedlock calmly
finishes the sentence.
" And the letters are destroyed with the person?"
Mr. Guppy would say no, if he could-as he is unable to
hide.
" I believe so, your ladyship."
If he could see the least sparkle of relief in her face now?
No, he could see no such thing, even if that brave outside did
not utterly put him away, and he were not looking beyond it and
about it.
He falters an awkward excuse or two for his failure.
" Is this all you have to say?" inquires Lady Dedlock, having
heard him out-or as nearly out as he can stumble.
Mr. Guppy thinks that's all.
" You had better be sure that you wish to say nothing more
to me; this being the last time you will have the opportunity."
Mr. Guppy is quite sure.  And indeed he has no such wish at
present, by any means.
"That is enough.  I will dispense with excuses.  Good evening to you!" and she rings for Mercury to show the young man
of the name of Guppy out.
But in that house, in that same moment, there happens to be
an old man of the name of Tulkinghorn.  And that old man,
coming with his quiet footstep to the library, has his hand at
that moment on the handle of the door-comes in-and comes
face to face with the young man as he is leaving the room.
One glance between the old man and the lady; and for an
instant the blind that is always down flies up.  Suspicion, eager
and sharp, looks out.  Another instant; close again.
"I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock.  I beg your pardon a
thousand times.  It is so very unusual to find you here at this
hour. I supposed the room was empty.  I beg your pardon!"




526                BLEAK  M OUSE.
"Stay!"  She negligently calls him back.  "Remain here, T
beg.  I an going out to dinner.  I have nothing more to say to
this young man I"
The disconcerted young man bows, as he goes out, and cringingly hopes that Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields is well.
"Ay, ay?" says the lawyer, looking at him from under his
bent brows; though he has no need to look again-not he.
" From Kenge and Carboy's, surely?"
"Kenge and Carboy's, Mr. Tulkinghorn.  Name of Guppy,
sir."
"To be sure. Why, thank you, Mr. Guppy, I am very well!"
"Happy to hear it, sir. You can't be too well, sir, for the
credit of the profession."
" Thank you, Mr. Guppy I"
Mr. Guppy sneaks away.  Mr. Tulkinghorn, such a foil in his
old fashioned rusty black to Lady Dedlock's brightness, hands her
down the staircase to her carriage.  He returns rubbing his chin,
and rubs it a good deal in the course of the evening.




,,   >.~'~,~_.;~~...,, k..;.........    ~.......,~.''
I,~          ~. ~~~~~~~~~~~i!:.-~
It
-  4L. —   — ~~~~~~_~~_  _~~_ ~   ~-x.,:,~
-HE                                 -
I,~'~''~   ~  ~                                        I~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE OLD M~AN BY THIE NAMIE OF T/TLKINGHORN.








CHAPTER XXXIV.
A TURN OF THE SCREW.
"Now, what," says Mr. George, "may this be?  Is it blank
cartridge, or ball? A flash in the pan, or a shot?"
An open letter is the subject of the trooper's speculations, and
it seems to perplex him mightily.  He looks at;t at arm's length,
brings it close to him, holds it in his right hand, holds it in his
loft hand, reads it with his head on this side, with his head on
that side, contracts his eyebrows, elevates them; still, can not
satisfy himself.  He smooths it out upon the table with his heavy
palm, and thoughtfully walking up and down the gallery, makes
a halt before it every now and then, to come upon it with a fresh
eye.  Even that won't do.  "Is it," Mr. George still muses,
"blank cartridge or ball?"
Phil Squod, with the aid of a brush and paint-pot, is employed
in the distance whitening the targets; softly whistling, in quickmarch time, and in drum-and-fife manner, that he must and he
will go back again to the girl he left behind him.
"Phil!'  The trooper beckons as he calls him.
Phil approaches in his usual way; sidling off at first as if he
were going any where else, and then bearing down upon his
commander like a bayonet-charge.  Certain splashes of white
show in high relief upon his dirty face, and he scrapes his one
eyebrow with the handle of his brush.
"Attention, Phil! Listen to this."
"Steady, commander, steady."
"'Sir.  Allow me to remind you (though there is no legal
necessity for my doing so, as you are aware) that the bill at two
months' date, drawn on yourself by Mr. Matthew Bagnet, and
by you accepted, for the sum of ninety-seven pounds four shillings
and ninepence, will become due to-morrow, when you will please
3 s(527)




528                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
be prepared to take up the same on presentation.  Yours, JOSHUA
SMALLWEED.'-What do you make of that, Phil?"
Mischief, guv'ner."
"Why?"
"1 think," replies Phil, after pensively tracing out a crosswrinkle in his forehead with the brush-handle, " that mischeeviuus consequences is always meant when money's asked for."
"Lookyc, Phil," says the trooper, sitting on the table.  "First
and last, I have paid, I may say, half as much again as this
principal, in interest and one thing and another."
Phil intimates, by sidling back a pace or two, with a very unaccountable wrench of his wry face, that he does not regard the
transaction as being made more promising by this incident.
" And lookye further, Phil," says the trooper, staying his premature conclusions with a wave of his hand.  "There has
always been an understanding that this bill was to be what they
call Renewed.  And it has been renewed, no end of times.
What do you say now?"
" I say that I think the times is come to a end at last."
".You do? Humph! I am much of the same mind myself."
"Joshua Smallweed is him that was brought here in a chair?"
"The same."
"Guv'ner," says Phil, with exceeding gravity, "he's a leech in
his dispositions, h.'s a screw and a wice in his actions, a snake
in his twistings, and a lobster in his claws."
Having thus expressively uttered his sentiments, Mr. Squod,
after waiting a little to ascertain if any further remark be expected of him, gets back, by his usual series of movements, to
the target he has in hand; and vigorously signifies, through his
former musical medium, that he must and he will return to that
ideal young lady.  George having folded the letter walks in that
direction.
" There is a way, commander," says Phil, looking cunningly
at.him, "of settling this."
" Paying the money, I suppose? I wish I could."
Phil shakes his head.  " No, guv'ner, no; not so bad as that
There is a way," says Phil, with a highly artistic turn of hie
brush-" what I'm a-doing at present."
"Whitewashing?"




BLEAK HOUSE.                         ^2
Phil nods.
" A pretty way that would be! Do you know what would
become of the Bagnets in that case? Do you know they would
be ruined to pay off my old scores?  You're a moral character,"
says the trooper, eying him in his large way with no small indignation, " upon my life you are, Phil!"
Phil on one knee at the target, is in course of protesting earnestly, though not without many allegorical scoops of his brush,
and smoothings of the white surface round the rim with his
thumb, that he had forgotten the Bagnet responsibility; and
would not so much as injure a hair of the head of any member
of that worthy family, when steps are audible in the long passage without, and a cheerful voice is heard to wonder whether
George is at home. Phil, with a look at his master, hobbles up,
saying, "Here's the guv'ner, Mrs. Bagnet! Here he is!" and
the old girl herself, accompanied by Mr. Bagnet, appears.
The old girl never appears in walking trim, in any season of
the year, without a gray cloth cloak, coarse and much worn, but
very clean, which is, undoubtedly, the identical garment rendered
so interesting to Mr. Bagnet by having made its way home to
Europe from another quarter of the globe, in company with Mrs.
Bagnet and an umbrella.  The latter faithful appendage is also
invariably a part of the old girl's presence out of doors. It is of
no color known in this life, and has a cbrrugated wooden crook
for a handle, with a metallic object let into its prow or beak, resembling a little model of a fan-light over a street door, or one of
the oval glasses out of a pair of spectacles: which ornamental
object has not that tenacious capacity of sticking to its post that
might be desired in an article long associated with the British
army., The old girl's umbrella is of a flabby habit of waist, and
seems to be in need of stays-an appearance that is possibly referable to its having served, through a series of years, at home as
a cupboard, and on journeys as a carpet bag.  She never puts it
up, having the greatest reliance on her well-proved cloak with
its capacious hood; but generally uses the instrument as a wand
with which to point out joints of meat or bunches of greens in
marketing, or to arrest the attention of tradesmen by a friendly
poke.  Without her market-basket, which is a sort of wicker
well with two flapping lids, she never stirs abroad.  Attended




630                 BLEAK  HOUSE
by these her trusty companions, therefore, her honest sunburnt
face looking cheerily out of a rough straw bonnet, Mrs. Bagnet
now  arrives, fresh colored and bright, in George's Shooting
Gallery.
"Well, George, old fellow," says she, "and how do you do,
this sunshiny morning?"
Giving him a friendly shake of the hand, Mrs. Bagnet draws a
long breath after her walk, and sits down to enjoy a rest. Having a faculty, matured on the tops of baggage-wagons, and in
other such positions, of resting easily any where, she perches on
a rough bench, unties her bonnet-strings, pushes back her bonnet, crosses her arms, and looks perfectly comfortable.
Mr. Bagnet, in the mean tire, has shaken hands with his old
comrade, and with Phil: on whom Mrs. Bagnet likewise be
stows a good-humored nod and smile.
" Now, George," says Mrs. Bagnet, briskly, " here we are, Lignurn and myself;" she often speaks of her husband by this appellation, on account, as it is supposed, of Lignum Vitae having been
his old regimental nickname when they first became acquainted,
in compliment to the extreme hardness and toughness of his
physiognomy; "just looked in, we have, to make it all correct
as usual about that security.  Give him the new bill to sign,
George, and he'll sign it like a man."
"I was coming to yotl this morning," observes the trooper, reluctantly.
"Yes, we thought you'd come to us this morning, but we turned out early, and left Woolwich, the best of boys, to mind his sisters, and came to you instead-as you see! For Lignum, he's
tied so close now, and gets so little exercise, that a walk does him
good.  But what's the matter, George?" asks Mrs. Bagnet, stopping in her cheerful talk. "You don't look yourself."
" I am not quite myself," returns the trooper; " I have been
a little put out, Mrs. Bagnet."
Her quick bright eye catches the truth directly.  "George!"
holding up her forefinger.  "Don't tell me there's any thing
wrong about that security of Lignum's! Don't do it, George, on
account of the children!"
The trooper looks at her with a troubled visage.
" George," says Mrs. Bagnet, using both her arms for empha



BLEAK  HOUSE.                        5?T
sis, and occasionally bringing down her open hands upon her
knees.  "If you have allowed any thing wrong to come to that
security of Lignum's, and if you have let him in for it, and if you
have put us in danger of being sold up-and I see sold up in yoor
face, George as plain as print-you have done a shameful actio,
and have deceived us cruelly. I tell you, cruelly, George. Ther,)!'
Mr. Bagnet, otherwise as immovable as a pump or a lamppost, puts his large right hand on the top of his bald head. a.. if
to defend it from a shower-bath, and looks with great unea.jirss
at Mrs. Bagnet.
"George!" says that old girl. -" I wonder at you! George,
I am ashamed of you! George, I couldn't have believed you
would have done it! I always knew you to be a rolling stone
that gathered no moss; but I never thought you would have
taken away what little moss there was for Bagnet and the children to lie upon. You know what a hard-working, steady-going
chap he is.  You know what Quebec and Malta and Woolwich
are-and I never did think you would, or could, have had the
heart to serve us so.  0 George 1"  Mrs. Bagnet gathers up her
cloak to wipe her eyes on, in a very genuine manner, "Howv
could you do it?"
Mrs. Bagnet ceasing, Mr. Bagnet removes his hand from his
head as if the shower-bath were over, and looks disconsolately at
Mr. George; who has turned quite white, and looks distressfully
at the gray cloak and straw bonnet.
"fMat," says the trooper,.in a subdued voice, addressing him,
but still looking at his wife; "I am sorry you take it so much
to heart, because I do hope it's not so bad as that comes to. I
certainly have, this morning, received this letter;" which he
reads aloud; " but I hope it may be set right yet.  As to a rolling stone, why, what you say is true.  I am a rolling stone; and
I never rolled in any body's way, I fully believe, that I rolled the
least good to. But it's impossible for an old vagabond comrade
to like your wife and family better than I like'em, Mat, and I
trust you'll look upon me as forgivingly as you can.  Don't think
I'vekept any thing from you. I haven't had the letter more than
a quarter of an hour.
"Old girl I" murmurs Mr. Bagnet, after a short silence, "will
you tell him my opinion?"




532                 BLEAK  HOTUSE.
" Oh! Why didn't he marry," Mrs. Bagnet answers, halflaughing and half-crying, " Joe Pouch's widder in North America?  Then he wouldn't have got himself into these troubles."
"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "puts it correct-why didn't
you?"
"Well, she has a better husband by this time, I hope," returns the trooper.  "Anyhow, here I stand, this present day, not
married to Joe Pouch's widder.  What shall I do?  You see all
I have got about me. It's not mine; it's yours. Give the word,
and I'll sell off every morsel. If I could have hoped it would
have brought in nearly the sum wanted, I'd have sold all long
ago. Don't believe that I'll leave you or yours in the lurch,
Mat.  I'd sell myself first.  I only wish," says the trooper, giving himself a disparaging blow in the chest, " that I knew of
any one who'd buy such a second-hand piece of old stores."
"Old girl," murmurs Mr. Bagnet, "give him  another bit of
my mind."
"George," says the old girl, "you are not so much to be
blamed, on full consideration, except for ever taking this business
without the means."
"And that was like me!" observes the penitent trooper, shaking his head. " Like me, I know."
" Silence! The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "is correct-in
her way of giving my opinions-hear me out!"
"That was when you never ought to have asked for the securiity, George, and when you never ought to have got it, all things
considered. But what's done can't be undone. You are always
an honorable and straightforward fellow, as far as lays in your
power, though a/little flighty.  On the other hand, you can't but
admit but what it's natural in us to be anxious, with such a
thing hanging over our heads.  So forget and forgive all round,
George.  Come! Forget and forgive all round!"
Mrs. Bagnet giving him one of her honest hands, and giving
her husband the other, Mr. George gives each of them one of his,
and holds them while he speaks.
"I do assure you both, there's nothing I wouldn't do to discharge this obligation. But whatever I have been able to serape
together, has gone every two months in keeping it up. We havo
lived plainly enough here, Phil and I. But the Gallery don't




BLEAK  HOUSE.                      533
quite -do what was expected of it, and it's not-in short, it's not
the Mint. It was wrong in me to take it?  Well, so it was.
But I was in a manner drawn into that step, and I thought it
might steady me, and set me up, and you'll try to overlook my
having such expectations, and upon my soul, I am very much
obliged to you, and very much ashamed of myself." With these
concluding words, Mr. George gives a shake.to each of the hands'
he holds, and, relinquishing them, backs a pace or two, in a
broad-chested upright attitude, as if he had made a final confession, and were immediately going to be shot with all military
honors.
"George, hear me out!" says Mr. Bagnet, glancing at his wife.
" Old girl, go on!"
Mr. Bagnet, being in this singular manner heard out, has
merely to observe that the letter must be attended to without
any delay; that it is advisable that George and he should immediately wait on Mr. Smallweed in person; and that the primary object is to save and hold harmless Mr. Bagnet, who had
none of the money. Mr. George entirely assenting, puts on hishat,
and prepares to march with Mr. Bagnet to the enemy's camp.
"Don't you mind a woman's hasty word, George," says Mrs.
Bagnet, patting him on the shoulder.  "I trust my old Lignum
to you, and I am sure you'll bring him through it."
The trooper returns, that this is kindly said, and that he,'ill
bring Lignum through it somehow. Upon which, Mrs. Bagnet,
with her cloak, basket, and umbrella, goes home, bright-eyed
again to the rest of her family; and the comrades sally forth on
the hopeful errand of mollifying Mr. Smaliweed.
Whether there are two people in England less likely to come
satisfactorily out of any negotiation with Mr. Smallweed than
Mr. George and Mr. Matthew Bagnet, may be very reasonably
questioned. Also, notwithstanding their martial appearance,
broad. square shoulders, and heavy tread, whether there are,
within the same limits, two more simple and unaccustomed
children, in all the Smallweedy affairs of life. As they proceed
with great gravity through the streets toward the region of
Mount Pleasant, Mr. Bagnet, observing his companion to be
thoughtful, considers it a friendly part to refer to Mrs. Bagnet's
late sally.




534                  BLEAK HOUSE.
"George, you know the old girl-she's as sweet and as mild
as milk.  But touch her on the children-or myself-and she's
oif like gunpowder."
" It does her credit, Mat!"
" George," says Mr. Bagnet, looking straight before him, "the
old girl-can't do any thing-that don't do her credit. More or
less. I never say so. Discipline must be maintained."
"She's worth her weight in gold," returns the trooper.
"In gold?" says Mr. Bagnet.  "I'll tell you what.  The old
girl's weight is twelve stone six.  Would I take that weightin any metal-for the old girl?  No.  Why not?  Because the
old girl's metal is far more precious than the preciousest metal.
And she's all metal!"
" You are right, Mat!"
"When she took me-and accepted of the ring-she'listed
under me and the children-heart and head-for life. She's that
earnest," says Mr. Bagnet, "and that true to her colors-that,
touch us with a finger-and she turns out-and stands to her
arms.  If the old girl fires wide-once in a way-at the call of
duty-look over it, George.  For she's loyal!"
" Why, bless her, Mat!" returns the trooper, "I think the
higher of her for it!"
"You are right!" says Mr. Bagnet, with the warmest enthusiasm, though without relaxing the rigidity of a single muscle.
" Think as high of the old girl-as the rock of Gibraltar-and
still you'll be thinking low-of such merits.  But I never own
to it before her. Discipline must be maintained."
These encomiums bring them to Mount Pleasant, and to Grandfather Smallweed's house. The door is opened by the perennial
Judy, who, having surveyed them from top to toe with no particular favor, but, indeed, with a malignant sneer, leaves them
standing there, while she consults the oracle as to their admission.  The oracle may be inferred to give consent, from  the
circumstance of her returning with the words on her honey lips,
" that they can come in if they want to it."  Thus privileged,
they come ir., and find Mr. Smallweed with his feet in the drawer
of his chair, as if it were a paper. foot-bath, and Mrs. Smallweed
obscured with the cushion, like a bird that is not to sing.
"My dear friend," said Grandfather Smallweed, with those




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       535
two lean, affectionate arms of his stretched forth.  "How de
do?  How de do?  Who is our friend, my dear friend?"
"Why this," returns George, not able to be very conciliatory
at first, " is Matthew Bagnet, who has obliged me in that matter of ours, you know."
"Oh! Mr. Bagnet?  Surely!"  The old man looks at him
under his hand.  " Hope you're well, Mr. Bagnet?  Fine man,
Mr. George! Military air, sir!"
No chairs being offered, Mr. George brings one forward for Bagnet., and one for himself. They sit down; Mr. Bagnet as if he
had no power of bending himself, except at the hips for that
purpose.
" Judy," says Mr. Smallweed, "bring the pipe."
"Why, I don't know," Mr. George interposes, "that the young
woman need give herself that trouble; for, to tell you the truth,
I' am not inclined to smoke it to-day."
"Ain't you?" returns the old man. " Judy, bring the pipe."
" The fact is, Mr. Smallweed," proceeds George, "that I find
myself in rather an unpleasant state of mind. It appears to me,
sir, that your friend in the city has been playing tricks."
"0 dear no!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "He never does
that!"
" Don't he? Well, I am glad to hear it, because I thought it
might be his doing. This, you know, I am speaking of. This
letter."
Grandfather Smallweed smiles in a very ugly way, in recognition of the letter.' What does it mean?" asks Mr. George.
"Judy," says the old man.  "Have you got the pipe? Give
it to me. Did you say what does it mean, my good friend-?"
"Ay! Now, come, come, you know, Mr. Smallweed," urges
the trooper, constraining himself to speak as smoothly and confidentially as he can, holding the open letter in one hand, and
resting the broad knuckles of the other on his thigh; "a good
lot of money has passed between us, and we are face to face at
the present moment, and are both well aware of the understanding there- has always been. I am prepared to do the usual thing
which I have done regularly, and to keep this matter going. I
never got a letter like this from you before, and I have been a




636                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
little put about by it this morning; because here's my friend
Matthew Bagnet, who, you know, had none of the money-"
" I don't know it, you know," says the old man, quietly.
" Why, con-found you-it, I mean-I tell you so; don't I?"
" Oh, yes, you tell me so," returns Grandfather Smallweed.
But I don't know it."
"Well!" says the trooper, swallowing his fire; " I know it."
Mr. Smallweed replies with excellent temper, "Ah! that's
quite another thing!"  And adds, "but it don't matter.  Mr.
Bagnet's situation is all one, whether or no."
The unfortunate George makes a great effort to arrange the
affair comfortably, and to propitiate Mr. Smallweed by taking
him upon his own terms.
" That's just what I mean.  As you. say, Mr. Smallweed,
here's Matthew Bagnet liable to be fixed whether or no. Now,
you see, that makes his good lady very uneasy in her mind, and
me too; for, whereas, I'm a harum-scarum sort'of a good-fornought, that more kicks than half-pence comes natural to, why
he's a steady family man, don't you see? Now, Mr. Smallweed,"
says the trooper, gaining confidence as he proceeds in this soldierly mode of doing business; " although you and T are good
friends enough in a certain sort of a way, I am well aware that
I cafi't ask you to let my friend Bagnet off entirely."
"0 dear, you are too modest. You can ask me any thing, Mr.
George."  (There is an Ogreish kind of jocularity in Grandfather
Smallweed to-day).
" And you can refuse, you mean, eh?  Or not you so much,
perhaps, as your friend in the city? Ha, ha, ha!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" echoes Grandfather Smallweed.  In such a
very hard manner, and with eyes so particularly green, that Mr.
Bagnet's natural gravity is much deepened by the contemplation
of that venerable man.
"Come!" says the sanguine George, "I am glad to find we
can be pleasant, because I want to arrange this pleasantly.
Here's my friend Bagnet, and here am I. We'll settle the matter on the spot, if you please, Mr. Smallweed, in the usual way.
And you'll ease my friend Bagnet's mind, a.nd his family's mind,
a good deal, if you'll just mention to him what our understand*
ing is




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BLEAK  HOUSE.                        637
Here some shrill spectre cries out, in a mocking manner, " 0,
good gracious!  0!"-unless, indeed, it be the sportive Judy,
who is found to be silent when the startled visitors look round,
but whose chin has received a recent toss, expressive of derision
and contempt. Mr. Bagnet's gravity becomes yet more profound.
"But I think you asked me, Mr. George;" old Smallweed,
who all this time has had the pipe in his hand, is the speaker
now; " I think you asked me, what did the letter mean?"
"Why, yes, I did," returns the trooper, in his off-hand way:
" but I don't care to know particularly, if it's all correct and pleasant."
Mr. Smallweed, purposely balking himself in an aim at the
trooper's head, throws the pipe on the ground and breaks it to
pieces.
"' That's what it means, my dear friend. I'll smash you. I'll
crumble you.  I'll powder you.  Go to the devil!"
The two friends rise and look at one another.  Mr. Bagnet's
gravity now has attained its profoundest point.
" Go to the devil!" repeats the old man. " I'll have no more
of your pipe-smokings and swaggerings.  What?  You're an independent dragoon, too! Go to my lawyer (you remember where;
you have been there before), and show your independence now,
will you?' Come, my dear friend, there's a chance for you.
Open the street door, Judy; put these blusterers out! Call in
help if they don't go. Put'em out!"
He vociferates this so loudly, that Mr. Bagnet, laying his hands
on the shoulders of his comrade, before the latter can recover fiom
his, amazement, gets him on the outside of the street-door; which
is instantly slammed by the triumphant Judy. Utterly confounded, Mr. George awhile stands looking at the knocker. Mr. Bagnet, in a perfect abyss of gravity, walks up and down'before the
little parlor-window, like a sentry, and looks in every time he
passes; apparently revolving something in his mind.
"Come, Mat!'' says Mr. George, when he has recovered himself, " we must try the lawyer.  Now, what do you think of this
rascal?"
Mr. Bagnet, stopping to take a farewell look into the parlor,
replies, with one shake of his head directed at the interior, " If
my old girl had been here —I'd have told him "  Having so dis



538                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
charged himself of the subject of his cogitations, he falls into step.
and marches off with the trooper, shoulder to shoulder.
When they present themselves in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Mr.
Tulkilughorn is engaged, and not to be seen. He is not at all
willing to see them; for when they have waited a full hour, and
the clerk, on his bell being rung, takes the opportunity of mentioning as much, he brings forth no more encouraging message
than that Mr. Tulkinghorn has nothing to say to them, and they
had better not wait. They do wait, however, with the perseverance of military tactics; and at last the bell rings again, and
the client in possession comes out of Mr. Tulkinghorn's room.
The client is a handsome old lady; no other than Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper at Chesney Wold. She comes out of the sanctuary with a fair old-fashioned courtesy, and softly shuts the door.
She is treated with some distinction there; for the clerk steps
out of his pew to show her through the outer office, and to let
her out. The old lady is thanking him for his attention, when
she observes the comrades in waiting.
" 1 beg your pardon, sir, but I think those gentlemen are military?"
The clerk referring the question to them with his eye, and Mr.
George not turning round from the almanac over the fire-place,
Mr. Bagnet takes upon himself to reply, " Yes, ma'am. Formerly."
"I thought so.  I was sure of it.  My heart warms, gentlemen, at the sight of you. It always does at the sight of such.
God bless you, gentlemen! You'll excuse an old woman; but
I had a son once who went for a soldier. A fine handsome youth
lie was, and good in his bold way, though some people did disparage him to his poor mother. I ask your pardon for troubling
you, sir.  God bless you, gentlemen!"
" Same to you, ma'am!" returns Mr. Bagnet, with right good
will.
There is something very touching in the earnestness of the old
lady's voice, and in the tremble that goes through her quaint old
figure.  But Mr. George is so occupied with the almanac over
the fire-place (calculating the coming months by it perhaps), that
he does not look round until she has gone away, and the door is
closed upon her.
"George," Mr. Bagnet gruffly whispers, when he does turn




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       539
froni the almanac at last. "Don't be cast down!' Why, soldiers,
why-should we be melancholy, boys?' Cheer up, my hearty!"
The clerk having now again gone in to say that they are still
there, and Mr. Tulkinghorn being heard to return with some
irascibility, " Let'em come in, then!" they pass into the great
room with the painted ceiling, and find him standing before the
fire.
"Now, you men, what do you want?  Sergeant, I told you
the last time -I saw you that I don't desire your company here."
Sergeant replies-dashed within the last few minutes as to his
usual manner of speech, and even as to his usual carriage-that
he has received this letter, has been to Mr. Smallweed about it,
and has been referred there.
" I have nothing to say to you," rejoins Mr. Tulkinghorn. " If
you get into debt, you must pay your debts, or take the consequences.  You have no occasion to come here to learn that, I
suppose?"
Sergeant is sorry to say that he is not prepared with the money.
"Very well! Then the other man-this man, if this is hemust pay it for you."
Sergeant is sorry to add that the other man is not prepared
with the money either.
" Very well! Then you must pay it between you, or you must
both be sued for it, and both suffer. You have had the money
and must refund it. You are not to pocket other people's pounds,
shillings, and pence, and escape scot free."
The lawyer sits down in his easy chair and stirs the fire. Mr.
George hopes he will have the goodness to"I tell you, Sergeant, I have nothing to say to you.  I don't
like your associates, and don't want you here. This matter is
not at all in my course of practice, and is not in my office. Mr.
Smallweed is good enough to offer these affairs to me, but they
are not in my way. You must go to Melchisedech's in Clifford's
Inn."
" I must make an apology to you, sir," says Mr. George, "for
pressing myself upon you with so little encouragement-which
is almost as unpleasant to me as it can be to you; but would you
let me say a private word to you?"
Mr. Tulkilghorn rises with his hands in his pckets, and walks




640                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
into one of the window recesses.  "Now! I have no time to
waste."  In the midst of his perfect assumption of indifference,
he directs a sharp look at the trooper; taking care to stand with
his own back to the light, and to have the other with his face
toward it.
"Well, sir," says Mr. George, "this man with me is the other
party implicated in this unfortunate affair-nominally, only nominally-and my sole object is to prevent his getting into trouble
on my account.  He is a most respectable man with a wife and
family; formerly in the Royal Artillery-"
" My friend, I don't care a pinch of snuff for the whole Royal
Artillery establishment-officers, men, tumbrils, wagons, horses,
guns, and ammunition."
"'Tis likely,, sir.  But I care a good deal for Bagnet and his
wife and family being injured on my account.  And if I could
bring them through this matter, I should have no help for it but
to give up, without any other consideration, what you wanted of
me the other day."
" Have you got it here?"
" I have got it here, sir."
" Sergeant," the lawyer proceeds, in his dry, passionless man
ner, far more hopeless in the dealing with, than any amount of
vehemence,' make up your mind while I speak to you, for this
is final. After I have finished speaking I have closed the subject, and I won't re-open it. Understand that. You can leave
here, for a few days, what. you say you have brought here, if you
choose; you can take it away at once, if you choose.  In case
you choose to leave it here, I can do this for you-I can replace
this matter on its old footing, and I can go so far besides as to
give you a written undertaking that this man Bagnet shall never
be troubled in any way until you have been proceeded against
to the utmost-that your means shall be exhausted before the
creditor looks to his. This is, in fact, all but freeing him. Have
you decided?"
The trooper puts his hand into his breast, and answers with a
long breath, "I must do it, sir."
So Mr. Tulkin.ghorn, putting on his spectacles, sits down and
writes the undertaking; which he slowly reads and explains to
Bagnet, who has all this time been staring at the ceiling, and




BLEAK HOUSE.                          641
who puts his hand on his bald head again, under this new veTBJl
shower-bath, and seems exceedingly in need of the old' girl
through whom  to express his sentiments.  The trooper then
takes from his breast-pocket a folded paper, which he lays with
an unwilling hand at the lawyer's elbow.  "'Tis only a letter of
instructions, sir.  The last I ever had from him."
Look at a millstone, Mr. George, for some change in its ex.pression, and you will find it quite as soon as in the face of Mr.
Tulkinghorn when he opens and reads the letter' He re-folds it.
and lays it in his desk, with a countenance as imperturbable as
Death.
Nor has he any thing more to say or do, but to nod once in
the same frigid and discourteous manner, and to say briefly,
" You can go.  Show these men out, there!"  Being shown out,
they repair to Mr. Bagnet's residence to dine.
Boiled beef and. greens constitute the day's variety on the
former repast of boiled pork and greens; and Mrs. Bagnet serves
out the meal in the same way, and seasons it with the best of
temper! being that rare sort of old girl that she receives Good to
her arms without a hint that it might be Better; and catches
light from any little spot of darkness near her.  The spot on
this occasion is the darkened brow of Mr. George; he is unusually
thoughtful and depressed. At first Mrs. Bagnet trusts to the
combined endearments of Quebec and Malta to restore him; but
finding those young ladies sensible that their existing Bluffy is
not the Bluffy of their usual frolicsome acquaintance, she winks
off the light infantry, and leaves him to deploy at leisure on the
open ground of the domestic hearth.
~But he does not.  He remains in close order, clouded and
depressed. During the lengthy cleaning up and pattening process, when he and Mr. Bagnet are supplied with their pipes, he
is no better than he was at dinner.  He forgets to smoke, looks
at the fire and ponders, lets his pipe out, fills the breast of Mr.
Bagnet with perturbatiorpand dismay, by showing that he has no
enjoyment of tobacco.
Therefore when Mrs. Bagnet at last appears, rosy from the in
vigorating pail, and sits down to her work, Mr. Bagnet growls
Old girl!" and winks monitions to her to find out what's the
matter.




642                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
" Why, George!" says Mrs. Bagnet, quietly threading hei
needle.  " How low you are!"
"Am I?  Not good company?  Well, I am afraid I am not."
He ain't at all like Bluffy mother!" cries little Malta.
" Because he ain't well, I think, mother!" adds Quebec.
"Sure that's a bad sign not to be like Bluffy, too!" returns
the trooper, kissing the young damsels.  " But it's true," with
a sigh —"-'true, I am  afraid.  These little ones are always
light!"
"George," says Mrs. Bagnet, working busily, "if I thought
you cross enough to think of any thing that a shrill old soldier's
wife-who could have bitten her tongue off afterward, and
ought to have done it almost-said this morning, I don't know
what I shouldn't say to you now."
" My kind soul of a darling," returns the trooper.  "Not a morsel of it."
" Because really and truly, George, what I said and meant to
say was, that I trusted Lignum  to you, and was sure you'd
bring him through it.  And you have brought him through it,
noble!"
" Thank'ee, my dear," says George.  " I am  glad of your
good opinion."
In giving Mrs. Bagnet's hand, with her work in it, a friendly
shake-for she took her seat beside him-the trooper's attention
is attracted to her face. After looking at it for, a little while as
she plies her needle, he looks to young Woolwich, sitting on his
stool in the corner, and beckons that fifer to him.
" See there, my boy," says George, very gently smoothing the
mother's hair with his hand, " there's a good loving forehead for
you! All bright with love of you, my boy. A little touched by
the sun and the weather through following your father about and
taking care of you, but as fresh and wholesome as a ripe apple
on a tree."
Mr. Bagnet's face expresses, so far as in its wooden material
lies, the highest approbation and acquiescence.
"The time will come, my boy," pursues the trooper, " when
this hair of your mother's will be gray, and this forehead all
crossed and re-crossed with wrinkles-and a fine old lady she'll
be then.  Take care, while you are young, that you can think




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       513
m  those days,' I never whitened a hair of her dear head, I
never marled a sorrowful line in her face I' For of all the many
things that you can think of when you are a man, you had better have that by you, Woolwich!"
Mr. George concludes by rising from his chair, seating the boy
beside his mother in it, and saying, with something of a hurry
about him, that he'll sinoke his pipe in the street a bit.
34




CHAPTER XXXV,
ESTHER'S NARRATIVE.
I LAY ill through several weeks, and the usual tenor of my life
became like an old remembrance.  But this was not the effect
of time so much as of the change in all my habits, made by the
helplessness and inaction of a sick room. Before I had been confined to it many days, every thing else seemed to have retired
into a remote distance, where there was little or no separation
between the various stages of my life which had been really
divided by years. In falling ill, I seemed to have crossed a dark
ocean, and to have left all my experiences mingled together by
the great distance, on the healthy shore. 
My housekeeping duties, though at first it caused me great
anxiety to think that they were unperformed, were soon as far
off as the oldest of the old duties at Greenleaf, or the summer
afternoons when I went home from  school with my portfolio
under my arm, and my childish shadow at my side, to my godmother's house. I had never known before how short life really
was, and into how small a space the mind could put it.
While I was very ill, the way in which these divisions of time
were lost, and became confused with one another, distressed my
mind exceedingly. At once a child, an elder girl, and the little
woman I had been so happy as: I was not only oppressed by
cares and difficulties adapted to each station, but by the great
perplexity of endlessly trying to reconcile them. I suppose that
few who have not been in such a condition can quite understand
what I mean, or what painful unrest arose from this source.
For the same reason I am almost afraid to hint at that time in
my disorder; it seemed one long night, but T believe there were
both nights and days in it-when I labored up colossal staircases, contriving to reach the top, and ever turned, as I have seen
(544)




BLEAK  HOUSE.                      545
a worm in a garden path by some obstruction, and laboring again.
I knew perfectly at intervals, and I think vaguely at most times,
that I' was in my bed, and talked with Charley, and felt her
touch, and knew her very well; yet I would find myself cornplaining "more of these never-ending stairs, Charley-moie and
more-piled up to the sky, I think!" and laboring on again.
Dare I hint at that worse time when, strung together somewhere in great black space, there was a flaming necklace or ring,
or starry circle of some kind, of which I was one of the beads!
And when my only prayer was to be taken off from the rest, and
when it was such inexplicable agony and misery to be a part of
the dreadful thing?
Perhaps the less I say of these sick experiences, the less tedious
and the more intelligible I shall be. I do not recall them to
make others unhappy, or because I am now the least unhappy in
remembering them.  It may be that if we knew more of such
strange afflictions we might be better able to alleviate their intensity.
The repose that succeeded, the long delicious sleep, the blissful
rest, when in my weakness I was too calm to have any care for
myself, and could have heard (or so I think now) that I was dying
with no other emotion than with a pitying love for those I left
behind-this state can be perhaps more widely understood. I
was in this state when I first shrunk from the light as it twinkled
on me once more, and I knew with a boundless joy for which no
words are raptures enough, that I should see again.
I had heard my Ada crying at the door, day and night; I had
heard her calling to me that I was cruel and did not love her; I
had heard her praying and imploring to be let in to nurse and
comfort me, and to leave my bedside no more; but I had only
said, when I could speak, " Never, my sweet girl, never!" and 1
had over and over again reminded Charley that she was to keep
my darling from the room, whether I lived or died. Charley had
been true to me in that time of need, and with her little hand
aid her great heart had kept the door fast.
But now, my sight strengthening and the glorious light coming
every day more fully and brightly on me, I could read the letters
that my dear wrote to me every morning and evening, and could
put them to my lips and lay my cheek upon them with no fear




54G                  BLEAK HOUSE.
of hurting her.  I could see my little maid, so tender and so
careful, going about the two rooms setting every thing in order
and speaking cheerfully to Ada from the open window again. I
could understand the stillness in the house and the thoughtfulness
it expressed on the part of all those who had always been so good
to me. I could weep in the exquisite felicity of my heart, and
be as happy in my weakness as ever I had been in my strength.
By-and-by, my strength began to be restored. Instead of lying
with so strange a calmness watching what was done for me, as
if it were done for some one else whom I was greatly sorry for, I
helped it a little, and so on to a little more and much more, until
I became useful to myself, and interested, and attached to life
again.
How well I remember the pleasant afternoon when I was
raised in bed with pillows for the first time, to enjoy a great tea
drinking with Charley! The little creature-sent into the world'
surely to minister to the weak and sick-was so happy, and so
busy, and stopped so often in her preparations to lay her head
upon my bosom and fondle me and cry with joyful tears, she was
so glad, she was so glad! that I was obliged to say, " Charley,
if you go on in this way, I must lie down again, my darling, foi
I am weaker than I thought I was!"  So Charley became as
quiet as a mouse, and took her bright face here and there, across
and across the two rooms, out of the shade into the divine sunshine, and out of the sunshine into the shade, while I watched
her peacefully.  When all her preparations were concluded and
the pretty tea-board with its little delicacies to tempt me, and its
white cloth, and its flowers, and every thing so lovingly and
beautifully arranged for me by Ada down-stairs, was ready on
the little table at the bed-side, I felt sure I was steady enough to
say something to Charley that was not new to my thoughts.
First I complimented Charley on the room; and indeed, it was
so fresh and airy, so spotless and neat, that I could scarce believe
I had beeh lying there so long.: This delighted Charley, and her
face was brighter than before.
"''t, Charley," said I looking round, "I miss something,
satrely, that I am accustomed to?".Poor little Charley looked round too, and pretended to shake
ber lead, as if there were nothing absent.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       547
"Are the pictures all as they used to be?" I asked her.
" Every one of them, miss," said Charley.
" And the furniture, Charley?"
" Except where I have moved it about to make more room,
miss."
" And yet," said I, " I miss some familiar object.  Ah, I know
what' it is, Charley! It's the lookinlg-glass."
Charley got up from the table, making as if she had forgotten
something, and went into the next room; and I heard her sob
there.
I had thought of this very often. I was now certain of it. I
could thank God that it was not a shock to me now. I called
Charley back, and when she came-at first pretending to smile,
but as she drew nearer to me, looking grieved-I took her in my
arms, and said, "It matters very little, Charley.  I hope I can
do without my old face very well."
I was frequently so far advanced as to be able to sit up in a
great chair, and even giddily to walk into the adjoining room,
leaning on Charley. The mirror was gone from its usual place
in that room too; but what 1 had to bear was none the harder
to bear for that.
My Guardian had throughout been earnest to visit me, and
there was now no good reason why I should deny myself that
happiness.  He came one morning, and when he first came in
could only hold me in his embrace, and say, "My dear, dear
girl!"  I had long known-who could know better!-what a
deep fountain of affection and generosity his heart was; and was
it not worth my trivial suffering and change to fill such a place
in it?  "0 yes!" I thought.  " He has seen me, and he loves
me better than he did; he has seen me, and is even kinder to
me than he was before; and what have I to mourn for!"
He sat down by me on the sofa, supporting me with his arm.
For a little while he sat with his hand over his face, but when
he removed it, fell into his usual manner. There never can have
been, there never can be, a pleasanter manner.
" My little woman," said he, " what a sad time this has been.
Such an inflexible little woman, too, through all!"
" Only for the best, Guardian," said I.'For the best?" he repeated, tenderly.  "Of course, for'-ih




548                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
best. Every thing she does is for the best, and of the best. But
here have Ada and I been perfectly forlorn and miserable; here
has your friend Caddy been coming and going late and early;
here has every one about the house been utterly lost and dejected; here has even poor Rick been writing-to me, too-in his
anxiety for you!"
I had read of Caddy in Ada's letters, but not of Richard.  I
told him so.
"Why no, my dear," he replied.  "I have thought it better
not to mention it to her."
"And you speak of his writing to you," said I, repeating his
emphasis.  "As if it were not natural for him to do so, Guardian; as if he could write to a better friend!"
" He thinks he could, my love," returned my Guardian, "and
to many a better. The truth is, he writes to me under a sort of
protest, while unable to write to you with any hope of an answer
-wrote coldly, haughtily, distantly, resentfully. Well, dearest
little woman, we must look forbearingly on it. He is not to
blame.  Jarndyce and Jarndyce has warped him out of himself,
and perverted me in his eyes. I have known it do as bad deeds,
and worse, many and many a time. If two angels could be concerned in it, I believe it would change their nature."
" It has not changed yours, Guardian."
"Oh yes, it has, my dear," he said, laughingly. "It has made
the south wind easterly, I don't know how often. Rick mistrusts
and suspects me —goes to lawyers, and is taught to mistrust and
suspect me.  Hears I have conflicting interests; claims clashing
against his, and what not. Whereas, Heaven knows, that if I
could get out of the mountains of Wiglomeration on which my
unfortunate name has been so long bestowed (which I can't), or
could level them by the extinction of my own original right
(which I can't, either, and no human power ever can, any how,
I believe: to such a pass have we got), I would do it this hour.
I would rather restore to poor Rick his proper nature, than be
endowed with all the money that dead suitors, broken, heart and
soul, upon the wheel of Chancery, have left unclaimed with the
Accountant-General-and that's rmoney enough, my dear, to be
cast into a pyramid in memory of Chancery's transcendant wickeduess."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        549
"i s it possible, Guardian," I asked, amazed, "that Richard
can be suspicious of you?"
" Ah, my love, my love," he said, " it is in the subtle poison
of such abuses to breed such diseases. His blood is infected, and
objects lose their natural aspects in his sight. It is not his fault;"
" But it is a terrible misfortune, Guardian."
"It is a terrible misfortune, little woman, to be ever drawn
within the influences of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. I know none
greater. By little and little he has been induced to trust in that
rotten reed, and' it communicates some portion of its rottenness to
every thing around him. But again, I say, with all my soul, we
must be patient with poor Rick, and not blame him.  What a
troop of fine fresh hearts like his have I seen in my time turned
by the same means!"
I could not help expressing something of my wonder and regret
that his benevolent, disinterested intentions had prospered so little.
"We must not say so, Dame Durden," he cheerfully replied;
"Ada is the happier, I hope; and that is much. I did think that
I and both these young creatures might be friends, and not distrustful foes, and we might so far counteract the suit and prove
too strong for it. But it was too much to expect. Jarndyce and
Jarndyce was the curtain of Rick's cradle."
"But, Guardian, may we not hope that a little experience will
teach him what a false and wretched thing it is?"
" We will hope so, my Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce, " and it
may not teach him  so too late.  In any case we must not be
hard on him.  There are not many grown and matured men
living while we speak-good men, too, who, if they were thrown
into this same court as suitors, would not be vitally changed and
depreciated within three years-within two-within one.  How
can we stand amazed at poor Rick?  A young man so unfortunate," here he fell into a lower tone, as if he were thinking aloud,
"can not at first believe (who could?) that Chancery is what it
is.  He looks to it, flushed and fitfully, to do something with his
interests, and bring them to some settlement. It procrastinates,
disappoints, tries, tortures him, and wears out his sanguine hopes
and patience, thread by thread; but he still looks' to it, and
hankers after it, and finds his whole world treacherous and hollow.  Well, well, well   Enough of this, my dear!"
He had supported me, as at first, all thls time; and his ten



650                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
derness was so precious to me that I leaned my head upon his
shoulder and loved him as if he had been my father. I resolved
in my own mind in this little pause, by some means, to see Richard when I grew strong, and try to set him right.
"There are better subjects than these," said my Guardian,
"for such a joyful time as the time of our dear girl's recovery.
And I had a commission to broach one of them  as soon as I
should begin to talk.  When shall Ada come to see you, my
love?"
I had been thinking of that, too. A little in connection with
the absent mirrors, but not much; for I knew my loving girl
would be changed by no change in my looks.
" Dear Guardian," said I, " as I have shut her out so longthough, indeed, indeed, she is like the light to me-"
" I know it well, Dame Durden, well."
He was so good, his touch expressed such endearing compassion and affection, and the tone of his voice carried such comfort
into my heart, that I stopped for a little while, quite unable to
go on.  " Yes, yes, you are tired," said he.  "Rest a little."
" As I have kept Ada out so long," I began afresh after a short
while, "I think I should like to have my own way a little longer, Guardian. It would be best to be away from here before I
see her. If Charley and I were to go to some country lodging
as soon as I can move, and if I had a week there, in which to
grow stronger and to be revived by the sweet air, and to look
forward to the happiness of having Ada with me again, I think it
would be better for us."
I hope it was not a poor thing in me to wish to be a little more
used to my altered self before I met the eyes of the dear girl I
longed so ardently to see; but it is the truth. I did. He understood me, I was sure, but I was not afraid of that.  If it were a
poor thing, I knew he would pass it over.
"Our spoilt little woman," said my Guardian, " shall have her
own way even in her inflexibility, though at the price, I
know, of tears down-stairs.  And see here! Here is Boythorn,
heart of chivalry, breathing such precious vows as never were
breathed 6n paper before, that if you don't go and occupy his
whole house, he having already turned out of it expressly for that
purpose, by Heaven and by earth he'll pull it down and not leave
one brick standing on another."




BLEAK HOUSE.                        655,And my Guardian put a letter in my hand; without any orainary beginning such as " My dear Jarndyce," but rushing at
once into the words, "I swear if Miss Summerson do not come
down and take possession of my house, which I vacate for her
this day at one o'clock, P.M.," and then with the utmost seriousness, and in the most emphatic terms, going on to make the extraordinary declaration he had quoted.  We did not appreciate
the writer the less for laughing heartily over it; and we settled
that I should write him a letter of thanks on the morrow, and
accept his offer.  It was a most agreeable one to me, for of all
the places I could have thought of, I should have liked to go to
none so well as Chesney Wold.
" Now, little housewife," said my Guardian, lookingathiswatch,
" I was strictly timed before I came up-stairs, for you must not be
tired too soon; and my time has waned away to the last minute.
I have one other petition.  Little Miss Flite, hearing a rumor that
you were ill, made nothing of walking down here-twenty miles,
poor soul, in a pair of dancing shoes-to inquire. It was Heaven's
mercy we were at home, or she would have walked back again."
The old conspiracy to make me happy! Every body seemed
to be in it!
" Now, pet," said my Guardian, " if it would not be irksome
to you to admit the harmless little creature one afternoon before
you save Boythorn's otherwise devoted house from demolition, I
believe you would make her prouder and better pleased with
herself than I-though my eminent name is Jarndyce-could
do in a lifetime."
I have no doubt he knew- there would be something in the
simple image of the poor afflicted creature that would fall gently
on my mind with a good influence.  I felt it as he spoke to me.
I could not tell him heartily enough how ready I was to receive
her.  I had always pitied her; never so much as now.  1 had
always been glad of my little power to soothe her under her calamity; but never, never half so glad before.
We arranged a time for Miss Flite to come out by the coach,
and share my early dinner.  When my Guardian left me, I
turned my face away upon my couch and prayed to be forgiven
f 1, surrounded by such blessings, had magnified to myself the
little trial that I had to undergo.  The cllildish prayer of that old
birthday, when I had aspired to be ill(tlstrious, cotltenrted, andl




652                 BLEAK HOUSE.
true-heairted, and to do some good to some one, ard win scr.e
love to myself if I could, came back into my mind with a re
proachful sense of all the happiness I had since enjoyed, and all
the affectionate hearts that had been turned toward me. If I
were weak now, what had I profited by these mercies?  I repeated the old childish prayer in its old childish words, and found
that its old peace had not departed from it.
My Guardian now came every day.  In a week or so more,
I could walk about our rooms, and hold long talks with Ada
from behind the window-curtain. Yet I never saw her, for I had
not as yet the courage to look at the dear face, though I could
have done so easily without her seeing me.
On the appointed day Miss Flite arrived.  The poor little
creature ran into my room quite forgetful of her usual dignity,
and crying from her very heart of hearts, " My dear Fitz Jarndyce!" fell upon my neck and kissed me twenty times.
" Dear me!" said she, putting her hand into her reticule, " I
have nothing here but documents, my dear Fitz Jarndyce; I
must borrow a pocket-handkerchief."
Charley gave her one, and the good creature certainly made
use of it, for she held it to her eyes with both hands, and sat so
shedding tears for the next ten minutes.
"With pleasure, my dear Fitz Jarndyce," she was careful to
explain. " Not the least pain. Pleasure to see you well again.
Pleasure at having the honor of being admitted to see you. I
am  so much fonder of you, my love, than of the Chancellor.
Though I do attend court regularly. By-the-by, my dear, mentioning' pocket-handkerchiefs-"
Miss Flite here looked at Charley, who had been to meet her
at the place where the coach stopped. Charley glanced at me,
and looked unwilling to pursue the suggestion.
"Ve-ry right!" said Miss Flite, "ve-ry correct.  Truly!
Highly indiscreet of me to mention it; but my dear Miss Fitz
Jarndyce, I am  afraid I am  at times (between ourselves, you
wouldn't think it) a little-rambling you know," said Miss Flite,
touching her forehead.  " Nothing more."
"What were you going to tell me?" said I, smiling, for I saw
she wanted to go on.  "You have roused my curiosity, and now
you must gratify it."
Miss Flite looked to Charley for advice in this imuortant crisis,




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        5t3
who said, "If you please, ma'am, you had better tell then," and
therein gratified Miss Flite beyond measure.
"So sagacious, our young friend," said she, in her mysterious
way.  " Diminutive.  But ve-ry sagacious! Well, my dear, it's
a pretty anecdote.  Nothing more.  Still I think it charming.
Who should follow us down the road from the coach, my dear,
but a poor person in a very ungenteel bonnet-"' Jenny, if you please, miss," said Charley.
"Just so!" Miss Flite acquiesced with the greatest suavity.
"Jenny.  Ye-es! And what does she tell our young friend, but
that there has been a lady with a vail inquiring at her cottage
after my dear Fitz Jarndyce's health, and taking a handkerchief
away with her as a little keepsake, merely because it was my
amiable Fitz Jarndyce's.  Now, you know, so very prepossessing
in the lady with the vail!"
" If you please, miss," said Charley, to whom I looked in some
astonishment, " Jenny says that when her baby died, you left a
handkerchief there, and that she put it away and kept it with
the baby's little things. I think, if you please, partly because it
was yours, miss, and partly because it had covered the baby."
" Diminutive," whispered Miss Flite, making a variety of
motions about her own forehead to express intellect in Charley.
"But ex-ceedingly sagacious! And so clear! My love, she's
clearer than any cqunsel I ever heard!"
" Yes, Charley," I returned.  "I remember it.  Well?"
"Well, miss," said Charley, "and that's the handkerchief the
lady took.  And Jenny wants you to know that she wouldn't
have made away with it herself for a heap of money, but that
the lady took it, and left some money instead. Jenny don't know
her at all, if you please, miss?"
" Why, who can she be?" said I.
"My love," Miss Flite suggested, advancing her lips to my ear,
with her most mysterious look, "in my opinion-don't mention
this to our diminutive friend-she's the Lord Chancellor's wife.
He's married, you know.  And I understand she leads him  a
terrible life. Throws his lordship's papers into the fire, my dear,
if he won't pay the jeweleri"
I did not think very much about this lady then, for I had an impression that it might be Caddy.  Besides, my attention was
diverted by my visitor who was cold after her ride, and looked




554                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
hungry; ani who, our dinner being brought m, xequiled soIn-"
little assistance in arraying herself with great satisfaction in a
pitiable old scarf and a much-worn and often-min'J.ei pair of
gloves, which she had brought down in a paper parcel. I had to
preside, too, over the entertainment, consisting of a dish of fish, a
roast fowl, a sweetbread, vegetables, pudding, and Madeira; and
it was so pleasant to see how she enjoyed it, and with what state
and ceremony she did honor to it, that II was soon thinking of
nothing else.
When we had finished, and had our little dessert before us,
embellished by the hands of my dear, who would yield the super
intendence of every thing prepared for me to no one-Miss Flite
was so very chatty and happy, that I thought I would lead her
to her own history, as she was always pleased to talk about herself. I began by saying, " You have attended on the Lord Chan
cellor many years, Miss Flite?"
" Oh many, many, many years, my dear. But I expect a judgment shortly."
There was an anxiety even in her hopefulness, that made me
doubtful if I had done right in approaching the subject.  I
thought I would say no more about it.
" My father expected a judgment," said Miss Flite.  "My
brother. My sister. They all expected a judgment. The same
that I expect."
"They are all-"
" Ye-es, dead of course, my dear," said she.
As I saw she would go on, I thought it best to try to be serviceable to her by meeting the theme, rather than avoiding it.
" Would it not be wiser," said I, " to expect this judgment no
more?
"Why, my dear," she answered promptly, "of course it
would!"
"And to attend the court no more?"
"Equally of course," said she.  "Very wearing to be always
in expectation of what never comes, my dear Fitz Jarndyce!
Wearing, I assure you, to the bone!"
She slightly showed me her arm, and- it was fearfully thin indeed.
" But, my dear," she went on, in her mysterious way, " there's
a dreadfiul attraction in the place.  Hush! Don't mention it t,




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       555
our diminutive friend, when she comes in.  Or it may frighten
her. With good reason. There's a cruel attraction in the place
You can't leave it.  And you must expect."
I tried to assure her that this was not so. She heard me
patiently and smilingly, but was ready with her own answer.
"Ay, ay, ay! You think so, because I am a little rambling.
Ve-ry absurd, to be a little rambling, is it not? Ve-ry confusing, too. To the head. I find it so. But, my dear, I have been
there many years, and I have noticed. It's the Mace and Seal
upon the table."
"What could they do, did she think?" I mildly asked her.
"Draw," returned Miss Flite.  "Draw people on. my dear.
Draw peace out of them.  Sense out of them.  Good looks
out of them.  Good qualities out of them.  I have felt them
drawing my rest away in the night.  Cold and glittering
devils!"
She touched me several times upon the arm, and nodded goodhumoredly, as if she were anxious I should understand that I had
nd cause to fear her, though she spoke so gloomily, and confided
these awful secrets to me.
"Let me see," said she.  "I'll tell you my own case.  Before they ever drew me-before I had ever seen them-what
was it I used to do? tambourine playing? No. Tambour work.
I and my sister worked at tambour work.  Our father and our
brother had a builder's business. We all lived together. Ve-ry
respectably, my dear!  First, our father was drawn-slowly.
Home was drawn with him.  In a few years, he was a fierce,
sour,;angry bankrupt, without a kind word or a kind look for
any one.  He had been so diffirent, Fitz Jarndyce.  He was
drawn to a debtor's prison. There he died. Then our brother
was swiftly drawn to drunkenness and rags. And death. Then
my sister was drawn.  Hush! Never ask to what! Then I
was ill, and in misery, and heard, as I had often heard before,
that this Was all the work of Chancery.  When I got better, I
went to look at the Monster, and then I fund out how it was,
and I was drawn to stay there."
Having got over her own short narrative, in the delivery of
which she had spoken in a low, strained voice, as if the shook
were flesh upon her, she gradually resumed her usual air of ariable importance.




556                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
You don't quite credit me, my dear! Well, well! You will,
some day. I am a little rambling. But I have noticed. I have
seen many new faces come, unsuspicious, within the influence of
the Mace and Seal in these many years.  As my father's came
there.  As my brother's.  As my sister's.  As my own.  I hear
Conversation Kenge and the rest of them say to the new faces,'Here's little Miss Flite.  0, you are new here; and you must
come and be presented to little Miss Flite!' Ve-ry good. Proud,
I am sure, to have the honor! And we all laugh.  But Fitz
Jarndyce knows what will happen, I know, far better than they
do, when the attraction has begun. I know the signs, my dear.
I saw them begin in Gridley. And I saw them end. Fitz Jarndyce, my love," speaking low again.  "I saw them beginning
in our friend the Ward in Jarndyce.  Let some one hold him
back. Or he'll be drawn to ruin."
She looked at me in silence for some moments, with her face
gradually softening into a smile. Seeming to fear that she had
been too gloomy, and seeming also to lose the connection in her
mind, she said, politely, as she sipped her glass of wine, "Yes,
my dear, as I was saying, I expect a judgment shortly. Then I
shall release my birds, you know, and confer estates."
I was very much impressed by her allusion to Richard; and
by the sad meaning, so sadly illustrated in her pOor pinched
form, that made its ivay through all her incoherence. But happily for her, she was quite complacent again now, and beamed
with nods and smiles.
"But, my dear," she said, gayly, reaching another hand to put
it upon mine.  "You have not congratulated me on my physician.  Positively not once, yet!"
I was obliged to confess that I did not quite know what she
meant.
"My physician, Mr. Woodcourt, my dear, who was so exceedingly attentive to me.  Though his services were rendered quite
gratuitously, I assure you! Until the Day of Judgment-I mear,
the judgment that will dissolve the spell upon me of the Mace
and Seal."
" Mr. Woodcourt is so far away, now," said I, " that I thought
the time for such congratulation was past, Miss Flite."
" But, my child," she returned, " is it possible that you don't
Hnw what has happened?"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       657
"No," said I.
"Not what every body has been talking of, my beloved Fitz
Jarndyce?"
" No," said I. " You forget how long I have been here."
"True! my dear, for the moment-true.  I blame myself.
But my memory has been drawn out of me, with every thing
else, by What I mentioned. Ve-ry strong influence, is it not?
Well, my dear, there has been a terrible shipwreck over in those
East-Indian seas."
" Mr. Woodcourt shipwrecked!"
"Don't be agitated, my dear.  He is safe. An awful scene.
Death in all shapes.  Hundreds of dead and dying.  Fire, storm,
and darkness.  Numbers of the drowning thrown upon a rock.
There, and through it all, my dear physician was a hero.  Calm
and brave through every thing.  Saved many lives; never complained in hunger and thirst, wrapped naked people in his spare
clothes, took the lead, showed them what to do, governed them,
tended the sick, buried the dead, and brought the poor survivors
safely off at last! My dear, the poor emaciated creatures all but
worshiped him. They fell down at his feet when they got to the
land and blessed him. The whole country rings with it. Stay!
where's my bag of documents?  I have got it there, and you
shall read it.-You shall read it!"
And I did read all the noble history; though very slowly, and
imperfectly then, for my eyes were so dimmed that I could-not
see the words, and I cried so much that I was many times obliged
to lay down the long account she had cut, out of the newspaper.
I felt so triumphant ever to have known the man who had done
such generous and gallant deeds, I felt such glowing exultation
in his renown, I so admired and loved what he had done that I
envied the storm-worn people who had fallen down at his feet
and blessed him as their preserver. I could myself have kneeled
down then, so far away, and blessed him, in my rapture, that he
should be so truly good and brave.  I felt that no one-mother,
sister, wife-could honor him more than 1. I did. indeed'
My poor little visitor made mre a present of the account, and
when, as the evening began to close in, she rose to take her leave,
lest she should miss the coach by which she was to return, she
was still full of the shipwreck, which I had not yet sufficiently
composed myself to understand in all its details.




658                 BLEAK HOUSE.
"My dear," said she, as she carefully folded up her scarf and
gloves, "my brave physician ought to have a title bestowed upon
him. And no doubt he will. You are of that opinion?"
That he well deserved one, yes. That he would ever have
one, no.
" Why not, Fitz Jarndyce?" she asked, rather sharply.
I said it was not the custom in' England to confef titles on
men distinguished by peaceful services, however good and great;
unless occasionally, when they were distinguished by the accumulation of some very large amount of money.
"Why, good gracious," said Miss Flite, "how can you say
that?  Surely you know, my dear, that all the greatest ornamnents of England, in knowledge, imagination, active humanity,
and improvement of every kind, are among its nobility; look
round you, my dear, and consider.  You must be rambling a
little now, I think, if you don't know that this is the great reason why titles will always last in the land."
I am afraid she believed what she said; for there were mo
ments when she was very mad indeed.
And now I must part with a little secret I have thus far tried
to keep. I had thought, sometimes, that Mr. Woodcourt loved
me, and that if he had been richer, he would perhaps have told
me that he loved me, before he went away. I had thought,
sometimes, that if he had done so, I should have been glad of it.
But how much better it was now, that this had never happened!
What should I have suffered, if I had had to write to him, and
tell him that the poor face he had known as mine was quite gone
from me, and that I freely released him from his' bondage to one
whom he had never seen!
0 it was so much better as it was! With a great pang mercifully spared me, I could take back to my heart my childish
prayer to be all he had so brightly shown himself; and there
was nothing to be undone: no chain for me to break, or for him
to drag; and I could go, please God, my lonely way along the
path of duty, and he could go his nobler way upon its broader
road; and though we were apart upon the journey I might aspire
to meet him unselfishly, innocently, better far than lie had thought
mne when I found some favor in his eyes, at the journey's end,




CHAPTER XXX  _.
CHESNEY WOLD.
CIHARLEY and I did not set off alone upon our expedition into
Lincolnshire.  My Guardian had made up his mind not to lose
sight of me until I was safe in Mr. Boythorn's house; so he
accompanied us, and we were two days upon the road.  I found
every breath of air, and every scent, and every flower and leaf and
blade of grass, and every passing cloud, and every thing il nature, more beautiful and wonderful to me than I had ever found
it yet. This was my first gain from my illness. How little I had
lost when the wide world was so full of delight for me.
My Guardian intending to go back immediately, we appointed,
on our way down, a day when my dear girl should come. I wrote
her a letter, of which he took charge; and he left us within half
an hour of our arrival at our destination, on a delightful evening
in the early summer time.
If a good fairy had built the house for me with a wave of her
wand, and I had been a princess and her favored godchild, I could
not have been more considered in it.  So many preparations were
made for me, and such an endearing remembrance was shown of
all my little tastes and likings, that I could have sat down, overcome, a dozn times, before I had revisited half the rooms. 1 did
better than that, however, by showing them all to Charley instead. Charley's delight calmed mine; and after we had had a
walk in the garden, and Charley had exhausted her whole vocabulary of admiring expressions, I was as tranquilly happy as I
ought to have been. It was a great comfort to be able to say to
myself after tea, " Esther, my dear, I think you are quite sensible
enough to sit down now, and write a note of thanks to your host."
He had left a note of welcome for me, as sunny as his own face,
and had confided his bird to my care, which I knew to be his
highest mark of confidence.  Accordingly I wrote a little note to
him in London, telling him how all his favorite plants and trees
35                                          (559)




560                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
were looking, and how the rros-; astonishing of birds had chirped
the honors of the house t: me in tne most hospitable manner, and
how, after singing on my shoul.der, to tl.e iij; neei vable rapture of
my little maid, he was then at roost in the usual corner of his
cage, but whether dreaming or no I could not report.  My note
finished and sent off tc the post, I made myself very busy in unpacking and arranging; and I sent Charley to bed in good time,
and told her I should want her no more that night.
For I had not yet looked in the glass, and had never asked to
have my own restored to me.  I knew this to be a weakness which
must be overcome; but I had always said to myself that I would
begin afresh, when I got to where I now was. Therefore I had
wanted to be alone, and therefore I said, now, alone, in my own
room, " Esther, if you are to be happy, if you are to have any right
to pray to be true-hearted, you must keep your word, my dear."  1
was quite resolved to keep it; but I sat down for a little while
first, to reflect upon all my blessings. And then I said my prayers,
and thought a little more."
My hair had not been cut off, though it had been in dangei
more than. once.  It was long and thick   I let it down, and
shook it out, and went up to the glass upon the dressing-table.
There was a little muslin" curtain drawn across it.  I drew it
back; and stood for a moment looking through such a vail of my
own hair, that I could see nothing else.  Then I put my hair
aside, and looked at the reflection in the mirror: encouraged by
seeing how placidly it looked at me.  I was very much changed
-0 very, very much.  At first, my face was so strange to me,
that I think I should have put mny hands before it and started
back, but for the encouragement I have mentioned.  Very soon
it became more familiar, and then I knew the extent of the alteration in it better than I had done at first. It was not like what
I had expected.; but I had expected nothing definite, and I dare
say any thing definite would have surprised me.
I had never been a beauty, and had never thought myself one;
but I had been very different from this.  It was all gone now.
Heaven was so good to:'-e, that I could let it go with a few not
bitter tears, and could starnd there arranging my hair for the
night quite thankfully.
One thing troubled me, and I considered it for a long titre bo



BLEAK  HOUSE.                       661
Jore 1 went to sleep. I had kept IvMr. Woodcourt's flowers. When
they were withered I had dried them, and put them in a book
that I was fond of. Nobody knew this, not even Ada. I was
doubtful whether I had a right to preserve what he had sent to
one so different-whether it was generous toward him to'do it.
I wished to be generous to him, even in the secret depths of my
heart, which he would never know, because I could have loved
him   could have been devoted to him.  At last I came to the
conclusion that I might keep them; if I treasured them oa nly
a remembrance of what was irrevocably past and gone, never to
be looked back on any more, in any other light.  I hope this
may not seem trivial. I was very much in earnest.
I took care to be up early in the morning, and to be before the
glass when Charley came in on tiptoe.
" Dear, dear, miss!" cried Charley, starting.  "Is that you?"
"Yes, Charley," saiq I quietly putting up my hair.  "And I
am very well indeed, and very happy."
I saw it was a weight off Charley's mind, but it was a greater
weight off mine. I knew the worst now, and was composed to
it.  I shall not conceal, as I go on, the weaknesses'I could not
quite conquer; but they always passed from me soon, and the
happier frame of mind staid by me faithfully.
Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and my good
spirits before Ada came, I now laid down a little series of plans
with Charley for being in the fresh air all day long.  We were
to be out before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be
out again before and after dinner, and were to walk in the garden
after tea, and were to go to rest betimes, and were to climb every
hill and explore every road, lane, and field in the neighborhood. As
to restoratives and strengthening delicacies, Mr. Boythorn's good
housekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to eat oi
drink in her hand; I could not even be heard of as resting in the
Park, but she would come trotting after me with a basket, her
cheerful face shining with a lecture on the importance of frequent nourishment.  Then there was a pony expressly for my
riding, a chubby pony, with a short neck and a mane all over
his eyes, who could canter-when he would-so easily and
quietly, tkat he was a treasure.  In a very few days, le would
oome to me in the paddock when I called him, and eat ouf of'my




662                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
hand, and follow me about. We arrived at such a capital understanding, that when he was jogging with me lazily, and
rather obstinately, down some shady lane, if I patted his neck,
and said, " Stubbs, I am surprised you don't canter when you
know h w much I like it; and I think you might oblige me, for
you are only getting stupid and going to sleep," he would give
his head a comical shake or two, and set off directly; while
Oharley would stand still and laugh with such enjoyment, that
her laughter was like music. I don't know who had given Stubbs
his name, but it seemed to belong to him as naturally as his
rough coat.  Once we put him in a little. chaise and drove him
triumphantly through the green lanes for five miles; but all at
once as we were extolling him to the skies, he seemed to take it
ill that he should have been accompanied so far by the. circle of
tantalizing little gnats, that had been hovering round and round
his ears the whole way without appearing to advance an inch;
and stopp d to think about it. I suppose he came to the decision that il was not to be borne; for he steadily refused to move,
until I gave the reins to Charley and got out and walked; when
he followed me with a sturdy sort of good-humor, putting his
head under my arm, and rubbing his ear against my sleeve. It
was in vain for me to say, " Now, Stubs I feel quite sure from
what I know of you, that you will go on if I ride a little
while;" for the moment I left him, he stood stock still again.
Consequently I was obliged to lead the way, as before; and in
this order.we returned home, to the great delight of the village.
Charley and I had reason to call it the most friendly of villages,
I am sure; for in a week's time the people were so glad to see
us go by, though ever so frequently in the course of a day, that
there were faces of greeting in every cottage. I had known
many of the grown people before, and almost all the children;
but now the very steeple began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. Among my new friends was an old, old woman who
lived in such a little thatched and whitewashed dwelling, that
when the outside shutter was turned up on its hinges, it shut up
the whole house-front. This old lady had a grandson who was
a sailor; and I wrote a letter to him for her, and drewv at toL
top of it the chimney-corner in which she had brought him u-r
and where his old stool yet occupied its old place.   n'.s was




BLEAK  HOJSL.                       563
considered by the whole village the most wonderful achievement
in the world; but when an answer came back all the way fiom
Plymouth, in which he mentioned that he was going to take the
picture all the way to America, and from America would write
again, I got all the credit that ought to have been given to the.
Post-office, and was invested with the merit of the whole system.
Thus, what with being so much in the air, playing with so
many children, gossiping with so many people, going on invitation into so many cottages, going on with Charley's education,
and writing long letters to Ada every day, I had scarcely any time
to think about that little loss of mine, and was almost always cheer
ful. If I did think of it at odd moments now and then I had only
to be busy and forget it. I felt it more than I had hoped I should,
once, when a child said, " Mother, why is the lady not a pretty lady
now, like she used to be?"  But when I found the child was not
less fond of me, and drew its soft hand over my face with a kind
of pitying protection in its touch, that soon set me up again.
There were many little occurrences which suggested to me, with
great consolation, how natural it is to gentle hearts to be considerate and delicate toward any inferiority. One of these particularly touched me. I happened to stroll into the little church
when a marriage was just concluded, and the young couple had
to sign the register. The bridegroom, to whom the pen was
handed first, made a rude cross for his mark; the bride, who
came next, did the same. Now, I had known the bride when I
was last there, not only as the prettiest girl in the place, but as
having quite distinguished herself in the school; and I could not
help looking at her with some surprise.  She came aside and
whispered to me, while tears of honest. love and admiration stood
in her bright eyes, " He's a dear good fellow, miss; but he can't
write, yet; he's going to learn of me-and 1 wouldn't shame
him for the world!"  Why, what had I to fear, I thought,
when there was this nobility in the soul of a laboring man's
daughter!
The air blew as freshly and revivingly apon me as it had ever
blown, and the healthy color came into my new face as it had
come into my old one. Charley was wonderful to see, she was
so radiant and so rosy; and we both enjoyed the whole day, and
slept soundly the whole night.




561                 BLEAKI  HOUJSE.
Theie was a favorite spot of mine in the park-woods of Chesney
Wold, where a seat had been erected commanding a lovely view.
The wood had been cleared and opened, to improve this point of
sight; and the bright sunny landscape beyond, was so beautiful
that I rested there at least once every day.  A picturesque part
of the Hall, called the Ghost's Walk, was seen to advantage from
this higher ground; and the startling name, and the old legend
in the Dedlock family which I had heard from Mr. Boythorn, accounting for it, mingled with the view and gave it something of
a mysterious interest, in addition to its real charms.  There was
a bank here, too, which was a famous one for violets; and as it
was a daily delight of Charley's to gather wild flowers, she took
as much to the spot as I did.
It would be idle to inquire now why I never went close to the
house, or never went inside it.  The family were not there, I had
heard on my arrival, and were not expected.  I was far from
being incurious or uninterested about the building; on the contrary, I often sat in this place, wondering how the rooms ranged,
and whether any echo like a footstep really did resound at times,.s the story said, upon the lonely Ghost's Walk.  The indefinable
feeling with which Lady Dedlock had impressed me, may have had
some influence in keeping me from the house even when she was
absent.  I am not sure.  Her face and figure were associated
with it, naturally; but I can not say that they repelled me from
it, though something did.  For whatever reason or no reason, I
had. never once gone near it, down to the day at which my story
now arrives. 
I was resting at my favorite point, after a long ramble, and
Charley was gathering violets at a little distance from me. I
had been looking at the Ghost's Walk lying in a deep shade of
masonry afar off, and picturing to myself the female shape that
was said to haunt it, when I became aware of a figure approaching through the wood.  The perspective was so long, and so
darkened by leaves, and the shadows of the branches on the
ground made it so much more intricate to the eye, that at first I
could not discern what figure it was. By little and little, it reXealed itself to be a woman's-a lady's-Lady Dedlock's.  She
was alone, and coming to where I sat, with a much quicker step;
I observed to my surprise, than was usual with her.




BLEAK H-OUSE.                       6CS
" was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was
almost within speaking distance before I knew her), and would
have risen to continue my walk.  But I could not.  I was rendered motionless; not so much by her hurried gesture of entreaty, not so much by her quick advance and outstretched
hands, not so much by the' great change in her manner, and
the absence of her haughty self-restraint, as by a something in
her face that I had pined for and dreamed of when I was a littlechild; something I had never seen in any face; something I
had never seen in hers before.
A dread and faintness fell upon me, and I called to ChGrley.
Lady Dedlock stopped, upon the instant, and changed back almost to what I had known her.
" Miss Summerson, I am afraid I have startled you," she said,
now advancing slowly.  "You can scarcely be strong yet.  You
have been very ill, I know.  I have been much concerned to
hear it."
I could no more have removed my eyes from her pale face,
than I could have stirred from the bench on which I sat. She
gave me her hand; and its deadly coldness, so at variance with
the enforced composure of her features, deepened the fascination
that overpowered me. I can not say what was in my whirling
thoughts.
" You are recovering again?" she asked, kindly.
" I was quite well but a moment ago, Lady Dedlock."
" Is this your young attendant?"
"Yes."
"Will you send her on before, and walk toward your house
with me?"
"Charley," said I, " take your flowers home, and I will follow you directly."
Charley, with her best courtesy, blushingly tied on her bonnet, and went her way.  When she was gone, Lady Dedlock sat
down on the seat beside m3.
I 3an not tell in any wow:s what the state of my mind wa:,
when I saw in her h.sd my handkerchief, with which I had
covered the dead lLtby.
1 I oied at her; beit I could not see her, I could not hear her,.:;;-t!id icot draw my, breath.  The beating of my heart was S




I68                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
violent and wild, that I felt as if my life were breaking from me
But when she caught me to her breast, kissed me, wept ovel
me, compassionated me, and called me back to myself; when
she fell down on her knees and cried to me, " 0 my child, my
child, I am your wicked and unhappy mother! 0 try to forgive
me!"-when I saw her at my feet on the bare earth in her great
agony of mind, I felt, through all my tumult of emotion, a burst
of gratitude to the providence of God that I was so changed as
that I never could disgrace her by any trace of likeness; as that
nobody could ever now look at me, and look at her, and remotely
think of any near tie between us.
I raised my mother up, praying and beseeching her not to.toop before me in such affliction and humiliation.  I did so, in
broken, incoherent words; for, besides the trouble I was in, it
fiightened me to see her at my feet.  I told her-or I tried to
tell her-that if it were for me, her child, under any circumstances to take upon me to forgive her, I did it, and had done it,
many, many years.  I told her that my heart overflowed with
love for her; that it was natural love, which nothing in the past
had changed, or could change. That it was not fbr me, then
resting for the first time on my mother's bosom, to take her to
account for having given me life; but that my duty was to bless
her and receive her, though the whole world turned from her,
and that I only asked her leave to do it. I held my mother in
my embrace, and she held me in hers; and among the still
woods in the silence of the summer day, there seemed to be
nothing but our two troubled minds that was not at peace.
" To bless and receive me," groaned my mother, " it is fat too
late.  I must travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me
whereit will. From day to day, sometimes from hour to hour,
I do not see the way before my guilty feet. This is the earthly
punishment I have brought upon myself. I bear it, and I hire
it."
Even in the thinking of her endurance, she drew her habitual
air of proud indifference about her like a vail, though she soon
cast it off again.
"I must keep this secret, if by any means it can be kept, not
wholly for myself. I have a husband, wretched and dishororing
ereature that I am!"




BLEAK  HOiTSE.                      567
These w r's she uttered with a suppressed cry of despaii,
i-,re terrible in its soun-r than any hkri'_k.  Covering her face
with her hands, she shrunk down in my embrace as if she were
unwilling that I should touch her; nor could I, by my titmost
persuasions, or ly any endearments I could use, prevail upon la,
tc rise.  She said, No, no, no, she could only speak io me ao,
she must' e proud and disdainful every where else; sne would'e humbled and ashamed there, in the only natural nioments of
hlr life.
My unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been
nearly frantic.  She had but then known that her child was
hiring. She could not have suspected me to be that child before.
She had followed me down here, to speak to me but once in all
her life. We never could associate, never could communicate,
never probably from that time forth could interchange another
word, on earth.  She put into my hands a letter she had written
for my reading only; and said, when I had read it, and destroy
ed it-but not so much for her sake, since she asked nothing, as
for her husband's and my own-I must evermore consider her
as dead.  If I could believe that she loved me, in this agony in
which I saw her, with a mother's love, she asked me to do that;
for then I might think of her with a greater pity, imagining
what she suffered. She had put herself beyond all hope, and
beyond all help. Whether she preserved her secret until death,.
or it came to be discovered and she brought dishonor and disgrace upon the name she had taken, it was her solitary struggle
always; and no affection could come near her, and no human
creature could render her any aid.
"But is the secret safe so far?" I asked.  "Is it safe now,
dearest mother?"
" No," replied my mother.  "It has been very near discovery.
It was saved by an accident. It maybe lost by another accident
-to-morrow, any day."
"Do you dread a particular person?"
"Hush! Do not tremble and cry so much for me. I am not
worthy of these tears," said my mother, kissing my hands.    I
dread one person very much."
"An enemy."
"Not a friend   One who is too passionless'o be either.  He is




568                  BLEAK  I OUSE.
Sir Leicester Dedlock's lawyer; mechanically faithful without
attachment, and very jealous of the profit, privilege, and reputation of being master of the mysteries of great houses."
"Has he any suspicions?"
"Many."
"Not of you?" I said, alarmed.
"Yes! He is always vigilant, and always near me.  I may
keep him at a stand still, but I can never shake him off."
"Has he so little pity or compunction?"
" He has none, and no anger. He is indifferent to every thing
but his calling.  His calling is the acquisition of secrets, and the
holding possession of such power as they give him, with no sharer
or opponent in it."
" Could you trust in him?"
"I shall never try.  The dark road I have trodden for so many
years will end where it will. I follow it alone to the end, whatever the end may be.  It may be near, it may be distant; while
the road lasts, nothing turns me."
"Dear mother, are you sc resolved?"
" I am resolved. I have long outbidden folly with folly, pride
with pride, scorn with scorn, insolence with insolence, and havy
outlived many vanities with many more.  I will outlive this
danger, and outdie it, if I can.  It has closed around me, almost
as awfully as if these woods of Chesney Wold had closed around
the house; but my course through it is the same.  I have but
one; I can. have but one."
" Mr. Jarndyce-"  I was beginning, when my mother hurriedly inquired:
"Does hie suspect?"
" No," said I.  "No, indeed! Be assured that he does not!"
And I told her what he had related to me as his knowledge of
my story.  "But he is so good and sensible," said I, "that per
haps if he knew-"
Mly mother, who until this time had made no c;hange in her
position, raised her hand up to my lips, and stopped me.
Confide fully in him," she said, after a little while.  "You
have my free consent-a small gift from such a mother +o her
injured child'. —but do not tell me of it.  Some pride is l fi; n
m11ie evnf yet"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         669
I explained, as nearly as I could then, or can recall now-for
my agitation and distress throughout were so great that I scarcely
understood myself, though every word that was uttered in the
mother's voice, so unfamiliar and so melancholy to me; which
in my childhood I had never learned to love and recognize, had
never been sung to sleep with, had never heard a blessing from,
had never had a hope inspired by; made an enduring impression
on my memory-I say I explained, or tried to do it, how I had
only hoped that Mr. Jarnldyce who had been the best of fathers
to me, might be able to aflbrd some counsel and support to her.
But my mother answered, No, it was impossible; no one could
help her.  Through the desert that l1y before her, she must go
alone.
"My child, my child!" she said.  "For the last time! These
kisses for the last time! These arms upon my neck for the last
time! We shall meet no more.  To hope to do what I seek to
do, I must be what I have been so long. Such is my reward and
doom.  If you hear of Lady Dedlock, brilliant, prosperous, and
flattered; think of your wretched mother, conscience-stricken
underneath that mask! Think that the reality is in her suflering, in her useless remorse, in her murdering within her breast
the only love and truth of which it is capable! And' then forgive
her, if you can; and cry to Heaven to forgive her, which it never
can "
We held one another for a little space yet, but she was so firm,
that she took my hands away, and put them back against my
breast, and, with a last kiss as she held them there, released them,
and went from me into the wood. I was alone; and, cairn and
quiet below me in the sun and shade, lay the old house, with ite
terraces and turrets, on which there had seemed to me to 1be sch
complete repose when I first saw it, but which now loked lke
the obdurate and unpitying watcher of my mother's misery.
Stunned as I was, as weak and helpless at first as I had Pev:r
been in my sick chamber, the necessity of guarding against the
danger of discovery, or even of the remotest uspcioein. did rle
service.  I took such precautions as I could to hid.e from Charloy
that Ihad been crying; and I conatrained mvyself to thlik of evcl'y
sacred obligation that there was upon me to be careful axe':.Alieete:d.  It was not a little while before I (.;'ld succeed, or cocul'




070                 BLEAK HOUSE.
even restrain blirs's of grief; but after an hour or so, I was oetter, and felt that I might return.  I went home very slowly, and
told Charley, whom I found at the gate looking for me, that 1
had been tempted to extend my walk after Lady Dediock had
left me, and that I was over-tired, and would. lie down.  Safe
in my own room, T read the letter.  I clearly derived from itand that was much then —that I had not been a' andened by my
mother.  Her elder and only sister, the godmother of my childhood, discovering signs of life in me when I had been laid aside
as dead, had, in her stern sense of duty, with no desire or willingness that I should live, reared me in rigid secrecy, and had never
again beheld my mother's face from within a few hours of my
birth.  So strangely did I hold my place in this world, that, until
within a short time back, I had never, to my own mother's knowledge, breathed-had been buried-had never been endowed with
life-had never borne a name.  When she had first seen me in
the church, she had been startled; and had thought of what
would have been like me, if it had ever lived, and had lived on;
but that was all, then.
What more the letter told me, needs not to be repeated here
It has its own times and places in my story.
My first care was to burn what my mother had written, and to
consume even its ashes. I hope it may not appear very unnatural or bad in me, that I then became heavily sorrowful to think
I had ever been reared. That I felt as if I knew it would have
been bettel and happier for many people, if indeed I had never
breathed.  That I had a terror of myself, as the danger and the
possible disgrace of my own mother, and of a proud family name.
That I \waz.. s "onfused and shaken, as to be possessed by a belief
that it was right, and had been intended, that I should die in my
birth; and that it was wrong, and not intended, that I should be
then alive.
These are the real feelings that I had. I fell asleep, worn out;
and when I awoke, I cried afiesh to think that I was back in the
world, with my load of trouble for others. I was more than ever
frightened of myself, thinking anew of her, against whom I was
a witness; of the owner of Chesney Wold; of the new and terrible meaning of the old words, now moaning in my ear like a
surge upon the shore, "Your mother, Esther, was your.;sgrace,




THE GHOST'S WALK.








BLEAK  HOUSE.                        571
and you are hers. The time will come-and soon enough-when
you will understand this better, and will feel it too, as no one
save a woman can."  With them, those other words returned,
"Pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon your
head."  I could not disentangle all that was about me; and I
felt as if the blame and the shame were all in me, and the visitition had come down.
The day waned into a gloomy evening, overcast and sad, and
I still contended with the same distress. I went out alone; and,
after walking a little in the park, watching the dark shades falling on the trees, and the fitfil flight of the bats, which sometimes
almost touched me, was attracted to the house for the first time.
Perhaps I might not have gone near it, if I had been in a
stronger frame of mind.  As it was, I took the path th.t led
close by it.
I did not dare to linger or to look up, but I passed before the
terrace garden with its fragrant odors, and its broad walks, and
its well-kept beds and smooth turf  and I saw how beautiful and
grave it was, and how the old stone balustrades and parapets,
and wide flights of shallow steps, were seamed by time and
weather; and how the trained moss and ivy grew about'them,
an(d around the old stone pedestal of the sun-dial; and I heard
the fountain falling..Then the way went by long lines 6f dark
windows, diversified by turreted towers, and porches, of eccentric
shapes, where old stonw  lions and grotesque monsters bristled
outside dens of shadow, and snarled at the evening gloom ovei
the escutcheons they held in their grip. Thence the path wound
underneath a gateway, an I through a court-yard where the principal entrance was (I hurried quickly on), and by the stables,
where none but deep voices seemed to be, whether in the murmuring of the wind through the strong mass of ivy holding to a
high red wall, or in the low complaining of the weathercock, or
In the barking of the dogs, or in the slow striking of a clock. So,
encountering presently a sweet smell of limes, whose rustling I.ould hear, I turned with the turning of the path, to the south
ront; and there, above me, were the balustrades of the Ghost's
Walk, and one lighted window that might be my mother's.
The way was paved here, like the terrace overhead, and my
i^.tsteps from being noiseless made an echoing sound upon the




572                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
flags.  S.l:,3,ii'   to look at nothing, but seeing all I did see as I
wen4. I was passing quickly on, and in a few moments should
have passed the lighted window, when my echoing footsteps
brought it suddenly into my mind that there was a dreadful
truth in the legend of the Ghost's Walk; that it was I, who was
to bring calamity upon the stately house; and that my warning
feet were haunting it even then.  Seized with an augmented
terror of myself which turned me cold, I ran from myself and
every thing, retraced the way by which I had come, and never
paused until I had gained the lodge-gate, and the park lay sullen
and black behind me.
Not before I was alone in my own room for the night, and had
again been dejected and unhappy there, did I begin to know how
wrong and thankless this state was.  But, fiom my darling who
was coming on the morrow; I found a joyful letter, fill of such
loving anticipation, that I must have been of marb.'e if it had not
moved me; from my Guardian too I found another letter, asking
me to tell Dame Durden, if I should see that little woman any
where, that they had moped most pitiably without her, that the
housekeeping was going to rack and ruin, that nobody else could
manage the keys, and that every body in and about the house
declared it was not the same house, and was becoming tebellious f6r her return.  Two such letters together made me think
how far beyond my deserts I was beloved, and how happy I ought
to be.  That made me think of all my past life; and that
brought me, as it ought to have done before, into a better condition.
For, I saw very well that I could not have been intended to
die, or I should never have lived: not to say should never have
been reserved for such a happy life. I saw very w11 how many
things had worked together for my welfare; and that if the sins
of the fathers were sometimes visited upon the children, the
phrase did not mean what I had in the morning feared it meant.
I knew I was as innocent of my birth, as a queen of hers; and
that before my Heavenly Father I should not be punished for
birth, nor a queen tewarded for it. I had had experience, in the
shock of that very day, that I could, even thus soon, find comforting reconcilements to the change that had fallen on me.  I
renewed my resolutions and prayed to be strengthened in them,




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       673
pouring out my heart for myself, and for my unhappy mother
and feeling that the darkness of the morning was passing away.
It was not upon my sl.eep; and when the next day's light awoke,me, it was gone.
My dear girl was to arrive at five o'clock in the afternoon.
How to'help myself through the intermediate'time better than by
taking a long walls along the road by which she was to come, I
did not knovw; so Charley and I and Stubbs-Stubbs, saddled, for
we never drove him after the one great occasion-made a long
expedition along that road, and back.  On our return, we.held a
great review of the house and garden; and saw that every thing
was in its prettiest condition, and had the bird out ready as ai
important part of the establishment.
There were more than two full hours yet to elapse, before she
could come; and in that interval, which seemed a long one, I
must confess I was nervously anxious about my altered looks. I
loved my darling so well, that I was more concerned for their effect
opn her than on any one. I was not in this slight distress because
I at all repined-I am quite certain I did not, that day-but, I
thought, would she be wholly prepared?  When she first saw
me, might' she not be a little shocked and disappointed? Might
it not prove alittle worse than she had expected?  Might she
not look for her old Esther, and not find her?  Might she not
have to grow used to me, and to begin all over again?
I knew the various expressions of my sweet girl's face so w6ll,
and it was such an honest face in its loveliness, that I was sure,
beforehand, she could not hide that first look from me.  And I
considered whether, if it should signify any one of these meanings, which was so very likely, could I quite answer for myself "
Well, I thought I could.  After last night, I thought I could.
But to wait and wait, and expect and expect, and think and
think, was such bad preparation, that I resolved to go along the
road again, and meet her.
So I said to Charley, " Charley, I will go by myself, and walk
along the road until she comes."  Charley highly approving of
any thing that pleased me, I went, and left her at home.
But before I got to the second mile-stone, I had been in so
maiy palpitations from seeing dust in the distance (though I
knew it was inot, anld could not be, the coach yet\, that T resolvec




574                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
to turn back and go home again.  And when I had turned, I
was in such fear of the coach coming up behind me (though I
still knew that it neither would nor could do any such thing),
that I ran the greater part of the way, to avoid being overtaken.
Then, I considered, when I had got safe back again, this was a
nice thing to have done! Now I was hot, and had made the
worst of it, instead of the best.
At last, when I believed there was at least a quarter of an
hour more yet, Charley all at once cried out to me as I was
trembling in the garden, " Here she comes, miss! Here she is!"
I did not mean to do it, but I ran up-stairs into my room, and
hid myself behind the door. There I stood, trembling, even when
I heard my darling calling as she came up-stairs, " Esther, my
dear, my love, where are you?  Little woman, dear Dame
Durden!"
She ran in, and was running out again when she saw me.
Ah, my angel girl! the old dear look, all love, all fondness, ali
affection.  Nothing else in it-no, nothing, nothing 
0 how happy I was, down upon the floor, with my sweet, beau
tiful girl down upon the floor too, holding my scarred face to her
lovely cheek, bathing it with tears and kisses, rocking me to and
fro like a child, calling me by every tender name that she could
think of, and pressing me to her fait'iful heart.




CHAPTER XXXVII.
J RNDYCE AND J^RNDYCE.
IF the secret that I had to keep had been mine, I must have
confided it to Ada before we had been long together.  But it was
not mine; and I did not feel that I had a right to tell it, even
to my Guardian, unless some great emergency arose. It was a
weight to bear alone; still my present duty appeared to be plain,
and. blest in the attachment of my dear, I did not want an impulse
and encouragement to do it. Though often, when she was asleep
and all was quiet, the remembrance of my mother kept me
waking, and made the night sorrowful, I did not yield to it another time; and Ada found me what I used to be-except, of
course, in that particular of which I have said enough, and which
I have no intention of mentioning any more, just now, if I can
help it.
The difficulty that I felt in being quite composed that first
evening, when Ada asked me, over our work, if the family were
at the House, and when I was obliged to answer, Yes, I believed
so, for Lady Dedlock had spoken to me in the woods the day before yesterday, was great. Greater still, when Ada askel me
what she had said, and when I replied that she had been kind
and interested; and when Ada, while admitting her beauty and
elegance, remarked upon her proud manner, and her imperious
chilling air.  But Charley helped me through unconsciously, by
telling us that Lady Dedlock had only staid at the House' two
nights, on her way from London to visit at some other great
house in the next county; and that she had left early on lhe
morning after we had seen her at ouir view, as we called it.
Charley verified the a;;age a.iout little pitchers, I am sure; for
she heard of iuori.WyL.i3' and uooigs, in a day, than would have
roarmt to ny ear. ini a month.
We were to stay a month at,r,. 3oythora's. M- pet had
s6                                            7)




576                  BLEAK HOUSE.
scarcely been there a bright week, as I recollect the time, when
one evening after we had finished helping the gardener in watering his flowers, and just as the candles were lighted, Charley,
appearing with a very important air behind Ada's chair, beckoned me mysteriously out of the room.
" Oh! if you please, miss," said Charley, in a whisper, with
her eyes at their roundest and largest.  " You're wanted at the
Dedlock Arms."
" Why, Charley," said I, "who can possibly wart:.e at the
public-house?"
" I don't know, miss," returned Charley, putting her head forward, and folding her hands tight upon the band of her little apron;
which she always did, in the enjoyment of any thing mysterious
or confidential, " but it's a gentleman, miss, and his compliments,
and will you please to come without saying any tling about it."
"Whose compliments, Charley?"
"His'n, miss," returned Charley: whose grammatical education was advancing, but not very rapidly.
" And how do you come to be the messenger, Charley?"
" I am not the messenger, if you please, miss," returned my
little maid, " It was W. Grubble, miss."
"And who is W. Grubble, Charley?"
" Mister Grubble, miss," returned Charley.  "Don't you know,
miss?  The' Dedlock Arms, by W. Grubble,'" which Charley
delivered as if she were slowly spelling out the sign.
"Ay?  The landlord, Charley?"
"Yes, miss.  If you please, miss, his wife is a beautiful woman, but she  rroke her ankle and it never joined.  And her
brother's the sawyer, that was put in the cage, miss, and they
expect he'll drink hilrelf to death entirely on beer," said
Charley
Not knowing what might be tne matter, and being easily ap-.
prehensive now, I thought it best to go to this place by myself.
I bade Charley be quick with my':onnet and vai, and my shawl;
and having put them on weut aw-ay dowr tll little hilly street,
where I was as much at home, as in  MJ. 3:yt.!.oim's garden.
Mr. Grubble was starding i.n his v!i- sl.roose at th.: do(r cf
his very clean little tav-rn, waiting for me.  I:e lifted ofI'h'  hf i
with both hands when he saw me conling, and carrying it sc, at




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       567
if it were an iron vessel (it looked as heavy), preceded me along th6
sanded passage to his best parlor-a neat carpeted room, with
more plants in it than were quite convenient, a colored print of
Queen Caroline, several shells, a good many tea-trays, two stuff
ed and dried fish in glass cases, and either a curious egg or a
curious pumpkin (but I don't know which, and I doubt if many
people did) hanging from the ceiling.  I knew Mr. Grubble very
well by sight, from his often standing at his door. A pleasant looking, stoutish, middle aged man, who never seemed to
consider himself cosily dressed for his own fireside without
his hat and top-boots, but who never wore a c at except at
church.
lie snuffed the candle, and backing away a little to see how
it looked, backed out of the room-unexpectedly to me, for I was
going to ask him by whom he had been sent.  The door of the
opposite parlor being then opened I heard some voices, familiar
in my ears, I thought, which stopped.  A quick light step approached the room in which I was, and who should stand before
me but Richard.
"My dear Esther!" he said, "my best friend!" and he really
was so warm-hearted and earnest, that in the first surprise and
pleasure of his brotherly greeting, I could scarcely find breath to
tell him that Ada was well.
"Answering my very thoughts-always the same dear girl!"
said Richard, leading me to a chair, and seating himself beside
me.
I put my vail up, but sot quite.
"Always the same dear girl!" said Richard just as heartily as
before.
I put my vail up altogether, and laying my hand on Richard's
sleeve, and looking in his face, told him how much I thanked him
for his kind welcome, and how greatly I rejoiced to see him; the
more so because of the determination I had made in my illness,
which I now conveyed to him.
" My love," said Richard, " there is no one with whom I have
a greater wish to talk, than you, for I want you to understand
mIe.
" And I want you, Richard," said I, shaking my head, "to
understand some one else."




579                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
"Since you refer so immediately to John Jarndyce," —said
Richard; "I suppose you mean him?"
"Of course I do."
"Then I may say at once that I am glad of it, because it is
ol that subject that I am anxious to be understood.  By you,
mind-you, my dear! I am not accountable to Mr. Jarndyce, oi
Mr. Anybody."
I was pained to find him taking this tone, and he observed it.
" Well, well, my dear," sai I Richard, " we won't go into that,
now.  I want to appear quietly in your country house heref with
you under my arm, and give my charming cousin a surprise.  I
suppose your loyalty to John Jarndyce will allow that?"
" My dear Richard," I returned, "you know you would be
heartily welcome at his house-your home, if you will but consider it so; and you are as heartily welcome here."
" Spoken like the best of little women!" cried Richard, gayly.
I asked him how he liked his profession.
" Oh I like it well enough!" said Richard.  "It's all right.
It does as well as any thing else, for a time. I don't know that
I shall care about it when I come to be settled; but I can sell
out then, and-however, never mind all that botheration at
present "
So young and handsome, and in all respects so perfectly the
opposite of Miss Flite! And yet in the clouded, eager, seeking
look that passed over him, so dreadfully like her!
" I am in town on leave, just now," said Richard.
"Indeed!"
" Yes.  I have run over to look after my-my Chancery interests before the long vacation," said Richard, forcing a careless
laugh.  "We are beginning to spin along with that old suit at
last, I promise you."
No wonder that I shook my head!
" As you say, it's not a pleasant subject."  Richard spoke with
the same shade crossing his face. as before. Let it go to the
four winds for to-night.-Puff!  Gone!-who do you suppose is
with me?"
"Was it Mr. Skimpole's voice I heard?"
"That's the man! He does me more good than any body
What a fascinatiing child it is!"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        579
I asked Richard if any one knew of their coining down towether.  He answered, No, nobody.  He had been to call upon
dhe dear old infant-so he called Mr. Skimpole-and the dear old.nfant had told him where we were, and he had told the dear old
nfant he was bent on coming to see us, and the dear old infant had
iirectly wanted to come too; and so he had brought him.  " And
he is worth-not to say his sordid expenses-but thrice his weight in
gold," said Richaid.'He is such a cheery fellow.  No worldliness about him.  Fresh'and green-hearted!"
I certainly did not see the proof of Mr. Skimpole's unworldliness in his having his expenses paid by Richard; but I made ne
remark about that. Indeed, he came in, and turned our conversation.  He was charmed' to see me; said he had been shedding
delicious tears of joy and sympathy, at intervals for six weeks,
on my account; had never been so happy as in hearing of my
progress; began to understand the mixture of good and evil in
the world now; felt that he appreciated health the more, when
somebody else was ill; didn't know but what it might be in the
scheme of things that A should squint to make B happier in look
ing straight; or that C should carry a wooden leg, to make E
better satisfied with his flesh and blood in a silk stocking.
"My dear Miss Summerson, here is our friend Richard," said
Mr. Skimpole, " full of the brightest visions of the future, which
he evokes out of the darkness of Chancery.  Now that's delightful, that's inspiriting, that's full of poetry  In old times, the
woods and solitudes were made joyous to the shepherd by the imaginary piping and dancing of Pan and the Nymphs.  This
present shepherd, our pastoral Richard, brightens the dull Inns
of Court by making Fortune and her train sport through them
to the melodious notes of a judgment from the bench. That's
very pleasant, you know! Some ill-conditioned growling fellov
may say to me,'What's the use of these legal and equitable
abuses?  How do you defend them?' I reply,'My growling
friend, I don't defend them, but they are very agreeable to me.
Thare is a shepherd-youth, a friend of mine who transmutes them
into ),rnething highly fascinating to my simplicity.  I don't say
it is for this that they exist-for I am a child among you worldly
grumblers, and not called upon to account to you or myself for
any tlllin -but it may be so.'"




580                 BT, P.A    H IOUSE.
T'e-,ar serimt'l-'- hink that Richard could scarcely have
"undl a worse friend tnan this.  It made me uneasy that at such
time, when he most required some right principle and purpose,
be should have this captivating looseness and putting-offofevery-'hing, this airy dispensing with all principle and purpose, at his
elbow.  I thought I could understand how such a nature as my
Guardian's, experienced in the world, and forced to contemplate
the miserable evasions and contentions of the family misfortune,.'ound an immense relief in Mr. Skimpole's avowal of his weaknesses and display of guileless candor; but I could not satisfy myself that it was as artless as it seemed! or that it did not serve
Mr. Skimpole's idle turn quite as well as any other part, and
with less trouble.
They both walked back with me; and Mr. Skimpole leaving
us at the gate, I walked softly in with Richard, and said, "Ada,
my love, I have brought a gentleman to visit you.  It was not
difficult to read the blushing, startled face. She loved him
dearly, and he knew it, and I knew it. It was a very transparent business, that meeting as cousins only.
I almost mistrusted myself, as growing quite wicked in my sus
picions, but I was not so sure that Richard loved her dearly.  He
admired her very much-any one must have done that-and I
dare say, would have renewed their youthful engagement with
great pride and ardor, but that he knew how she would respect
her promise to my Guardian. Still, I had a tormenting idea that
the influence upon him extended even here: that he was postponing
his best truth and earnestness, in this as in all things, until Jarndycc and Jarndyce should be off his mind. Ah me! what Richard would have been without that blight, I never shall know
now 
HIe told Ada, in his most ingenuous way, that he had not come
to make any secret inroad on the terms she had accepted (rather
too implicitly and confidingly, he thought) from Mr. Jarndyce;
that he had come openly to see her, and to see me, and to Justify
himself for the present terms on which he stood with Mr. Jarndyce. As the dear old infant would be with us directly, he begged that I would make an appointment for the morning, when
he might set himself right, through the means of an unreserved
conversation with me.  I proposed to walk with him in the park




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        681
at seven o'clock, and this was arranged.  Mr. Skimpole soon
afterward appeared, and made us merry for an hour.  He particularly requested to see Little Coavinses (meaning Charley), and
told her with a patriarchal air, that he had given her late father all
the business in his power; and that if one of her little brothers would
make haste to get set up in the same profession, he hoped he
should still be able to put a good deal of employment in his
way.
" For I am constantly being taken in these nets,"' said Mr.
Skimpole, looking beamingly at us over a glass of wine-andwater, "and am constantly being bailed out-like a boat.  Or
paid off-like a ship's company.  Somebody always does it for
me.  I can't do it, you know, for I never have any money.  But
Somebody does it.  I get out by Somebody's means; I am not
like the starling; I get out. If you were to ask me who Somebody is, upon my word, I couldn't tell you. Let us drink to Somebody.  God bless him!"
Richard was a little late in the morning, biit I had not to
wait for him long, and we turned into the park. The air was
bright and dewy, and the sky withont a cloud.  The birds sang
delightfully; the sparkles in the fern, the grass and trees, were
exquisite to see; the richness of the woods seemred to have increased twenty-fold since yesterday, as if in the still night when
they had looked so massively hushed in sleep, Na.ture, through all
the minute details of every wonderful leaf, had beenl more wakeful than usual for the glory of that day.
" This is a lovely place," said Richard, looking iuro.nd.  " None
of the jar and discord of law-suits here!"
But there was other trouble.
"I tell you what, my dear girl," said Richard, " when I get
affairs in general settled, I shall come down here, I think, arid
rest."
" Would it not be better to rest now?" I asked.
"Oh, as to resting nou," said Richard, " or as to doing any
thing very definite now, that's not easy.  In short, it can't be
done; I can't do it, at least."
" Why not?" said 1.
" You know why not, Esther.  If you were living in an 1lnfinished lhouse, liable tp have the ropf put on or taken off-to he




582                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
from top to bottom pulled down or built up-to morrow, next
day, next week, next month, next year-you would find it hard
to rest or settle.  So do I.  Now?  There's no now  for us
suitors."
I could almost have believed in the attraction on which my
poor little wandering friend had expatiated, when I saw again
the darkened look of last night. Terrible to think, it had in it
also, a shade of that unfortunate man who had di d.
"My dear Richard," said I, "this is a bad beginning of our
conversation."
"I knew you would tell me so, Dame Durden."
" And not I alone, dear Richard.  It was not I who cautioned
you once, never to found a hope or expectation on the family
curse."
"There, you come back to John Jarndyce!" said Richard,
impatiently.  "Well'! We must approach him sooner or later,
for he is the staple of what I have to say; and it's as well at
once.  My dear Esther, how can you be so blind?  Don't you
see that he is an interested party, and that it may be very well
for him to wish me to know nothing of the suit, and care nothing,
about it, but that it may not be quite so well for me?"
" 0 Richard," I remonstrated, " is it possible that you can
ever have seen him and heard him, that you can ever have lived
under his roof and known him, and can yet breathe, even to me
in this solitary place where there is no one to hear us, such
unworthy suspicions?"
He reddened deeply. as if his natural generosity felt a pang of
reproach.  He was silent for a little while, before he replied, in
a subdued voice:
"Esther, I am sure you know that I am not a mean fellow,
and that I have some sense of suspicion and distrust being poor
qualities in one of my years."
" I know it very well," said I.  "I am not more sure of any
thing."
"That's a dear girl!" ret:rtei Richard, "and like you, because it gives me comfort.    had need to get some scrap of
comfort out of all this business, for it's a bad one at the best, as
I have no occasion to tell you."
"   know periectly," said I, "I know as well, Richard —what




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         683
shall'I say? as well as you do —-that such misconstructions are
foreign to your nature. And I know, as well as you know, what
so changes it."
"Come, sister, come," said Richard, a little more gayly, " you
will be fair with me at all events. If I have the misfortune to
be under that influence, so has he. If it has a little twisted me,
it may have -a little twisted him, too.  I don't say that he is
not an honorable man, out of all this complication and uncertainty; I am sure he is.  But it taints every body.  You know
it taints every body.  You have heard him  say so fifty times.
Then why should he escape?"
"Because," said I, " his is an uncommon character, and he
has resolutely kept himself outside the circle, Richard."
"Oh, because. and because!" replied Richard, in his vivacious
way.  "I am  not sure, my dear girl, but that it may be wise
and specious to preserve that outward indifference. It may cause
other parties interested to become lax about their interests; and
people may die off and points may drag themselves out of memory, and many things may smoothly happen that are convenient
enough."
I was so touched with pity for Richard, that I could not reproach him any more, even by a look. I remembered my Guardian's gentleness toward his errors, and with what perfect freedom
from resentment he had spoken of them.
Esther," Richard resumed, "you are not to suppose that I
have come here to make under-handed charges against John
Jarndyce.  I have only come to justify myself.  What I say is,
it was all very well, and we got on very well, while I was a boy,
utterly regardless of this same suit; but as soon as I began to
take an interest in it, and to look into it, then it was quite ananother thing.  Then John Jarndyce discovers that Ada and I
must break off, and that if I don't amend that very objectionable
course, 1 am  not.fit for her. Now, Esther, I don't mean to
amend that very objectionable course: I will not hold John Jarndyce's favor on those unfair terms of compromise, which he has
no right to dictate. Whether it pleases him or displeases him,
I must maintain my rights, and Ada's.  I have been thinking
about it a good deal, and this is the conclusion I have come to."
Poor dear Richard! lHe had indeed been thinking about it a




584                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
good deal.  His face, his voice, his manner. all,showed that, too
plainly.' So I tell him honorably (you are to know I have written tc
him about all this), that we are at issue, and that we had better
be at issue openly than covertly.  I thank him for his good-will
and his protection, and he goes his road, and I go mine.  The
fact is, our roads are not the same.  Under one of the wills in
dispute, I should take much more than he.  I don't mean to
say that it is the one to be established; but there it is, and it
has its chance."
" I have not to learn from you, my dear Richard," said I,
" of your letter.  I had heard of it already, without an offended
3r angry word."
I" Indeed?" replied Richard, softening.  "I am glad I said he
was an honorable man, out of all this wretched affair. But I
always say that, and have never doubted it.  Now, my dear
Esther, I know these views of mine appear extremely harsh to
you, and will to Ada, when you tell her what has passed between
us. But if you had gone into the case as I have, if you had only
applied yourself to the papers as I did when I was at Kenge's,
if you only knew what an accumulation of charges and countercharges, and suspicions, and cross-suspicions they involve, you
would think mle moderate in comparison."
" Perhaps so," said I. "But do you think that, among those
many papers, there is much truth and justice, Richard?"
"There is truth and justice somewhere in the case, Esther-"
"Or was once, long ago," said I.
"Is-is-must be somewhere," pursued Richard, irpetuously,
" and must be brought out.  To allow Ada to be made a bribe
and hush-money of, is not the way to bring it out. You say the
suit is changing me; John Jarndyce says it changes, has changed,
and will change every body who has any-share in it.  Then the
greater right I have on my side, when I resolve to do all I can
to bring it to an end."
"All you can, Richard! Do you think that in these many
years no others have done all they could. Has the difficulty
grown easier because of so many failures?"
"It can't last forever," returned Richard, with a. fierceness
kindling in him which again presented to me that last sad re



BLEAK  HOUSE.                       585
minder. "I am young and earnest; and energy and deteimination have done wonders many a time.  Others have only halfthrown themselves into it. I devote myself to it. I make it the
object of my life."
" 0, Richard, my dear, so much the worse, so much the
worse!"
" No, no, no, don't you be afraid for me," he returned affectionately.  "You're a dear, good, wise, quiet, blessed girl; but
you have your prepossessions.  So I come round to John Jarndyce. I tell you, my good Esther, when he aind I were on those
terms which he found so convenient, we were not on natural
terms."
" Are division and animosity your natural terms, Richard?"
" No, I don't say that.  I mean that all this business puts us
on unnatural terms, with which natural relations are incompatible.  See another reason for urging it on! I may find out;
when it's over, that I have been mistaken in John Jarndyce.
My head may be clearer when I am free of it, and I may then
agree with what you say to-day.  Very well.  Then I shall
acknowledge it, and make him reparation."
Every thing postponed to that imaginary time! Every thing
held in confusion and indecision until then!
"Now, my best of confidantes," said Richard, "I want my
cousin, Ada, to understand that I am  not captious,'fickle, and
willful, about John Jarndyce; but that I have this purpose and
reason at my back.  I wish to represent myself to her through
you, because she has a great esteem and respect for her cousin
John; and I know you will soften the course I take, even though
you disapprove of it; and-and in short," said Richard, who had
been hesitating through these words, " I-I don't like to represent myself in this litigious, contentious, doubting character, to a
confiding girl like Ada."
I told him that he' was more like himself in those latter words,
than in any thing he had said yet.
"Why," acknowledged Richard, "that may be true enough,
my love.  I rather feel it to be so.  But I shall be able to give
myself fair-play by-and-by.  I shall come all right again, then,;ton't you be afraid"
1 asked him if this were all he wished nce to lell Ada..




586                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
" Not quite," said Richard.  "I am bound not to withhold
from her that John Jarndyce answered my letter in his usual
manner, addressing me as'My dear Rick,' trying to argue me
out of my opinions, and telling me that'they should make no difference in him.  (All very well of course, but not altering the
case.) I also want Ada to know, that if I see her seldom just
now, I am looking after her interests as well as my own-we
two being in the same boat exactly-and that I hope she will
not suppose, from any flying rumors she may hear, that I am at
all light-headed or imprudent; on the contrary, I am always
looking forward to the termination of the suit, and always planning in that direction.  Being of age now, and having taken the
step I have taken, I consider myself free from any accountability
to John Jarndyce; but Ada being still a ward of the Court, I
don't yet ask her to renew our engagement., When she is free
to act for herself, I shall be myself once more, and we shall both
be in very different worldly circumstances, I believe.  If you will
tell her all this with the advantage of your considerate way,
you will d  me a very great and a very kind service, my dear
Esther; and I shall knock Jarndyce and Jarndyce on the head
with greater vigor. Of course I ask for no secrecy at Bleak
House."
"Richard," said I, "you place great confidence in me, but I
fear you will not take advice fiom me?"
" It's impossible that I can on this subject, my dear girl. On
any other readily."
As if there were any other in his life! As if his whole career
and character were not being dyed one color!
"But I may ask you a question, Richard?"
"I think so," said he, laughing.  "I don't know who may
not, if you may not."
"You say, yourself; you are not leading a very settled life?"
" How can I, my dear Esther, with nothing settled!"
"Are you in debt again?"
"Why, of course I am," said Richard, astonished at my sirn
plicity.
" Is it of course?"
My dear child, certainly.  I can't throw myself into an ob-;ect so completely, without expense.  You forget, or perhaps you




BLEAK HOUSE.                            587
don't know, that under either of the wills Ada and I take something.  It's only a question between the larger sum  and the
smaller.  I shall be within the mark any way.  Bless your
heart, my excellent girl," said Richard, quite amused with me,
"I shall be all right!  I shall pull through, my dear!"
I felt so deeply sensible of the danger in which he stood, that
I tried, in Ada's name, in my Guardian's, in my own, by every
fervent means that I could think of, to warn him of it, and to
show him some of his mistakes. He received every thing I said
with patience and gentleness, but it all rebounded fiom him
without taking the least effect. I could not wonder at this, after
the reception his pre-occupied mind had given to my Guardian's
letter; but I determined to try Ada's influence yet.
So, when our walk brought us round to the village again, and
I wept home to breakfast, I prepared Ada for the account I was
going to give her, and told her exactly what reason we had to
dread that Richard was losing himself; and scattering his whole
life to the winds.  It made her very unhappy, of course; though
she had a far, far greater reliance on his correcting his-errors
than I could have-which was so natural and loving in my dear!
and she presently wrote him this little letter:
" MY DEAREST COUSIN,
" Esther has told me all you said to her this morning. I write this, to
repeat most earnestly for myself all that she said to you, and to let you
know how sure I am that you will sooner or later find our cousin John a
pattern of truth, sincerity and goodness, when you will deeply, deeply grieve
to have done him (without intending it) so much wrong.
" I do not quite know how to write what I wish to say next, but 1 trust
you will understand it as I mean it. I have some fears, my dearest cousin,
that it may be partly for my sake you are now laying up so much unhappiness for yourself-and, if for yourself, for me. In case this should be so,
or in case you should entertain much thought of me in what you are doing,
I most earnestly entreat and beg you to desist.  You cah do nothilig for
my sake that will make me half so happy, as for ever turning your back
upon the shadow in which we both were born. Do not be angry with
me for saying this.  Pray, pray, dear Richard, for my sake, andl for your
own, and in a natural repugnance for that source of trouble which ha.d iti
share in making us both orphans when we were very young, pray, pray, let
it go forever. We have reason to know, by this time, that there is n..
good in it, and ao hope; that there is nothing to be got from it i u.
s:rr)'
l/ idearest cousin, it is needless for me to say that you are q ite f'rcc




688                   BLEAK  HOUSE
and that it is very likely you may find some one whom you will love much
better than your first fancy. I am quite sure, if you will let me say so,
that the object of your choice would greatly prefer to follow your fortunes
far and wide, however moderate or poor, and see you happy doing your
duty and pursuing your chosen way; than to have the hope of being, or
even to be, very rich with you (if such a thing were possible), at the
cost of dragging years of procrastination and anxiety, and of your indifference to other aims. You may wonder at my saying this so confidently
with so little knowledge or experience, but I know it for a certainty from
my own heart.
"Ever, my dearest cousin,
"Your most affectionate,
"ADA."
This note brought Richard to us very soon; but it made little
change in him, if any.  We would fairly try, he said, who was
right and w'ho was wrong-he would show us-we should see!
He was animated and glowing, as if Ada's tenderness had gratified him; but I could only hope, with a sigh, that the letter
might have some stronger effect upon his mind on re-perusal,
than it assuredly had then.
As they were to remain with us that day, and had taken their
places to return by the coach next morning, I sought an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Skimpole. Our out-of-door life easily
threw one in my way; and I delicately said, that there was a responsibility in encouraging Richard.
"Responsibility, my dear Miss Summerson?" he repeated,
catching at the word with the pleasantest smile, " I am the last
man in the world for such a thing. I never was responsible in
my life —I can't be."
"I am  afraid every body is obliged to be," said I, timidly
enough: he being so much older and more clever than I.
" No, really?" said Mr. Skimpole, receiving this new light
with a most agreeable jocularity of surprise.  "But every man's
not obliged to be solvent?  I am not.  I never was.  See, my
dear Miss Summerson," he took a handful of loose silver and
halfpence from his pocket, " there's so much money.  I have not
an idea how much.  I have not the power of counting.  Call it
four and ninepence-call it four pound nie.  They tell me I
owe more than that. I dare say I do. I dare say i owe as much
as good-natured people will let me owe.  If they don't stop, why




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        689
should I?  There you have Harold Skimpole in little.  If that's
responsiblity, I am responsible."
The perfect ease of manner with which he put the money up
again, and looked at me with a smile on his refined face, as if he
had been mentioning a curious little fact about somebody else,
almost made me feel as if he really had nothing to do with it.'Now when you mention responsibility," he resumed, "I.am
disposed to say, that I never had the happiness of knowing any
one whom  I should consider so refreshingly responsible as yourself. You appear to me to be the very touchstone of responsibility.
Wvhen I see you, my dear Miss Surmerson, intent upon the perfect working of the whole little orderly system of which you are
the centre, I feel inclined to say to myself  in fact I do say to
myself, very often-that's responsibility I"
It was difficult, after this, to explain what I meant; but I
persisted so far as to say, that we all hoped he would check and
not confirm Richard in the sanguine views he entertained just then.
"Most willingly," he retorted, " if I could.  But, my dear
Miss Summerson, I have no art, no disguise.  If he takes me by
the hand, and leads me through Westminster Hall in an s.iry
procession after Fortune, I must go. If he says,'Skimpole, Join
the dance!' I must join it.  Common sense wouldn't, I know;
but I have no common sense."
" It was very unfortunate for Richard," I said.
"Do you think so?" returned Mr. Skinpole.  "Don't say
that, don't say that.  Let us suppose him keeping company with
Common Sense-an excellent man-a good deal wrinkleddreadfully practical-change for a ten-pound note in every pocket
-ruled account-book in his hand-say, upon the whole, resem-:bling a tax-gatherer.  Our dear Richard, sanguine, ardent, overleaping obstacles, bursting with poetry like a young bud, says to
this highly respectable companion,' I see a golden prospect; before
me; it's very bright, it's very beautiful, it's very joyous; here I
go, bounding over the landscape to come at it!'  The respecable companion instantly knocks him down with the ruled account-book; tells him, in a literal, prosaic way, that he sees nc
such thing; shows him it's nothing but fees, fraud, horsehair wigs,
and black gowns.  Now you know that's a painful change;sensible in' the last degree, I have no doubt, but disagreeable. I




690                  BLEAK  HOrSE.
can't do it.  I haven't got the ruled account-booli, I harvO none
of the tax-gathering elements in toy composition, I am not at all
respectable, and I don't want to be.  Odd perhaps, but so it is "
It was idle to say more; so I proposed that we should join Ada
and Richard, who were a little in advance, and I gave up Mr.
Skimpole in despair.  He had been over the Hall in the course
of the morning, and whimsically described the family pictures
as we walked. There were such portentous shepherdesses among
the Ladies Dedlock dead and gone, he told us, that peaceful
crooks became weapons of assault ill their hands.  They tended
their flocks severely in buckram and powder, and put their sticking-plaster patches on to terrify commoners, as the chiefs of some
other tribes put on their war-paint. There was a Sir Somebody
Dedlock, with a battle, a sprung-mine, volumes of smoke, flashes
of lightning, a town on fire, and a stormed fort, all in full action
between his horse's two hind legs: showing, he supposed, how
little a Dedlock made of such trifles.  The whole race he repre.
sented as having evidently be n, in life, what he called "stuffed
people,"-a large collection, glassy eyed, set up in the most approved manner on their various twigs and perches, very correct,
perfectly free from animation, and always in glass cases.
I was not so easy now, during any reference to the name, but
that I felt it a relief when Richard, with an exclamation of surprise, hurried away to meet a stranger, whom  he first descried
coming slowly toward us.
"Dear me!" said Mr. Skimpole.  "Vholes!"
We asked if that were a friend of Richard's.
"Friend and legal adviser," said Mr. Skimpole.  " Now, my
dear Miss Summerson, if you want common sense, responsibility,
and respectability, all united-if you want an exemplary manVholes is the man."
WVe had not known, we said, that Richard was assisted by any
gentlieman of that name.' When he emerged from legal infancy," returned Mr Skimpole, " he parted from our conversational fiiend Kenge, and took
up, I believe, with.Vholes.  Indeed, I know he did, because I
introduced him to Vholes."
"Had you known him long?" asked Ada.
"Vholes?  My dear Miss Clare, I had had that kind of ac



BLEAK HOUSE.                       591
quaintance with him, which I have had with several gentlemen
of his profession. He had done something or other, in a very
agreeable, civil manner-taken proceedings, I think, is the expression-which ended in the proceeding of his taking me. Somebody was so good as to step in and pay the money-something
and fourpence was the amount; I forget the pounds and shillings,
but I know it ended with fourpence, because it struck me at the
time as being so odd that I could owe any body fourpence-and
after that, I brought them together. Vholes asked for the introduction, and I gave it. Now I come to think of it," he looked
inquiringly at us with his frankest smile as he made the discovery, " Vholes bribed me, perhaps? He gave me something,
and called it commission. Was it a five-pound note?  Do you
know, I think it must have been a five-pound note!"
His further consideration of the point was prevented by Richard's coming back to us in an excited state, and hastily presenting Mr. Vholes-a sallow man with pinched lips that looked as
if they were cold, a red eruption h re and there upon his face, tall
and thin, about fifty years of age, high-shouldered, and stooping.
Dressed in black, black-gloved, and buttoned to the chin, there
was nothing so remarkable in him as a lifeless manner, and a
slow fixed way he had of looking at Richard.
" I hope I don't disturb you, ladies," said Mr. Vholes; and now
I observed that he was further remarkable for an inward manner
of speaking.  "I arranged with Mr. Carstone that he should
always know when his cause was in the Chancellor's paper, and
being informed by one of my clerks last night after post time that
it stood,' rather unexpectedly, in the paper for to-morrow, I put
myself into the coach early this morning and came down to confer with him."
"Yes!" said Richard, flushed, and looking triumphantly at
Ada and me, " we don't do these things in the old slow way, now.
We spin along, now! Mr. Vholes, we must hire something to get
over to the post town in, and catch the mail to-night, and go up
by it!"
"Any thing you please, sir," returned Mr. Vholes.  "I am
quite at your service."
" Let me see!" said Richard, looking at his watch.  "If I run
down to the Dedlock, and get my portmanteau fastened up, and
37




59i2                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
order a gig, or a chaise, or whatever's to be got, we shall have an
hour then before starting. I'll come back to tea. Cousin Ada,
will you and Esther take care of Mr. Vholes while I am gone?"
He was away directly, in his heat and hurry, and was soon lost
in the dusk of the evening. We who were left walked on toward
the house.
"Is -Mr. Carstone's presence necessary to-morrow, sir?" said
I.  "Can it do any good?"
"No, miss," Mr. Vholes replied.  "I am not aware that it
can."
Both Ada and I expressed our regret that he should go, then,
only to be disappointed.
" Mr. Carstone has laid down the principle of watching his own
interests," said Mr. Vholes, "and when a client lays down his
own principle, and it is not immoral, it devolves upon me to carry
it out.  I wish in business to be exact and open   I am a widower with three daughters-Emma, Jane, and Caroline-and my
desire is so to discharge the duties of life as to leave them a good
name. This appears to be a pleasant spot, miss."
The remark being made to me, in consequence of my being
next him  as we walked, I assented, and enumerated its chief
attractions.
" Indeed?" said Mr. Voles. "I have the privilege of supporting an aged father in the Vale of Taunton-his native placeand I admire that cdpntry very much. I had no idea there was
any thing so attractive here."
To keep up the conversation, I asked Mr. Vholes if he would like
to live altogether in the country.
"There, miss," said he, "you touch me on a tender string.
My health is not good (my digestion being much impaired), and
if I had only myself to consider, I should take refuge in rural
habits; especially as the cares of business have preyented me
from ever coming much into contact with general society, and
particularly with ladies' society, which I have most wished to mix
in.  But with my three daughters, Emma, Jane, and Carolineand my aged father-I can not afford to be selfish. It is true, I
have no longer to maintain a dear grandmnother who died in her
hundred-and-second year; but enough remains to render it indispensable that the mill should be always going."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                      593
It required some attention to hear him, on account of his inward speaking and his lifeless manner.
"You will excuse my having mentioned my daughters," he
said. "They are my weak point. I wish to leave the poor girls
some little independence, as well as a good name."
We now arrived at Mr. Boythorn's house, where the tea-table,
all prepared, was awaiting us. Richard came in, restless and
hurried, shortly afterward, and leaning over Mr. Vholes's chair,
whispered something in his ear. Mr. Vholes replied aloud-or
as nearly aloud, I suppose, as he ever replied to any thing-" You
will drive me, will you, sir? It is all the same to me, sir. Any
thing you please. I am quite at your service."
We understood from what followed that Mr. Skimpole was to
be left until the morning to occupy the two places which had been
already paid for. As Ada and I were both in low spirits concerning Richard, and very sorry so to part with him, we made it
as plain as we politely could that we should leave Mr. Skimpole
to the Dedlock Arms, and retire when the night travelers were
gone.
Richard's high spirits carrying every thing before them, we all
went out together to the top of the hill above the village, where
he had ordered a gig to wait; and where we found a man with
a lantern standing at the head of the gaunt pale horse that had
been harnessed to it.
I never shall forget those two seated side by side in the lantern's light; Richard, all flush and fire and laughter, with the
reins in his hand; Mr. Vholes, quite still, black-gloved, and buttoned up, looking at him as if he were looking at his prey and
charming it. I have before me the whole picture of the warm
dark night, the summer lightning, the dusty track of road closed
in by hedgerows and high trees, the gaunt pale horse with his
ears pricked up, and the driving awvay at speed to Jarndyce and
Jarndyce.
My dear girl told me, that night, how Richard's being thereafter prosperous or ruined, befriended or deserted, could only make
this difference to her, that the more he needed love from one unchanging heart, the more love that unchanging heart would have
to give him; how he thought of her through his present errors,
and she would think of him at all times: never of herself, if she




594                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
could devote herself to him: never of her own delights, if she
could minister to his.
And she kept her word?
I look along the road before me, where the distance already
shortens, and the journey's end is growing visible; and, true and
good above the Dead Sea of the Chancery suit, and all the ashy
fruit it casts ashore, I think I see my darling.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.
A STRUGGLE.
WIIEN our time came for returning to Bleak House again, we
were punctual to the day, and were received with an overpowering welcome.  I was perfectly restored to health and strength;
and finding my housekeeping keys laid ready for me in my
room, rang myself in, as if I had been a new year, with a merry
little peal. " Once more, duty, duty, Esther," said I; " and if
you are not overjoyed to do it, more than cheerfully and contentedly, through any thing and every thing, you ought to be. That's
all I have to say to you, my dear!"
The first few mornings were mornings of so much bustle and
business, devoted to such settlements of accounts, such repeated
journeys to and fro between the Growlery and all other parts of
the house, so many re-arrangements of drawers and presses, and
such a general new beginning altogether, that I had not a moment's leisure. But when these arrangements were completed,
and every thing was in order, I paid a visit of a few hours to
London, which something in the letter I had destroyed at
Chesney Wold had induced me to decide upon in my own
mind.
I made Caddy Jellyby-her maiden name was so natural to
me that I always called her by it-the pretext for this visit; and
wrote her a note previously, asking the favor of her company on
a little business expedition. Leaving home very early in the
morning, I got to London by stage-coach in such good time, that
I walked to Newman-street with the day before me.
Caddy, who had not seen me since her wedding-day, was so
glad and so affectionate, that I was half inclined to fear I should
make her husband jealous.  But he was, in his way, just as
(595)




59G                 BLEAK HOUSE.
bad-I mean as-good; and in short it was the old story, and.
nobody would leave me any possibility of doing any thing meritorious.
The elder Mr. Turveydrop was in bed, I found, and Caddy
was milling his chocolate, which a melancholy little boy, who
was an apprentice-it seemed such a curious thing to be apprenticed to the trade of dancing-was waiting to carry up-stairs.
Her father-in-law was extremely kind and considerate, Caddy
told me, and they lived most happily together. (When she spoke
of their living together, she meant that the old gentleman had
all the good things and all the good lodging, while she and her
husband had what they could get, and were poked into two corner
rooms over the Mews).
"And how is your mamma, Caddy?" said I.
" Why, I hear of her, Esther," replied Caddy, "through Pa;
but I see very little of her.  We are good friends, I am glad to
say; but Ma thinks there is something absurd in my having married a dancing-master, and she is rather afraid of its extending
to her."
It struck me that if Mrs. Jellyby had discharged her own natural
duties and obligations, before she swept the horizon with a
telescope in search of others, she would have taken the best precautions against becoming absurd; but I need scarcely observe
that I kept this to myself.
"And your papa, Caddy?"
" He comes here every evening," returned Caddy, " and is
so fond of sitting in the corner there, that it's a treat to see
him."
Looking at the corner, I plainly perceived the mark of Mr.
Jellyby's head against the wall. It was consolatory to know
that he had found such a resting-place for it.
"And you, Caddy," said I, "you are always busy, I'll be
bound P"
"Well, my dear," returned Caddy, " I am, indeed; for to tell
you a grand secret, I am  qualifying myself to give lessons.
Prince's health is not strong, and I want to be able to assist
him.  What with schools, and classes here, and private pupils,
and the apprentices, he really has too much to do, poor fellow."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        597
The notion of the apprentices was still so odd to me, that I
asked Caddy if there were many of them?
"Four," said Caddy.  "One in-door, and three out.  They are
very good children; only when they get together they will play
-children-like-instead of attending to their work.  So the
little boy you saw just now waltzes by himself in the empty
kitchen, and we distribute the others over the house as well as
we can."
" That is only for their steps, of course?" said I.
" Only for their steps," said Caddy.  "In that way they practice, so many hours at a time, whatever steps they happen to be
upon.  They dance in the academy; and at this time of year
we do Figures at five every morning."
" Why, what a laborious life!" I exclaimed.
" I assure you, my dear," returned Caddy, smiling, "when the
out-door apprentices ring us up in the morning (the bell rings
into our room, not to disturb old Mr. Turveydrop), and when I
put up the window, and see them standing on the door-step with
their little pumps under their arms, I am actually reminded of
the Sweeps."
All this presented the art to me in a singular light, to be sure.
Caddy enjoyed the effect of her communication, and cheerfully
recounted the particulars of her own studies.
" You see, my dear, to save expense, I ought to know something of the Piano, and I ought to know something of the Kit
too, and consequently I have to practice those two instruments as
well as the details of our profession.  If Ma had been like any
body else, I might have had some little musical knowledge to
begin upon.  However, I hadn't any; and that part of the work
is, at first, a little discouraging, I must allow. But I have a very
good ear, and I am used to drudgery-I have to thank Ma for
that, at all events-and where there's a will there's a way, you
know, Esther, the world over."  Saying these words, Caddy
laughingly sat down to a little jingling square piano, and really
rattled off a quadrille with great spirit.  Then she good-humoredly and blushingly got up again, and while she still laughed
herself, said, " Don't laugh at me, please; that's a dear girl!"
I would sooner have cried, but I did neither. I encouraged
her, anld praised her with all my heart.  For I conscientiously be



598                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
lieved, dancing-master's wife though she was, and dancing-mistress though in her limited ambition she aspired to be, she had
struck out a natural, wholesome, loving course of industry and
perseverance that was quite as good as a mission.
" My dear," said Caddy, delighted,  "you can't think how you
cheer me. I shall owe you, you don't know how much. What
changes, Esther, even in my small world! You recollect that
first night, when I was so unpolite and inky? Who would have
thought, then, of my ever teaching people to dance, of all other
possibilities and impossibilities!"
Her husband who had left us while we had this chat, now
coming back, preparatory to exercising the apprentices in the ball
room, Caddy informed me she was quite at my disposal. But it
was not my time yet, I was glad to tell her; for I should have
been vexed to take her away then. Therefore we three adjourned to the apprentices together, and I made one in the dance.
The apprentices were the queerest little people. Besides the
melancholy boy, who I hoped had not been made so by waltzing
alone in the empty kitchen, there were two other boys, and one
dirty little limp girl in a gauzy dress. Such a precocious little
girl, with such a dowdy bonnet on (that, too, of a gauzy texture),
who brought her sandaled shoes in an old threadbare velvet reticule. Such mean little boys, when they were not dancing, with
string, and marbles, and cramp-bones in their pockets, and the
most untidy legs and feet-and heels particularly.  I asked
Caddy what had made their parents choose this profession for
them?  Caddy said she didn't know; perhaps they were designed
for teachers; perhaps for the stage. They were all people in
humble circumstances, and the melancholy boy's mother kept a
ginger-beer shop.
We danced for an hour with great gravity; the melancholy
child doing wonders with his lower extremities, in which there
appeared to be some sense of enjoyment though it never rose above
his waist. Caddy, while she was observant of her husband, and
was evidently founded upon him, had acquired a grace and selfpossession of her own, which, united to her pretty face and figure,
was uncommonly agreeable.  She already relieved him of much
of the instruction of these young people; and he seldom interiered, ecetpt to walk his part in the figure if he had any thing to




BLEAK HOUSE.                        699
So in it. He always played the tune.  The affectation of the
gauzy child, and her condescension to the boys, was a sight. And
thus we danced an hour by the clock.
When the practice was concluded, Caddy's husband made
himself ready to go out of town to a school, and Caddy ran
away to get ready to go out with me. I sat in the ball-room in
the interval, contemplating the apprentices.  The two out-door
boys went upon the staircase to put on their half-boots, and pull
the in-door boy's hair: as I judged from the nature of his objections.  Returning with their jackets buttoned, and their pumps
stuck in them, they then produced packets of cold bread and meat,
and bivouacked under a painted lyre on the wall.  The little
gauzy child having whisked her sandals into the reticule and
put on a trodden down pair of shoes, shook her head into the
dowdy bonnet at one shake; and answering my inquiry whether
she liked dancing by replying, "not with boys," tied it across her
chin and went home contemptuous.
"Old Mr. Turveydrop is so sorry," said Caddy, "that he has
not finished dressing yet, and can not have the pleasure of
seeing you before you go. You are such a favorite of his,
Esther."  I expressed myself much obliged to him, but did not
think it necessary to add that I readily dispensed with this attention.
" It takes him a long time to dress," said Caddy, because he is
very much looked up to in such things, you know, and has a reputation to support. You can't think how kind he is to Pa. He
talks to Pa, of an evening, about the Prince Regent, and I never
saw Pa so interested."
There was something in the picture of Mr. Turveydrop bestowing his Deportment on Mr. Jellyby, that quite took my fancy. I
asked Caddy if he brought her papa out much?
" No," said Caddy, " I don't know that he does that; but he
talks to Pa, and Pa greatly admires him, and listens and likes it.
Of course I am aware that Pa has hardly any claims to Deportment, but they get on together delightfully.  You can't think
what good'companions they make.  I never saw Pa take snuff
before in my life; but he takes one pinch out of Mr. Turveydrop's
box regularly, and keeps putting it to his nose and taking it away
again, all the evening."




600                 BLEAK  HOUSE
That old Mr. Turveydrop should ever, m the chances and
changes of life, have come to the rescue of Mr. Jellyby fron
Borriboola Gha, appeared to me to be one of the pleasantest of
oddities.
" As to Peepy," said Caddy, with a little hesitation, " whom I
was most afraid of-next to having any family of my own,
Esther-as an inconvenience to Mr. Turveydrop, the kindness of
the old gentleman to that child is beyond every thing.  He asks
to see him, my dear! He lets him take the newspaper up to him
in bed; he gives him the crusts of his toast to eat; he sends him
on little errands about the house; he tells him to come to me
for sixpences.  In short," said Caddy, cheerily, " and not to prose,
I am a very fortunate girl, and ought to be very grateful.  Where
are we going, Esther?"
"To the Old Street Road," said I; " where I have a few
words to say to the solicitor's clerk, who was sent to meet me at
the coach-office on the very day when I came to London, and first
saw  you, my dear.  Now I think of it, the gentleman who
brought us to your house."
" Then, indeed, I seem to be naturally the person to go with
you," returned Caddy.
To the Old Street Road we went, and there inquired at Mrs.
Guppy's residence for Mrs. Guppy.  Mrs. Guppy, occupying the
parlors, and having indeed been visibly in danger of cracking
herself like a nut in the front parlor door by peeping out before
she was asked for, immediately presented herself, and requested
us to walk in. She was an old lady in a large cap, with rather
a red nose and rather an unsteady eye, but smiling all over. Her
close little sitting-roomr  was prepared for a visit; and there was
a portrait of her son in it, which, I had almost written here, was
more like than life: it insisted upon him with such obstinacy,
and was so determined not to let him off.
Not only was the portrait there, but we found the original
there, too. He was dressed in a great many colors, and was discovered at a table reading law-papers with his forefinger to his
forehead.
"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, rising, "this is, indeed,
an Oasis. Mother, will you be so good as to put a chair for the
other lady, and get out of the gang-way."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       601
Mrs. Guppy, whose incessant smiling gave her quite a waggish appearance, (lid as her son requested; and then sat down
in a corner, holding her pocket-handkerchief to her chest, like a
fomentation, with both hands.
I presented Caddy, and Mr. Guppy said that any friend of
mine was more than welcome.  I then proceeded to the object
of my visit.
" I took the liberty of sending you a note, sir," said I.
Mr. Guppy acknowledged its receipt by taking it out of his
breast-pocket, putting it to his lips, and returning it to his pocket
with a bow.  Mr. Guppy's mother was so diverted that she
rolled her head as she smiled, and made a silent appeal to Caddy
with her elbow.
"Could I speak to you alone for a moment?" said I.
Any thing like the jocoseness of Mr. Guppy's mother now, I
think I never saw.  She made no sound of laughter; but she
rolled her head, and shook it, and put her handkerchief to her
mouth, and appealed to Caddy with her elbow, and her hand,
and her shoulder, and was so unspeakably entertained altogether that it was with some difficulty she could marshal
Caddy through the little folding-door into her bedroom  adjoining.
"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, "you will excuse the
waywardness of a parent ever mindful of a son's appiness.  My
mother, though highly exasperating to the feelings, is actuated
by maternal dictates."
I could hardly have believed that any body could in a moment
have turned so red, or changed so much, as Mr. Guppy did when
I now put up my vail.
" I asked the favor of seeing you for a few moments here,"
said I, " in preference to calling at Mr. Kenge's, because, remembering what you said on an occasion when you spoke to me
in confidence, I feared I might otherwise cause you some embarrassment, Mr. Guppy."
I caused him embarrassment enough as it was, I am sure. I
never saw such faltering, such confusion, such amazement and
apprehension.
"Miss Summerson," stammered Mr. Guppy, "I-I-beg your
pardon, but in our profession-we-we-find it necessary to be




602                BLEAK  HOUSE.
explicit. You have referred to an occasion, miss, when 1-when
I did myself the honor of making a declaration which-"
Something seemed to rise in his throat that he could not possibly swallow.  He put his hand there, coughed, made faces,
tried again to swallow it, coughed again, made faces again, looked all round the room, and fluttered his papers.
"A kind of a giddy sensation has come upon me, miss," ho
exclaimed, "which rather knocks me over. I-er —a little subject to this sort of thing-er-By G.eorge!"
I gave him a little time to recover. He consumed it in putting his hand to his forehead and taking it away again, and in
backing his chair into the corner behind him.
"My intention was to remark, miss," said Mr. Guppy, "-dear
me-something bronchial, I think-hem!-to remark that you
was so good on that occasion as to repel and repudiate that
declaration.  You-you wouldn't perhaps object to admit that?
Though no witnesses are present, it might be a satisfaction toto your mind-if you was to put in that admission."
" There can be no doubt," said I, "that I declined your proposal without any reservation or qualification whatever, Mr.
Guppy."
"Thank you, miss," he returned, measuring the table with
his troubled hands.  " So far that's satisfactory, and it does
you credit.  Er-this is certainly bronchial! —must be in
~he tubes-er-you wouldn't perhaps be offended if I was to
mention-not that it's necessary, for your own good sense, or
any person's sense must show'em that-if I was to mention
that such declaration on my part was final, and there terminated?"
"I quite understand that," said I.
"Perhaps-er-it may not be worth the form, but it might
be a satisfaction to your mind-perhaps you wouldn't object to
admit that, miss?" said Mr. Guppy.
"I admit it most fully and freely," said I.
"Thank you," returned Mr. Guppy.  "Very honorable, I am
sure. I regret that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over which I have no control, will put it out of my
power ever to fall back upon that offer, or to renew it in any
shade or form whatever: but it will ever be a retrospect en



BLEAK  HOUSE.                       603
twimed -er-with friendship's bowers."  Mr. Guppy's broncnitis came to his relief, and stopped his measurement of the
table.
" I may now perhaps mention what I wished to say to you?"
I began.
" I shall be honored, I am sure," said Mr. Guppy.  " I am so
persuaded that your own good sense and right feeling, miss, will
-will keep you as square as possible-that I can have nothing
but pleasure, I am sure, in hearing any observations you may
wish to offer."
"You were so good as to imply, on that occasion-"
"Excuse me, miss," said Mr. Guppy, "but we had better not
travel out of the record into implication. I can not admit that
I implied any thing."
" You said on that occasion," I recommenced, "that you might
possibly have the means of advancing my interests, and promoting my fortunes, by making discoveries of which I should be the
subject. I presume that you founded that belief upon your general knowledge of my being an orphan girl, indebted for every
thing to the benevolence of Mr. Jarndyce. Now, the beginning
and the end of what I have come to beg of you is, Mr. Guppy,
that you will have the kindness to relinquish all idea of so serving me. I have thought of this sometimes, and I have thought
of it most, lately-since I have been ill. At length I have decided, in case you should at any time recall that purpose, and
act upon it in any way, to come to you, and assure you that you
are altogether mistaken. You could make no discovery in reference to me that would do me the least service, or give me the
least pleasure. I am acquainted with my personal history; and
I have it in my power to assure you that you never can advance
my welfare by such means. You may, perhaps, have abandoned
this project a long time. If so, excuse my giving you unnecessary trouble. If not, I entreat you, on the assurance I have
given you, henceforth to lay it aside. I beg you to do this, for
my peace."
" I am bound to confess," said Mr. Guppy, "that you express
yourself, miss, with that good sense and right feeling for which
I gave you credit. Nothing can be more satisfactory than such
right feeling and if I mistook any intentions on your part just




604                 BLE  K HOUSE.
now, I am prepared to tender a full apology.  I should wish to
be understood, miss, as hereby offering that apology-limiting it,
as your own good sense and right feeling will point out the necessity of, to the present proceedings."
I must say for Mr. Guppy that the shuffling manrner he had
had upon him improved very much.  He seemed truly glad to
be able to do something I asked, and he looked ashamed.
"If you will allow me to finish what I have to say at once,
so that I may have no occasion to resume," I went on, seeing
him about to speak, " you will do me a kindness, sir.  I come to
you as privately as possible, because you announced this impression of yours to me in a confidence which I have really wished to
respect-and which I always have respected, as you remember.
I have mentioned my illness.  There really is no reason why I
should hesitate to say that I know very well that any little delicacy I might have had in making a request to you, is quite removed.  Therefore I make the entreaty I have now preferred;
and I hope you will have sufficient consideration for me, to
accede to it."
I must do Mr. Guppy the further justice of saying that he
had looked more and more ashamed, and that he looked most
ashamed, and very earnest, when he now replied with a burning
face:
" Upon my word and honor, upon my life, upon my soul,
Miss Summerson, as I am a living man, I'll act according to
your wish  I'll never go another step in opposition to it.  I'll
take my oath to it, if it will be,any satisfaction to you. In what
I promise at this present time touching the matters now in
question," continued Mr. Guppy, rapidly, as if he were repeating a familiar form of words, "I speak the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth, so-"
"I am quite satisfied," said I, rising at this point, " and I
thank you very much.  Caddy, my dear, I am ready!"
Mr. Guppy's mother returned with Caddy (now making me
the recipient of her silent laughter and her nudges); and we took
our leave.  Mr. Guppy saw us to the door with the air of one
who was either imperfectly awake or walking in his sleep; and
we left him there, staring.
But in a minute he came after us down the street without any




BLEAK HOUSE.                        605
hat, and with his long hair all blown about, and stopped us,
saying fervently:
" Miss Summerson, upon my honor and soul, you may depend
upon me!"
" I do," said I, "quite confidently."
"I beg your pardon, miss," said Mr; Guppy, going with one
leg and staying with the other, " but this lady being present —
your own witness-it might be a satisfaction to your mind (which
1 should wish to set at rest) if you was to repeat those admissions."
"Well, Caddy," said I, turning to her, "perhaps you will not
be surprised when I tell you, my dear, that there never has been
any engagement-"
"No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever," suggested
Mr. Guppy.
"No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever," said I,
"between this gentleman-"
"William Guppy, of Penton Place, Pentonville, in the county
of Middlesex," he murmured.
"Between this gentleman, Mr. William  Guppy, of Penton
Place, Pentonville, in the county of Middlesex, and myself."
"Thank you, miss," said Mr. Guppy.  "Very full-er-excuse me-lady's name, christian and surname both?"
I gave them.
"Married woman, I believe?" said Mr. Guppy.  "Married
woman.  Thank you. Formerly Caroline Jellaby, spinster, then
of Thavies Inn, within the city of London, but extra-parochial;
now of Newman-street, Oxford-street.  Much obliged."
He ran home and came running back again.
"Touching that matter, you know, I really and truly am very
sorry that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances
over which I have no control, should prevent a renewal of what
was wholly terminated some time back," said Mr. Guppy to me,
forlornly and despondently, " but it couldn't be.  Now coatld it,
you know! I only put it to you."
I replied it certainly could not.  The subject did not admit of
a doubt.  He thanked me, and ran to his mother's again —and
back again.
" It's very honorable of you, miss, I am sure," said Mr. G uppy.




605                 BLEAK HOUSE.
" If an altar could be erected in the bowers of friendship-but,
upon my soul. you may rely upon me in every respect, save and
except the tender passion only!"
The struggle in Mr. Guppy's breast, and the numerous oscillatiols it occasioned him between his mother's door and us, were
sufficiently conspicuous in the windy street (particularly as his
hair wanted cutting), to make us hurry away. I did so with a
lightened heart; but when we last looked back Mr. Guppy was
still oscillating in the same troubled state of mind.




CHAPTER XXXIX.
ATTORNEY AND CLIENT.
THE name of MR. VHOLES, preceded by the legend, GROUNn
FLOOR, is inscribed upon a door-post in Symond's Inn, Chancery.
Lane, a little, pale, wall-eyed, woe-begone inn, like a large dustbinn of two compartments, and a sifter.  It looks as if Symond
were a sparing man in his day, and constructed his inn of old
building materials, which took kindly to the dry rot, and to dirt,
and all things decaying and dismal, and perpetuated Symond's
nemory with congenial shabbiness.  Quartered, as aforesaid, in
this dingy hatchment, commemorative of Symond are the legal
bearings of Mr. Vholes.
Mr. Vholes's office, in disposition retiring and in situation retired, is mewed up in a corner, and blinks at a dead wall
Three feet of knotty floored dark passage bring the client to Mr
Vholes's jet black door, squeezed into an angle profoundly darl
on the brightest Midsummer morning, and encumbered by a black
bulk-head of cellarage staircase, against which belated civilians
generally strike their brows.  Mr. Vholes's chambers are on so
small a scale, that one clerk can open the door without getting
off his stool, while the other who elbows him at the same desk
has equal facilities for poking the fire. A smell as of unwholesome sheep, blending with the smell of must and dust, is referable to the nightly (and often daily) consumption of mutton fat in
candles, and to the fretting of parchment forms and skins in
greasy drawers.  The atmosphere is otherwise stale and close.
The place was last painted or whitewashed beyond the memory
of man, and the two chimneys smoke, and there is a loose outer
surface of soot every where, and the dull cracked windows in
their heavy frames have but one piece of character in them,
which is a determination to be always dirty and always shut,
38                                             (607)




608                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
unless coerced.  This accounts for the phenomenon of the weaker
of the two usually having a bundle of firewood thrust between
its jaws in the hot weather.
Mr. Vholes is a very respectable man.  He has not a large
business, but he is a very respectable man.  He is allowed by
the greater attorneys who have made good fortunes, or are making them  to be a most respectable man.  He never misses a
chance in his practice —wlich is a mark of respectability. He
never takes any pleasure: which is another mark of respectability.
He is reserved and serious-which is another mark of respectability. His digestion is impaired, which is highly respectable.
And he is making hay of the grass which is flesh, for his three
daughters.  And his father is dependent oi. him in the Vale of
Taunton.
The one great principle of the English law is, to make business
for itself.  There is no other principle distinctly, certainly, and
consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings. Viewed
by this light it becomes a coherent scheme, and not the monstrous maze the laity are apt to think it. Let them but once
clearly perceive that its grand principle is to make business for
itself at their expense, and surely they will cease to grumble!
But, not perceiving this quite plainly-only seeing it by halves
in a confused way-the laity sometimes suffer in peace and
pocket, with a bad grace, and do grumble very much.  Then
this respectability of Mr. Vholes is brought into powerful play
against them.  "Repeal this statute, my good sir?" says Mr.
Kenge, to a smarting client, "repeal it, my dear sir? Never, with
my consent.  Alter this law, sir, and what will be the effect of
your rash proceeding on a class of practitioners very worthily represented, allow me to say to you by the opposite attorney in the
case, Mr. Yholes?  Sir, that class of practitioners would be
swept from the face of the earth.  Now you can not afford-I
would say, the social system can not afford-to lose an order of
men like Mr. Vholes.  Diligent, persevering, steady, acute in
business. My dear sir, I understand your present feelings against
the existing state of things, which I grant to be a little hard in
ycur case; but I can never raise my voice for the demolition of
a class of men like Mr. Vholes."  The respectability of Mr.
Vholes has even been cited with crushing effect before Parlia



BLEAK  HOUSE.                       609
mentary committees, as in the following Blue minutes of a distinguished attorney's evidence, " Question (number five hundred and
seventeen thousand eight hundred and sixty-nine.) If I understand you, these forms of practice indisputably occasion delay?
Answer. Yes, some delay.  Question. And great expense?  Answer. Most assuredly they can not be gone through for nothing.
Question. And unspeakable vexation?  Answer. I am not prepared to say that.  They have never given me any vexation;
quite the contrary. Question. But you think that their abolition
would damage a class of practitioners? Answer. I have no doubt
of it.  Question. Can you instance any type of that class? Answer.  Yes. I would unhesitatingly mention Mr. Vholes.  He
would be ruined.- Question. Mr Vholes is considered, in the profession, a respectable man?  Answer"-which proved fatal.to
the inquiry for ten years-" Mr. Vholes is considered, in the profession, a most respectable man."
So in familiar conversation, private authorities, no less disinterested, will remark that they don't know what this age is
coming to; that we are plunging down precipices; that now
here is something else gone; that these changes are death to
people like Yholes —a man of undoubted respectability, with a
father in the Vale of Taunton, and three daughters at home.
Take a few steps more in this direction, say they, and what-is
to become of Vholes's father? Is he to perish? And of Vholes's
daughters?  Are they to be shirt-makers, or governesses-as
though Mr. Vholes and his relations being minor cannibal chiefs,
and it being proposed to abolish cannibalism, indignant champions were to put the case thus: Make man-eating unlawful and
you starve the Vholeses! 
In a word, Mr. Vholes, with his three daughters, and his father in the Vale of Taunton, is continually doing duty, like a piece
of timber, to shore up some decayed foundation that has become
a pit-fall and a nuisance. And with a great many people, in a
great many instances, the question is never one of a change from
Wrong to Right (which is quite an extraneous consideration),
but is always one of injury or advantage to that eminently respectable legion, Vholes.
The chancellor is, within these ten minutes, "up" for the Long
Vacation.  Mr. Vholes, and his young client, and several blue




610                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
bags hastily stuffed, out of all regularity of form, as the larger
sort of serpents are in their first gorged state, having returned to
the official den. Mr. Vholes, quiet and unmoved, as a man of
so much respectability ought to be, takes off his close black gloves
as if he were skinning his hands, lifts off his tight hat as if he
were scalping himself, and sits down at his desk.  The client
throws his hat and gloves upon the ground-tosses them  any
where, without looking after them  or caring where they go;
flings himself into a chair, half sighing and half groaning; rests
his aching head upon his hand, and looks the portrait of Young
Despair.
"Again nothing done!" says Richard.  "Nothing, nothing
done!"
" Don't say nothing done, sir," returns the placid Vholes.
"That is scarcely fair, sir, scarcely fair!"
"Why, what is done?" says Richard, turning gloomily upon
him.
" That may not be the whole question," returns Vholes. "The
question may branch off into what is doing, what is doing?"
"And what is doing?" asks the moody client.
Vholes, sitting with his arms on his desk, quietly bringing the
tips of his five right fingers to meet the tips of his five left fingers,
and quietly separating them again, and.fixedly and slowly looking at his client, replies:
"A good deal is doing, sir.  We have put our shoulders to the
wheel, Mr. Carstone, and the wheel is going round."
"Yes, with Ixion on it.  How am I to get through the next
four or five accursed months?" exclaims the young man, rising
from his chair and walking about the room.
" Mr. C.," returns Vholes, following him close with his eyes
wherever he goes, " your spirits are hasty, and I am sorry for it
on your account.  Excuse me if I recommend you not to chafe
so much, not to he so impetuous, not to wear yourself out so. You
should have more patience. You should sustain yourself better."
"I ought to imitate you, in fact, Mr. Vholes?" says Richard,
sitting down again with an impatient laugh, and beating the
Devil's Tattoo with his boot on the patternless carpet.
"Sir," returns Vholes, always looking at the client, as if he
were making a lingering meal of him with his eyes as well with




ii,   i~~~~~~~~~~~~~i
i:111116llill~76- ~ \'11/'~t-~-~ —' r1~~qB~;~]_ --








BLEAK  HOUSE.                        611
his professional appetite. " Sir," returns Vholes, with his inward
manner of speech and his bloodless quietude; "I should not have
had the presumption to propose myself as a model, for your imitation or any man's.  Let me but leave a good name to my
three daughters, and that is enough for me; I am not a self-seeker.
But, since you mention me so pointedly, I will acknowledge that
I should like to impart to you a little of my-come sir, you are
disposed to call it insensibility, and I am sure I have no objection
-say insensibility-a little of my insensibility."
" Mr. Vholes,' explains the client somewhat abased, " I had
no intention to accuse you of insensibility."
"I think you had, sir, without knowing it," returns the equable Vholes.  " Very naturally.  It is my duty to attend to your
interests with a cool head, and I can quite understand that to
your excited feelings I may appear at such times as the present;
insensible. My daughters may know me better; my aged father
may know me better.  But they have known me much longei
than you have, and the confiding eye of affection is not the distrustful eye of business.  Not that I complain, sir, of the eye of
business being distrustful; quite the contrary.  In attending to
your interests, I wish to have all possible checks upon me; it is
right that I should have them; I court inquiry.  But your interests demand that I should be cool and methodical, Mr. Carstone; and I can not be otherwise-no sir, not even to please
you.
Mr. Vholbs, after glancing at the official cat who is patiently
watching a mouse's hole, fixes his charmed gaze again oni his
young client, and proceeds in his buttoned-up half-audible voice,
as if there were an unclean spirit in him that will neither come
out nor speak out:
"What are you to do, sir, you inquire, during the Vacation.
I should hope you gentlemen of the army may find many means
of amusing yourselves, if you give your minds to it. If you had
asked me what I was to do, during the Vacation, 1 could have
answered you more readily. I am to attend to your interests. I
am  to be found here, day by day, attending to your interests.
That is my duty, Mr. C.; and Term or Vacation makes no dif
ference to me. If you wish to consult me as to your interests,
you will find me here at all times alike.  Other professional men




612                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
go out of town.  I don't.  Not that I blame them t(k o(.ing
merely say, I don't go.  This desk is your rock, sir
Mr. Vholes gives it a rap, and it sounds as hollow as a coitin.
Not to Richard, though. There is encouragement in the sound
to him. Perhaps Mr. Vholes knows there is.' I am perfectly aware, Mr. Vholes," says Richard more familiarly and good-humoredly, " that you are the most reliable fellow
in the world; and that to have to do with you, is to have to do
with a man of business who is not to be hoodwinked.  But put
yourself in my case, dragging on this dislocated life, sinking deeper
and deeper into difficulty every day, continually hoping and continually disappointed, conscious of change upon change for the
worse in myself, and of no change for the better in any thing else;
and you will find it a dark-looking case sometimes, as I do."
"You know," says Mr. Vholes, "that I never give hopes, sir.
I told you from the first, Mr. C., that I never give hopes.  Particularly in a case like this, where the greater part of the costs
comes out of the estate, I should not be considerate of my good
name, if I gave hopes.  It might seein as if costs were my object. Still, when you say there is no change for the better, I
nmust, as a bare matter of fact, deny that."
"Ay?" returns Richard, brightening.   "But how  do you
tnake it out?"
" Mr. Carstone, you are represented by-"
" You said just now-a rock."
"Yes, sir," says Mr. Vholes, gently shaking his head and rapping the hollow desk, with a sound as if ashes were falling on
ashes and dust on dust, "a rock.  That's something.  You are
separately represented, and no longer hidden and lost in the interests of others.  That's something.  The suit does not sleep,
we wake it up, we air it, we walk it about.  That's something
It's not all Jarndyce, in fact as well as in name.  That's something.  Nobody has it all his own way now, sir.  And that's
something surely."
Richard, his face flushing suddenly, strikes the desk with his
clenched hand.
"Mr. Vholes! If any man had told me, when I first went to
John Jarndyce's house, that he was any thing but the disinterested friend he seemed-that he was what he has gradually




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       613
turned out to be-I could have found no words strong enough to
repel the slander; I could not have defended him too ardently.
So little did I know of the world! Whereas, now, I do declare to
you that he becomes to me the embodiment of the suit; that, in
place of its being an abstraction, it is John Jarndyce; that the
more I suffer, the more indignant I- am with him; that every
new delay, and every new disappointment, is only a new injury
from John Jarndyce's hand."
"No, no," says Vholes.  "Don't say so. We ought to have
patience all of us. Besides, I never disparage, sir. I never disparage."
" Mr. Vholes," returns the angry client, "You know as well as
I, that he would have strangled the suit if he could."
" He was not active in it," Mr. Yholes admits, with an appearance of reluctance. "He certainly was not active in it. But
however, but however, he might have had amiable intentions.
Who can read the heart, Mr. C.?"
" You can," returns Richard.
"II, Mr. C.?"
" Well enough to know what his intentions were. Are, or are
not. our interests conflicting?  Tell-me-that!" says Richard,
accompanying his last three words with three raps on his rock of
trust.
"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, immovable in attitude, and never
winking his hungry eyes, "I should be wanting in my duty as
your professional adviser, I should be departing from my fidelity
to your interests, if I represented those interests as identical with
the interests of Mr. Jarndyce. They are no such thing, sir. I
never impute motives; I both have and am a father, and I never
impute motives.  But I must not shrink from a professional duty,
even if it sows dissension in families. I understand you to be
now consulting me professionally, as to your interests? You are
so?  I reply then, they are not identical with those of Mr.
Jarndyce."
"Of course they are not!" cries Richard.  "You found that
out long ago."
" Mr. C.," returns Vholes, "I wish to say no more of any third
party than is necessary. I wish to leave my good name unsullied,
together with any little property of which I may become possessed




614                  BLEAK  HOuSE.
through industry and perseverance, to my daughters Emma, Jane,
and Caroline.  I also desire to live in amity with my professional
brethren.  When Mr. Skimpole did me the honor, sir-I will not
say-the very high honor, for I never stoop to flattery-of bringing
us together in this room; I mentioned to you that I could offer no
opinion or advice as to your interests, while those interests were
intrusted to another member of the profession.  And I spoke in
such terms as I was bound to speak, of Kenge and Carboy's office,
-which stands high. You, sir, thought fit to withdraw your interests from that keeping nevertheless, and to offer them to me.
You brought them with clean hands, sir, and I accepted them
with clean hands.  Those interests are now paramount in this
office. My digestive functions, as you may have heard me mention, are not in a good state, and rest might improve them; but
I shall not rest, sir, while I am your representative.  Whenever
you want me, you will find me here.  Summon me any where,
and I will come.  During the long vacation, sir, I shall devote
my leisure to studying your interests more and more closely, and
to making arrangements for moving Heaven and Earth (including,.
of course, the Cbancellor) after Michaelmas Term; and when I
ultimately congratulate you, sir," says Mr. Vholes, with the severity of a determined man, "when I ultimately congratulate
you, sir, with all my heart, on your accession to fortune-which,
but that I never give hopes, I might say something further about
-you will owe me nothing, beyond whatever little balance may
be then outstanding of the costs as.between solicitor and client,
not included in the taxed costs allowed out of the estate.  I pretend to no claim upon you, Mr. C., but for.the zealous and active
discharge-not the languid and routine discharge, sir: that much
credit I stipulate for-of my professional duty. My duty prosperously ended, all between us is ended."
Vholes finally adds, by way of rider to this declaration of his
principles, that as Mr. Carstone is about to rejoin his regiment,
perhaps Mr. C. will favor him with an order on his agent for
twenty pounds on account.
"For there have been many little consultations and attendances of late, sir," observes Vholes, turning over the leaves of his
Diary, " and these things mount up, and I don't profess to be a
man of capital.  When we first entered on our present relations,




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        615
I stated to you openly-it is a principle of mine that there never
can be too much openness between solicitor and client-that I
was not a mar of capital; and that if capital was'your object,
you had better leave your papers in Kenge's office. No, Mr. C.,
you will find none of the advantages, or disadvantages, of capital
here sir. This," Vholes gives the desk one hollow blow again,
"is your rock; it pretends to be nothing more."
The client, with his dejection insensibly relieved, and his vague
hopes rekindled, takes pen and ink and writes the draft: not
without perplexed consideration and calculation of the date it
may bear, implying scant effects in the agent's hands.  All the
while, Vholes, buttoned up in body and mind, looks at him attentively.  All the while, Vholes's official cat watches the mouse's
hole.
Lastly, the client, shaking hands, beseeches Mr. Vholes for
Heaven's sake and Earth's sake, to do his utmost, to " pull him
through" the Court of Chancery.  Mr. Vholes, who never gives
hopes, lays his palm upon the client's shoulder, and answers with
a smile, " Always here, sir.  Personally or by letter, you will always find me here, sir, with my shoulder to the wheel."  Thus
they part; and Vholes, left alone, employs, himself in carrying
sundry little matters out of his Diary into his draft bill book.. for
the ultimate behoof of his three daughters. So might an industrious fox, or bear, make up his account of chickens or stray
travelers with an eye to his cubs; not to disparage by that word,
the three raw-visaged, lank, and buttoned up maidens, who dwell
with the parent Vholes in an earthy cottage situated in a damp
garden at Kennington.
R.ichard, emerging from the heavy shade of Symond's Inn into
the sunshine of Chancery Lane-for there happens to be sunshine there to-day-walks thoughtfhlly on, and turns into Lincoln's Inn, and passes under the- shadow of the Lincoln's Inn
trees.  On many such loungers have the speckled shadows of
those trees often fallen; on the like bent head, the bitten nail, the
lowering eye, the lingering step, the purposeless and dreamy air,
the good consuming and consumed, the life turned sour.  This
lounger is not shabby yet, but that may come. Chancery, which
knows no wisdom but in Precedent, is very rich in such Precedents; and why should one be different from ten thousand?




616                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
Yet the time is so short since his depreciation begun, that
as he saunters away, reluctant to leave the spot for some long
months together, though he hates it, Richard himself may feel
his own case as if it were a startling one. While his heart is
heavy with corroding care, suspense, distrust, and doubt, it may
have room for some sorrowful wonder when he recalls how different his first visit there, how different he, how different all the
colors of his mind.  But injustice breeds injustice; the fighting
with shadows and being defeated by them, necessitates the setting up of substances to combat; from the impalpable suit which
no man alive can understand, the time for that being long gone
by, it has become a gloomy relief to turn to the palpable figure
of the friend who would have saved him  from this ruin, and
make him  his enemy.  Richard has told Vholes the truth.  Is
he in a hardened or a softened mood, he still lays his injuries
equally at that door; he was thwarted, in that quarter, of a set
purpose, and that purpose could only originate in the one subject
that is resolving his existence into itself; besides, it is a justification to him in his own eyes to have an embodied antagonist
and oppressor.
Is Richard a monster in all this-or would Chancery be found
rich in such Precedents too, if they could be got for citation from
the Recording Angel?
Two pairs of eyes not unused to such people look after him,
as, biting his nails and brooding, he crosses the square, and is
swallowed up by the shadow of the southern gateway.  Mr.
Guppy and Mr. Weevle are the possessors of those eyes, and they
have been leaning in conversation against the low stone parapet
under the trees. He passed close' by them, seeing nothing but
the ground.
" William," says Mr. Weevle, adjusting his whiskers; "there's
combustion going on there! It's not a case of Spontaneous, but
it's smouldering combustion it is."
" Ah!" says Mr. Guppy, " he wouldn't keep out of Jarndyce,
and I suppose he's over head and ears in. debt.  I never knew
much of him. He was as high as the Monument when he was
on trial at our place. A good riddance to me, whether as clerk
or client! Well, Tony, that as I was mentioning is what they're
up to."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        617
Mr. Guppy, refolding his arms, resettles himself against the
parapet, as resuming a conversation of interest.
"They are still up to it, sir," says Mr. Guppy, "still taking
stock, still examining papers, still going over the heaps and
heaps of rubbish.  At this rate they'll be at it these seven
years."
"And Small is helping?"
"Small left us at a week's notice.  Told Kenge, his grandfather's business was too much for the old gentleman, and he
could better himself by undertaking it. There had been a coolness between myself and Small on account of his being so close.
But he said you and I began it; and as he had me there —for
wedid-I put our acquaintance on the old footing.  That's how
I come to know what they're up to."
"You haven't looked in at all?"
"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, a little disconcerted, "to be unreserved with you, I don't greatly relish the house, except in your
company, and therefore I have not; and therefore I proposed this
little appointment for our fetching away your things.  There
goes the hour by the clock! Tony;" Mr. Guppy becomes mysteriously and tenderly eloquent; " it is necessary that I should impress upon your mind once more, that circumstances over which
I have no control, have made a melancholy alteration in my
most cherished plans, and in'that unrequited image which I
formerly mentioned to you as a friend. That image is shattered, and that idol is laid low. My only wish now, in connection
with the objects which I had an idea of carrying out in the court,
with your aid as a friend, is to let'em alone and bury'em in oblivion. Do you think it possible, do you think it at all likely (I
put it to you, Tony, as a friend), from your knowledge of that
capricious and deep old character who fell a prey to the-Spontaneous element; do you, Tony, think it all likely that, on second
thoughts, he put those letters away any where, after you saw him
alive, and that they were not destroyed that night?"
Mr. Weevle reflects for some time.  Shakes his head.  Decidedly thinks not.
"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, as they walk toward the court,
"once again understand me, as a friend.  Without entering into
further explanations, I may repeat that the idol is down.  I




618                 BLEAK HOUSE.
have no purpose to serve now, but burial in oblivion. To that
I have pledged myself.  I owe it to myself, and I owe it
to the shattered.image, as also to the circumstances over which
I have no control.  If you was to express to me by a gesture,
by a wink, that you saw lying any where in your late lodgings, any papers that so much as looked like the papers in question, I would pitch them into the fire, sir, on my own responsibility."
Mr. Weevle nods.  Mr. Guppy, much elevated in his opinion
by having delivered these observations, with an air in. part forensic and in part romantic —this gentleman having a passion for
conducting any thing in the form of an examination, or delivering any thing in -the form of a summing up or a speech-accompanies his friend with dignity to the court.
Never, since it has been a court, has it had such a Fortunatus's purse of gossip as in the proceedings at the rag and bottle
shop.
Regularly, every morning at eight, is the elder Mr. Smallweed brought down to the corner and carried in, accompanied
by Mrs.'Smallweed, Judy, and Bart; and regularly, all day, do
they all remain there until nine at night, solaced by gipsy dinners, not abundant in quantity, from the cook's shop; rummaging and searching, digging, delving, and diving among the treasures of the late lamented. What those treasures are, they keep
so secret, that the court is maddened.  In its delirium  it imagines guineas pouring out of teapots, crown-pieces overflowing
punch-bowls, old chairs and mattresses stuffed with Bank of
England notes.  It possesses itself of the sixpenny history (with
highly colored folding frontispiece) of Mr. Daniel Dancer and his
sister, and also of Mr. Elwes of Suffolk, and transfers all the
facts from those authentic narratives to Mr. Krook. Twice when
the dustman is called in to carry off a cartload of old paper,
ashes, and broken bottles, the whole court assembles and pries
into the baskets as they come forth. Many times the two gentlemen who write with the ravenous little pens on the tissue
paper are seen prowling in the neighborhood-shy of each other,
their late partnership being dissolved. The Sol skillfully carries
a vein of the prevailing interest through the Harmonic nights.
Little Swills, in what are professionally known as "patter" al.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        619
lusions to the subject, is received with loud applause; and the
same vocalist "gags" in the regular business like a man inspired.  Even Miss M. Melvilleson, in the revived Caledonian melody of " We're a' nodding," points the sentiment that " the dogs
love bro" (whatever the nature of that refreshment may be) with
such archness, and such a turn of the head toward the next door,
that she is immediately understood to mean, Mr. Smallweed loves
to find money, and is nightly honored with a double encore. For
all this, the court discovers nothing; and, as Mrs. Piper and Mrs.
Perkins now communicate to the late lodger, whose appearance
is the signal for a general rally, it is in one continual ferment to
discover every thing, and more.
Mr. Weevie and Mr. Guppy, with every eye in the court's
head upon them, knock at the closed door of the late lamented's
house, in a high state of popularity.  But, being contrary to the
court's expectation admitted, they immediately become unpopular
and are considered to mean no good.
The shutters are more or less closed all over the house, and
the ground floor is sufficiently dark to require candles. Introduced
into the back shop by Mr. Smallweed the younger, they, fresh
from the sunlight, can at first see nothing save darkness and
shadows; but they gradually discern the elder Mr. Smallweed,
seated in his chair upon the brink of a well or grave of waste
paper; the virtuous Judy groping therein, like a female sexton;
and Mrs. Smallweed on the level ground in the vicinity, snowed
up in a heap of paper fragments; print and manuscript, which
would appear to be the accumulated compliments that have
been sent flying at her in the course of the day.  The whole
party, Small included, are blackened with dust and dirt, and
present a fiendish appearance not relieved by the general aspect
of the room. There is more litter and lumber in it than of old,
and it is dirtier if possible; likewise, it is ghostly with traces of
its dead inhabitant, and even with his chalked writing on the
wall.
On the entrance of visitors, Mr. Smallweed and Judy simultaneously fold their arms, and stop in their researches.
"Aha!" croaks the old gentleman.  ". How de do, gentlemen,
how de do! Come to fetch your property, Mr. Weevle? That's
well, that's well.  Ha' ha! We should have been forced to sell




620                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
you up, sir, to pay your warehouse-room, if you had left it here
much longer.  You feel quite at home here, again, I daresay?
Glad to see you, glad to see you!"
Mr. Weevle, thanking him, casts an eye about. Mr. Guppy's
eye follows Mr. Weevle's eye. Mr. Weevle's eye comes back
without any newv intelligence in it. Mr. Guppy's eye comes
back, and meets Mr. Smallweed's eye. That engaging old gentleman is still murmuring, like some wound-up instrument running down, " How de do, sir-how  de-how-."  And then
having run down, he lapses into grinning silence, as Mr. Guppy
starts at seeing Mr. Tulkinghorn standing in the darkness. opposite, with his hands behind him.
" Gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor," says Grandfather Smallweed.  "I am not the sort of client for a gentleman
of such note; but he is so good"!"
Mr. Guppy slightly nudging his friend to take another look,
makes a shuffling bow to Mr. Tulkinghorn, who returns it with
an easy nod. Mr. Tulkinghorn is looking on as if he had nothing
else to do, and were rather amused by the novelty.
" A good deal of property here, sir, I should say," Mr. Guppy
observes to Mr. Smallweed.
"Principally rags and rubbish, my dear friend! rags and rubbish! Me and Bart, and my grand-da ughter Judy, are endeavoring to make out an inventory of what's worth any thing to sell.
But we haven't come to much as yet, we-haven't-come-to
hah!"
Mr. Smallweed has run down again; while Mr. Weevle's eye,
attended by Mr. Guppy's eye, has again gone round the room
and come back.
"Well, sir," says Mr. Weevle.  "We won't intrude any longer,
if you'll allow us to go up-stairs."
"Any where, -my dear sir, any where! You're at home.
Make yourself so, pray!"
As they go up-stairs, Mr. Guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly,
and looks at Tony.  Tony shakes his head.  They find the old
room very dull and dismal, with the ashes of the fire that was
burning on that memorable night yet in the discolored grate.
They have a great disinclination to touch any object, and carcfilly blow the dust fiom it first.  Nor are they desirous to pro



BLEAK  HOUSE.                        621
long their visit: packing the few movables with all possible
speed, and never speaking above a whisper.
" Look here," says T.ony, recoiling.  "Here's that horrible cat
coming ill!"
Mr. Guppy retreats behind a chair.  "Small told me of her.
She went leaping, and bounding and tearing about, that night,
like a Dragon, and got out on the house-top, and roamed about up
there for a fortnight, then came tumbling down the chimney
very thin.  Did you ever see such a brute?  Looks as if she
knew all about it, don't she? Almost looks as if she was Krook.
Shoohoo.! Get out, you goblin!"
Lady Jane in the doorway, with her tiger-snarl from ear to
ear, and her club of a tail, shows no intention of obeying; but
Mr. Tulkinghorn stumbling over her, she spits at his rusty
legs, and swearing wrathfully, takes her arched back up-stairs.
Possibly to roam the housetops again, and return by the chimney.
"Mr. Guppy," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "could I have a word
with you?"
Mr. Guppy is engaged in collecting the Galaxy Gallery of
British Beauty from the wall, and depositing those works of art
in their old ignoble band-box.  " Sir, he returns, reddening, " I
wish to act with courtesy toward every member of the profession,
and especially, I am sure, toward a member of it so well known
as yourself-I will truly add, sir, so distinguished as yourself.
Still, Mr. Tulkinghorn, sir, I must stipulate that if you have any
word with me, that word is spoken in the presence of my friend."
Oh, indeed?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn.
"Yes, sir. My reasons are not of a personal nature at all; but
they are amply sufficient for myself."
" No doubt, no doubt."  Mr. Tulkinghorn is as imperturbable
as the hearth-stone to which he has quietly walked. "The matter is not of that consequence that I need put you to the trouble
of making any conditions, Mr. Guppy." He pauses here to smile,
and his smile is as dull and rusty as his pantaloons   "You are
to be congratulated, Mr. Guppy; you are a fortunate young man,
air."
"Pretty well so, Mr. Tulkinghorn; I don't complain."
"Complain?  High friends, free admission to great houses




622                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
and access to elegant ladies! Why, Mr. Guppy, there are peopie in London who would give their ears to be you."
Mr. Guppy, looking as if he would give his own reddening and
still reddening ears to be one of those people at present instead
of himself, replies, " Sir, if I attend to my profession, and do
what is right by Kenge and Carboy, my friends and acquaintances are of no consequence to them, nor to any member of the
profession, not excepting Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields. I am
not under any obligation to explain myself further; and with
all respect for you, sir, and without offense-I repeat, without
oftense  "
"Oh, certainly!"
"-I don't intend to do it."' Quite so," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, with a calm nod.  "Very
good: I see by these portraits that you take a strong interest in
the fashionable great, sir?"
He addresses this to the astounded Tony, who admits the soft
impeachment.
"A virtue in which few Englishmen are deficient," observes
Mr. Tulkinghorn.  He has been standing on the hearth-stone,
with his back to the smoked chimney-piece, and now  turns
round, with his glasses to his eyes.  "Who is this?' Lady Dedlock.' Ha   A very good likeness in its way, but it wants force
of character. Good-day to you, gentlemen; good-day!"
When he has walked out, Mr. Guppy, in a great perspiration
nerves himself to the hasty completion of the taking down of the
galaxy Gallery, concluding with Lady Dedlock.
"Tony," he says, hurriedly, to his astonished companion, " le
us be quick in putting the things together, and in getting out of
this place. It were in vain longer to conceal from you, Tony,
that between myself and one of the members of a swan-like arislocracy whom I now hold in my hand, there has been undivulged
communication and association.  The time might have been,
when I might have revealed it to you.  It never will be more.
it is due alike to the oath I have taken, alike to the shattered
idol, and alike to circumstances over which I have no control,
that the ole should be buried in oblivion. I charge you as a
friend, by the interest you have ever testified in the fashionable
intelligence; and by any little advances with which I may have




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       623
been able to accommodate you, so to bury it without a word of
inquiry!"
This charge Mr. Guppy delivers in a state little short of fbrensic lunacy, while his friend shows a dazed mind in his whole
head of hair, and even in his cultivated whiskers.
89




CHAPTER XL.
NATIONAL AND DOMESTIC.
ENGLAND has been in a dreadful state for some weeks. Lord
Coodle would go out, Sir Thomas Doodle wouldn't come in, and
there being nobody in Great Britain (to speak of) except Coodle and
Doodle, there has been no Government. It is a mercy that the
hostile meeting between those two great men, which at one time
seemed inevitable, did not come off; because if both pistols had
taken effect, and Coodle and Doodle had killed each other, it is
to be presumed that England must have waited to be governed
until young Coodle and young Doodle, now in frocks and long
stockings, were grown up.  This stupendous national calamity,
however, was averted by Lord Coodle's making the timely discovery, that if in the heat of debate he had said that he scorned
and despised the whole ignoble career of Sir Thomas Doodle, he
had merely meant to say that party differences should never
induce him to withhold from it the tribute of his warmest admiration; while it as opportunely turned out, on the other hand,
that Sir Thomas Doodle had in his own bosom expressly booked
Lord Coodle to go down to posterity as the mirror of virtue
and honor. Still England has been some weeks in the dismal
strait of having no pilot (as was well observed by Sir Leicester
Dedlock) to weather the storm; and fhe marvelous part of the
matter is, that England has not appeared to care very much
about it, but has gone on eating and drinking, and marrying and
giving in marriage, as the old world did in the days before the
flood. But Coodle knew the danger, and Doodle knew the danger, and all their followers and hangers-on had the clearest possible perception of the danger. At last Sir Thomas Doodle has not
only condescended to come in, but has done it handsomely, bringing in with him all his nephews, all his male cousins, and all his
brothers in-law.  So there is hope for the old ship yet.
(624)




BLEAK HOUSE.                        625
Doodle has found that he must throw himself upon the country-chiefly in the form of sovereigns and beer. In this metamorphosed state he is available in a good many places simultaneously, and can throw himself upon a considerable portion of
the country at one time. Britannia being much occupied in pocketing Doodle in the form of sovereigns, and swallowing Doodle
in the form of beer, and in swearing herself black in the face
that she does neither-plainly to the advancement of her glory
and morality-the London season comes to a sudden end, through
all the Doodleites and Coodleites dispersing to assist Britannia in
those religious exercises.
Hence Mrs. Rouncewell housekeeper at Chesney Wold foresees, though no instructions have yet come down, that the family
may shortly be expected, together with a pretty large accession
of cousins and others who can in any way assist the great Constitutional work. And hence the stately old dame, taking Time
by the forelock, leads him up and down the staircases, and along
the galleries and passages and through the rooms, to witness before he grows any older that every thing is ready; that floors
are rubbed bright, carpets spread, curtains shaken out, beds puffed
and patted, still-room and kitchen cleared for action, all things
prepared as beseems the Dedlock dignity.
This present summer evening, as the sun goes down, the preparations are complete. Dreary and solemn the old house looks,
with so many appliances of habitation, and with no inhabitants
except the pictured forms upon the walls, So did these come
and go, a Dedlock in possession might have ruminated passing
along; so did they' see this gallery hushed and quiet, as I see it
now; so think, as I think, of the gap that they would make in
this domain when they were gone; so find it, as I find it, difficult to believe that it could be, without them; so pass from my
world, as I pass from theirs, now closing the reverberating door;
so leave no blank to miss them, and so die.
Through some of the fiery windows, beautiful from without,
and set at this sunset hour, not in dull gray stone but in a glorious house of gold, the light excluded at other windows pours in,
rich, lavish, overflowing like the summer plenty in the land.
Then do the frozen Dedlocks thaw.  Strange movements come
upon their features, as the shadows of leaves play there. A dense




626                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
Justice in a corner is beguiled into a wink. A staring Baronet
with a truncheon, gets a dimple in his chin. Down into the
bosom of a stony shepherdess there steals a fleck of light and
warmth, that would have done it good a hundred years ago.
One ancestress of Volumnia, in high-heeled shoes, very like her
-casting the shadow of that virgin event before her full two
centuries-shoots out into a halo and becomes a saint. A maid
of honor of the court of Charles the Second, with large round
eyes (and other charms to correspond), seems to bathe in glowing
water, and it ripples as it glows.
But the fire of the sun is dying. Even now the floor is dusky,
and shadow slowly mounts the walls, bringing the Dedlocks down
like age and death. And now, upon my lady's picture, over the
great chimney-piece, a weird shade falls from some old tree, that
turns it pale, and flutters it, and looks as if a great arm held a
vail or hood, watching an opportunity to draw it over her. Higher
and darker rises the shadow on the wall-now a red gloom on
the ceiling-now the fire is out
All that prospect, which from the terrace looked so near, has
moved solemnly away, and changed-not the first nor the last
of beautiful things that look so near and will so change-into a
distant phantom. Light mists arise, and the dew falls, and all
the sweet scents in the garden are heavy in the air. Now, the
woods settle into great masses as if they were each one profound
tree. And now the moon rises, to separate them, and to glimmer
here and there in horizontal lines behind their stems, and to make
the avenue a pavement of light among high cathedral arches
fantastically broken.
Now, the moon is high; and the great house, needing habit*
ation more than ever, is like a body without life. Now, it is
even awful, stealing through it, to think of the live people who
have slept in the solitary bedrooms; to say nothing of the dead.
Now is the time for shadow, when every corner is a cavern, and
every downward step a pit, when the stained glass is reflected
in pale and faded hues upon the floorl, when any thing and every
thing can be made of the heavy staircase beams excepting their
own proper shapes, when the armor has dull lights upon it not
easily to be distinguished from stealthy movement, and when
barred helmets are frightfully suggestive of heads inside. But,




SUNSET IN TIHE LONG DRAWING ROOM AT CIHESNEY lWOLD.








BLEAK HOUSE.                         627
of all the shadows in Chesney Wold, the shadow in the long
Drawing Room upon my lady's picture is the first to come. the
last to be disturbed. At this hour and by this light it changes
into threatening hands raised up, and menacing the handsome.face with every breath that stirs.
" She is not well, ma'am," says a groom in Mrs. Rouncewell's
audience-chamber.
" My lady not well?  What's the matter?"
"Why, my lady has been but poorly, ma'am, since she was
last here-I don't mean with the family, ma'am, but when she
was here as a bird of passage-like.  My lady has not been out
much, for her, and has kept her room a good deal."
"Chesney Wold, Thomas," rejoins the housekeeper, with proud
complacency, " will set my lady up! There is no finer air, and
no healthier soil, in the world!"
Thomas may have his own personal opinions on this subject; probably hints them, in his manner of smoothing his sleek
head from the nape of his neck to his temples; but he forbears
to express them further, and retires to the servants' hall to regale
on cold meat-pie and ale.
This groom is the pilot-fish before the nobler shark. Next
evening, down come Sir Leicester and my lady with their largest
retinue, and down come the cousins and others from all the points
in the compass. Thenceforth for some weeks, backward and forward rush mysterious men with no names, who fly about all
those particular parts of the country on which Poodle is at present throwing himself in an auriferous and malty shower, but who
are merely persons of a restless disposition and never do any thing
any where.
On these national occasions, Sir Leicester finds the cousins
useful.  A better man than the Honorable Bob Stables to meet
the Hunt at dinner, there could not possibly be. Better got up
gentlemen than the other cousins, to ride over to polling booths
and hustings here and there, and show themselves on the side of
England, i,; would be hard to find.  Volumnia is a little dim,
but she is of the true descent; and there are many who appreciate her sprightly conversation, her French conundrums so old
as to have become in the cycles of time almost new again, tihe
lionur of takiln  the fair Dedlock into dinner, or even the privi



628                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
lege of her hand in the dance.  On these national occasions.
dancing may be a patriotic service; and Volumnia is constantly
seen hopping about, for the good of an ungrateful and unpensioning country.
My lady takes no great pains to entertain the numerous guests,
and, being still unwell, rarely appears until late in the day.  But
at all the dismal dinners, leaden lunches, basilisk balls, and other
melancholy pageants, her mere appearance is a relief. As to
Sir Leicester, he conceives it utterly impossible that any thing can
be wanting, in any direction, by any one who has the good fortune
to be received under that roof; and in a state of sublime satisfaction, he moves among the company a magnificent refrigerator.
Daily the cousins trot through dust, and canter over roadside
turf, away to hustings and polling booths (with leather gloves
and hunting whips for the counties, and kid gloves and riding
canes for the boroughs), and daily bring back reports on which
Sir Leicester holds forth after dinner. Daily the restless men
who have no occupation in life, present the appearance of being
rather busy.  Daily Volumnia has a little cousinly talk with
Sir Leicester on the state of the nation, from which Sir Leicester
is disposed to conclude that Volumnia is a more reflecting woman
than he had thought her.
"How are we getting on?" says Miss Volumfinia, clasping her
hands.  "Are we safe?"
The mighty business is nearly over by this time, and Doodle
will throw himself off the country in a few days more.  Sir
Leicester has just appeared in the long drawing-room  after
dinner; a bright particular star surrounded by clouds of cousins.
"Volumnia," replies Sir Leicester, who has a list in his hand.
"we are doing tolerably."
Only tolerably!"
Although it is summer weather, Sir Leicester always has his
own particular fire in the evening. He takes his usual screened
seat near it, and repeats, with much firmness and a little displeasure, as who should say, I am not a common man, and when
I say tolerably, it must not be understood as a common expression; "Volumnia, we are doing tolerably."
" At least there is no opposition to you," Yolumnia assertt
with confidence.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       629
" No, Volumnia.  This distracted country has lost its senses in
many respects, I grieve to say, but-"
" It is not so mad as that.  I am glad to hear it!"
Volumnia's finishing the sentence restores her to favor. Sir
Leicester, with a' gracious inclination of his head, seems to say to
himself, " A sensible woman this, on the whole, though occasionally precipitate."
In fact, as to this question of opposition, the fair Dedlock's
observation was superfluous: Sir Leicester, on these occasions,
always delivering in his own candidateship, as a kind of handsome wholesale order to be promptly executed.  Two other little
seats that belong to him, he treats as retail orders of less importance; merely sending down the men, and signifying to the
tradespeople, " You will have the goodness to make these materials into two members of Parliament, and to send them home
when done."
"I regret to say, Volumnia, that in many places the people
have shown a bad spirit, and that this opposition to the Government has been of a most determined and most implacable description."
"W-r-retches!" says Volumnia.
" Even," proceeds Sir Leicester, glancing at the circumjacent
cousins on sofas and ottomans, " Even in many-in fact, in most
-of those places in which the Government has carried it against
a faction-"
(Note, by the way, that the Coodleites are always a faction,
with the Doodleites, and that the Doodleites occupy exactly the
same position toward the Coodleites.)
"-Even in them I am shocked, for the credit of Englishmen,
to be constrained to inform you that the Party has not triumphed
without being put to an enormous expense.  Hundreds," says
Sir Leicester, eying the cousins with increasing dignity:and swelling indignation, " Hundreds of thousands of pounds!"
If Volumnia,ave a fault, it is the fault of being a trifle too innocent; seeir.g that the innocence which would go extremely
well with P, sash and tucker, is a little out of keeping with the
rouge and. pearl necklace. Howbeit, impelled by innocence, she
asks"What for "




630                 BLEAK HOTUSE.
"Volumnia," remonstrates Sir Leicester, with his utmost
severity. "Volumnia!"
" No, no, I don't mean what for," cries Volumnia, with her
favorite little scream.  "How stupid I am'! I mean what a
pity."
"I am glad," returns Sir Leicester, " that you do mean what a
pity."
Volumnia hastens to express her opinion that the shocking
people ought to be tried as traitors, and made to support the
Party.
"I am glad, Volumnia," repeats Sir Leicester, unmindful of
these mollifying sentiments, " that you do mean what a pity.
It is disgraceful to the electors. But as you, though inadvertently,
and without intending so unreasonable a question, asked me' what for?' let me reply to you. For necessary expenses. And
I trust to your good sense, Volumnia, not to pursue the subject,
here, or elsewhere."
Sir Leicester feels it incumbent on him to observe a crushing
aspect toward Volumnia, because it is whispered abroad that
these necessary expenses will, in some two hundred election petitions, be unpleasantly connected with the word bribery; and
because some graceless jokers have consequently suggested the
omission from the Church service of the ordinary supplication in
behalf of the High Court of Parliament, and have recommended
instead that the prayers of the congregation be requested for six
hundred and fifty-eight gentlemen in a very unhealthy state.
"I suppose," observes Volumnia, having taken a little time
to recover her spirits after her late castigation, " I suppose Mr.
Talkinghorn has been worked to death."
"I don't know," says Sir Leicester, opening his eyes, "why
Mr. Tulkinghorn should be worked to death. I don't know what
Mr. Tulkinghorn's engagements may be. He is not a candidate."
Volumnia had thought he might have been employed.  Sir
Leicester could desire to know by whom, and what for? Volumnia, abashed again, suggests, by Somebody-to advise and make
arrangements  Sir Leicester is not aware that any client of Mr.
Tulkinghorn has been in need of his assistance.
Lady Dedlock, sealed at an open window, with her arm upon




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        631
its cushioneld ledge and looking out at the evening shadows falling on the park, has seemed to attend since the lawyer's name
was mentioned.
A languid cousin with a mustache, in a state of extreme de
bility, now observes from his couch, that-man told him ya'as'dy
that Tulkinghorn had gone down t'that iron place t'give legal'pinion'bout something; and that, contest being over t'day,'twould be highly jawlly thing if Tulkinghorn should'pear with
news that Coodle man was floored
Mercury, in attendance with coffee, informs Sir Leicester, here
upon, that Mr. Tulkinghorn has arrived, and is taking dinner.
My lady turns her head inward for the moment, then looks out
again as before.
Volumnia is charmed to hear that her Delight is come. He is so
original, such a stolid creature, such an immense being for knowing all sorts of things and never telling them! Volumnia is persuaded that he must be a Freemason.  Is sure he is at the head
of a lodge, and wears short aprons, and is made a perfect Idol
of, with candlesticks and trowels.  These lively remarks the
fair Dedlock delivers in her youthful manner, while making a
purse.
He has not been here once," she adds, " since I came. I
really had some thoughts of breaking my heart for the inconstant
creature. I had almost made up my mind that he was dead."
It may be the gathering gloom of evening, or it may be the
darker gloom within herself, but a shade is on my lady's face,
as if she thought, " I would he were!"
"Mr. Tulkinghorn," says Sir Leicester, "is always welcome
here, and always discreet wheresoever he is.  A very valuable
person, and deservedly respected."
The debilitated cousin supposes he is "'normously rich fl'er."
"He has a stake in the country," says Sir Leicester, " I have
no doubt.  He is, of course, handsomely paid, and he associates
almost on a footing of equality with the highest society."
Every body starts.  For a gun is fired closeby.
"Good gracious, what's that!" cries Volumnia, with her little
withered scream.; A rat," says my lady. " And they have shot him"
iEiter  Mr. Tullkinighorii, fiollowed by iMecuries with lamps and




632                  BLEAK HOUSE.
candles. "No, no," says Sir Leicester, "I think not. My lady,
do you object to the twilight?'"
On the contrary, my lady prefers it.
"Volumnia?"
O! nothing is so delicious to Volumnia as to sit and talk in the
dark'!
" Then take them away," says Sir Leicester.  "Tulkinghorn,
I beg your pardon.  How do you do?"
Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely. ease advances, renders his passing homage to my lady, shakes Sir Leicester's hand,
and subsides into the chair proper to him when he has any thing
to communicate, on the opposite side of the baronet's little newspaper-table. Sir Leicester is apprehensive that my lady, not b6ing very well, will take cold at that open window.  My lady is
obliged to him, but would rather sit there, for the air. Sir Leicester rises, adjusts her scarf about her, and returns to his seat
Mr. Tulkinghorn in the meanwhile takes a pinch of snuff.
" Now," says Sir Leicester.  "How has that contest gone?"
"Oh, hollow from the beginning. Not a chance.  They have
brought in both their people. You are beaten out of all reason. 
Three to one."
It is a part of Mr. Tulkinghorn's policy and mastery to have
no political opinions; indeed, no opinions. Therefore he says
"you" are beaten, and not " we."
Sir Leicester is majestically wroth. Volumnia never heard of
such a thing.  The debilitated cousin holds that it's-sort of
thing that's sure t'apn s'longs votes-giv'n-Mob.
It's the place, you know," Mr. Tulkinghorn goes on to say in
the fast-increasing darkness, when there is silence again, "where
they wanted to put up Mrs. Rouncewell's son."
"A  proposal which," as you correctly informed me at the
time, he had the becoming taste and perception," observes Sir
Leicester, " to decline. I can not say that I by any means approve of the sentiments expressed by Mr. Rouncewel], when he
was here for some half-hour, in this room; but there was a sense
of propriety in his decision which I am glad to acknowledge."
"Ha!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn.  " It did not prevent him from
being very active in this election, though."
"Sir Leicester is distinctly hea:dl to gasp before speakitig.




BLEAK HOUSE.                        638'Did I understand you?  Did you say that Mr. Rouncewell had
been very active in this election?"
Uncommonly active."
"Against-"
"0 dear, yes, against you. He is a very good speaker. Plain
and emphatic.  He made a damaging effect, and has great influence. In the business-part of the proceedings he carried all
before him."
It is evident to the whole company, though nobody can see
him, that Sir Leicester is staring majestically.
"And he was much assisted," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, as a
wind-up, "by his son."
"By his son, sir?" repeats Sir Leicester, with awful politeness.
"By his son."
"The son who wished to marry the young woman in my lady's
service?"
"That son. He has but one."
"Then upon my honor," says Sir Leicester, after a terrific
pause, during which he has been heard to snort and felt to stare;' then upon my honor, upon my life, upon my reputation and
principles, the floodgates.of society are burst open, and the waters
have-a-obliterated the landmarks of the framework of the
cohesion by which things are held together!"
General burst of cousinly indignation. Volumnia thinks it is
really high time, you know, for somebody in power to step in
and do something strong. Debilitated cousin thinks-Country's
going-DAYTLE-steeple-chase pace.
"I beg," says Sir Leicester, in a breathless condition, "that
we may not comment further on this circumstance. Comment is
superfluous. My lady, let me suggest in reference to that young
woman-"
" I have no intention," observes my lady from her window, in
a low but decided tone, " of parting with her."
"That was not my meaning," returns Sir Leicester.  "I am
glad to hear you say so. I would suggest that as you think her
worthy of your patronage, you should exert your influence to keep
her from these dangerous hands.  You might show her what
violence would be dlone, in such association, to her duties a. i




634                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
principles; and you might preserve her for a better fate. You
might point out to her that she probably would, in good time, find
a husband at Chesney Wold by whom she would not be-" Sir
Leicester adds, after a moment's consideration, " dragged from
the altars of her forefathers."
These remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and
deference when he addresses himself to his wife. She merely
moves her head in reply.  The moon is rising; and where she
sits there is a little stream of cold pale light, in which her head
is seen.
"It is worthy of remark," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, " however,
that these people are, in their way, very proud."
" Proud?" Sir Leicester doubts his hearing.
" I should not be surprised, if they all voluntarily abandoned
the girl-yes, lover and all-instead of her abandoning them,
supposing she remained at Chesney Wold under such circumstances."
"Well!" says Sir Leicester, tremulously, " Well! You should
know, Mr. Tulkinghorn.  You have been among them."
" Really, Sir Leicester," returns the Lawyer, "I state the fact.
Why, I could tell you a story-with Lady Dedlock's permission."
Her head concedes it, and Volurnnia is enchanted.  A story!
0 he is going to tell something at last! A ghost in it, Volumnia
hopes?
" No.  Real flesh and blood."  Mr. Tulkinghorn stops for an
instant, and repeats with some little emphasis grafted upon his
usual monotony, " Real flesh and blood, Miss Dedlock, Sir Leicester, these particulars have only lately become known to me.
They are very brief. They exemplify what I have said. I suppress names for the present.  Lady Dedlock will not think me
ill-bred, I hope?"
By the light of the fire, which is low, he can be seen looking
toward the moonlight.  By the light of the moon Lady Dedlock
can be seen, perfectly still.
"A  townsman of this Mr. Rouncewell, a man in exactly
parallel circumstances as I am told, had the good fortune to have
a daughter who attracted the notice of a great lady.  I speak of
really a great lady; not merely great to him, but married to a
gentleman of your condition, Sir Leicester."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       635
Sir Leicester coidescendingly says, "Yes, Mr. Tulkighorn;"
implying that then she must have appeared of very considerable
moral dimensions indeed, in the eyes of an ironmaster.
"The lady was wealthy and beautiful, and had a liking for
the girl; and treated her with great kindness, and kept her always
near her.  Now this lady preserved a secret under all her greatness, which she had preserved for many years. In fact, she hd
in early life been engaged to marry a young rake-he was a captain in the, army-nothing connected with whom  came to any
good. She never did marry him, but she gave birth to a child of
which he was the father.'
By the light of the fire he can be seen looking toward the
moonlight. By the moonlight, Lady Dedlock can be seen in
profile, perfectly still.
"The captain in the army being dead, she believed herself
safe; but atrain of circumstances with which I need not trouble
you, led to discovery. As I received the story, they began in an
imprudence on her own part one day, when she was taken by
surprise; which shows how difficult it is for the firmest of us
(she was very firm) to be always guarded.  There was great
domestic trouble and amazement, you may suppose; i leave you
to imagine, Sir Leicester, the husband's grief. But that is not
the present point. When Mr. Rouncewell's townsman heard of
the disclosure, he no more allowed the girl to be patronized and
honored, than he would have suffered her to be trodden underfoot
before his eyes.  Such was his pride, that he indignantly took
her away, as if from reproach and disgrace.  He had no sense
of the honor done him and his daughter by the lady's condescension; not the least. He resented the girl's position, as if the
lady had been the commonest of commoners. That is the story.
I hope Lady Dedlock will excuse its painful nature."
There are various opinions on the merits, more or less conflicting with Volumnia's. That fair young creature can not believe
there ever was anpy such lady, and rejects the whole history on
the threshold. The majority inclined to the debilitated cousin's
sentiment, which is in few words-" no business-Rouncewell's'fernal townsman."  Sir Leicester generally refers back in his
mind to Wat Tyler, and arranges a sequence of events on a plan
of his own.




636                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
There is not much conversation in all, for late hours have
been kept at Chesney Wold since the necessary expenses elsewhere began, and this is the first in many on which the family
have been alone.  It is past ten, when Sir Leicester begs Mr.
Tulkinghorn to ring for candles.  Then the stream of moonlight
has swelled into a lake, and then Lady Dedlock for the first time
moves, and rises, and comes forward to a table for a glass of
water.  Winking cousins, bat-like in the candle-glare, crowd
round to give it; Volumnia (always ready for something better
if procurable) takes another, a very mild sip of which contents
her; Lady Dedlock, graceful, self-possessed, looked after by admiring eyes, passes away slowly down the long perspective by the
side of that Nymph, not Et all improving her as a question of
contrast.




CHAPTER XLI.
IN MR. TULKINGHORN S ROOM.
MR. TULKINGHORN arrives in his turret-room, a little breathed
by the journey up, though leisurely performed. There is an expression on his face, as if he had discharged his mind of some
grave matter, and were, in his close way, satisfied. To say of a
man so severely and strictly self-repressed that he is triumphant,
would be to do him  as great an injustice as to suppose him
troubled with love or sentiment, or any romantic weakness. He
is sedately satisfied. Perhaps there is a rather increased sense
of power upon him, as he loosely grasps one of his veinous wrists
with his other hand, and holding it behind his back walks noiselessly up and down.
There is a capacious writing-table in the room, on which is a
pretty large accumulation of papers. The green lamp is lighted,
his reading glasses lie upon the desk, the easy chair is wheeled
up to it, and it would seem as though he had intended to bestow
an hour or so upon these claims on his attention before going to
bed.  But he happens not to be in a business mind.  After a
glance at the documents awaiting his notice-with his head bent
low over the table, the old man's sight for print or writing being
defective at night-he opens the French window and steps out
upon the leads.  There he again walks slowly up and down, in
the same attitude; subsiding, if a man so cool may have any
need to subside, from the story he has related down-stairs.
The time was once, when men as knowing as Mr. Tulkinghorn
would walk on turret-tops in the star-ligit, and look up into the
sky to read their fortunes there.  Hosts of stars are visible tonight, though their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendor of the
moon.  If he be seeking his own star, as he methodically turns
(637)




638                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
and turns upon the leads, it should be but a pale one to be so
rustily represented below. If he be tracing out his destiny, that
may be written in other characters nearer to his hand.
As he paces the leads, with his eyes most probably as high
above his thoughts as they are high above the earth, he is suddenly stopped in passing the window by two eyes that meet his
own. The ceiling of his room is rather low; and the upper part
of the door, which is opposite the window, is of glass. There is
an inner baize door too, but the night being warm he did not
close it when he came up-stairs. These eyes that meet his own,
are looking in through the glass from the corridor outside. He
knows them. well.  The blood has not flushed into his face so
suddenly and redly for many a long year, as when he recognizes
Lady Dedlock.
He steps into the room, and she comes in too, closing both the
doors behind her.  There is a wild disturbance-is it fear or anger?-in her eyes.  In her carriage and all else, she looks as she
looked down-stairs two hours ago.
Is it fear, or is it anger, now?  He can not be sure. Both
might be as pale, both as intent.
"Lady Dedlock?"
She does not speak at first, nor even when she has slowly
dropped into the easy chair by the table. They look at each
other like two pictures.
" Why have you told my story to so many persons?"
"Lady Dedlock, it was necessary for me to inform you that I
Knew it."
"How long have you known it?"
"I have suspected it a long while-fully known it a little
while."
"Months?"
"Days."
He stands before her, with one hand on a chair-back and the
other in his old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, exactly as he
has stood before her at any time since her marriage. The same
formal politeness, the same composed deference that might as
well be defiance; the whole man the same dark, cold object, at
the same distance, which nothing has ever diminished.' Is this true concerning the poor girl?"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       639
He slightly inclines and advances his head, as not quite understanding the question.
" You kqow what you related.  Is it true?  Do her friends
know my story also?  Is it the town-talk yet?  Is it chalked
upon the walls and cried in the. streets?"
So!  Anger, and fear, and shame.  All three contending.
What power this woman has, to keep these raging passions down!
Mr. Tulkinghorn's thoughts take such form as he looks at her,
with his ragged gray eyebrows a hair's-breadth more contracted
than usual, under her gaze.
"No, Lady Dedlock. That was a hypothetical case, arising
out of Sir Leicester's unconsciously carrying the matter with so
high a hand.  But it would be a real case if they kneWltwhat
we know."
"Then they do not know it yet?"
" No."
"Can I save the poor girl from injury before they know it?"
" Really, Lady Dedlock," Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, " I can not
give a satisfactory opinion on that point."
And he thinks, with the interest of attentive curiosity, as ho
watches the struggle in her breast, " The power and force of thip
woman are astonishing!"
"Sir," she says, for the moment obliged to set her lips with all
*he energy she has, that she may speak distinctly, " I will make
it plainer. I do not dispute your hypothetical case. I anticipated it, and felt its truth as strongly as you can do, when I saw
Mr. Rouncewell here.  I knew very well that if he could have
had the power of seeing me as I was, he would consider the poor
girl tarnished by having for a moment been, although most innoceltly, the subject of my great and distinguished patronage.  But
I have an interest in her; or I should rather say-no longer belonging to this place-I had; and if you can find so much consideration for the woman under your foot as to remember that, she
will be very sensible of your mercy."
Mr. Tulkinghorn, profoundly attentive, throws this off with a
shrug of self-depreciation, and contracts his eyebrows a little
more.
" You have prepared me for my exposure, and I thank you for
that too.  Is there any thing that you require of me?  Is there
40




640                  BLEAK HOUSE.
any claim that I can release, or any charge or trouble that I can
spare my husband' in obtaining his release, by certifying to the
exactness of your discovery? I will write any thing, here and
low, that you will dictate. I am ready to do it."
And she would do it! thinks the lawyer, watchful of the firm
hand with which she takes the pen!
"I will not.trouble you, Lady Dedlock.  Pray spare yourself."
"I have long expected this, as you know.  I neither wish to
spare myself, nor to be spared. You can do nothing worse to me
than you have done.  Do what remains, now."
"Lady Dedlock, there is nothing to be done.  I will take
leave to say a few words, when you have finished."
Their need for watching one another should be over now, but
they do it all this time, and the stars watch them both through
the opened window.  Away in the moonlight lie the woodland
fields at rest, and the wide house is as quiet as the narrow one.
The narrow  one! Where are the digger and the spade, this
peaceful night, destined to add the last great secret to the many
secrets of the Tulkinghorn existence?  Is the man born yet, is
the spade wiought yet?  Curious questions to consider, more
curious perhaps not to consider, under the watching stars upon a
summer night.
" Of repentance or remorse, or any feeling of mine," Lady
Dedlock presently proceeds, "I say not a word.  If I were not
dumb, you would be deaf.  Let that go'by:  It is not for your
ears."
He makes a feint of offering a protest, but she sweeps it away
with her disdainful hand.
"'Of other and very different things I come to speak to you.
My jewels are all in their proper places of keeping.  They will
be found there.  So, my dresses.  So, all the valuables I have.
Some ready money I had with me, please to say, but no large
amount.  I did not wear my own dress, in order that I might
avoid observation.  I went, to be henceforward lost.  Make this
known.  I leave no other charge with you."
"Excuse me, Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, quite
unmoved.  "I am not sure that I understand you. You went-?"
"To be lost to all here.  I leave Chesney Wold to-night.  I
go this hour."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       641
Mr. Tulkinghorn shakes his head. She rises; but he, without
removing hand from chair-back or from old-fashioned waistcoat
and shirt-frill, shakes his head.
"What?  Not go as I have said?"
"No, Lady Dedlock," he very calmly replies.
"Do you know the relief that my disappearance will be?
Have you forgotten the stain and blot upon this place, and where
it is, and who it is?"
" No, Lady Dedlock, not by any means."
Without deigning to rejoin, she moves to the inner door and
has it in her hand, when he says to her, without himself stirring
hand or foot, or raising his voice:
" Lady Dedlock, have the goodness to stop and hear me, or
before you reach the staircase I shall ring the alarm blell and
rouse the house.  And then I must speak out, before every guest
and servant, every man and woman, in it."
He has conquered her.  She falters, trembles, and puts her
hand confusedly to her head.' Slight tokens these in any one
else; but when so practiced an eye as Mr. Tulkinghorn's sees
indecision for a moment in such a subject, he thoroughly knows
its value.
He promptly says again, "Have the goodness to hear me,
Lady Dedlock," and motions to the chair from which she has
risen.  She hesitates, but he motions again, and she sits down.
" The relations between us are of an unfortunate description,
Lady Dedlock; but, as they are not of my making, I will not
apologize for them.  The position I hold in reference to Sir
Leicester is so well known to you, that I can hardly imagine but
that I must long have appeared in your eyes the natural person
to make this discovery."
"Sir," she returns, without looking up from the ground, on
which her eyes are now fixed.  "I had better have gone.  It
would have been far better not to have detained me. I have r.o
more to say."
" Excuse me, Lady Dedlock, if I add a little more to hear."
"I wish to hear it at the window, then.  I can't breatho
where I am."
His jealous glance as she walks that way, betrays an instant's
misgiving that she may have it in her thoughts to leap over, and




642                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
dashing against ledge and cornice, strike her life out upon the
terrace below. But a moment's observation of her figure as she
stands in the window without any support, looking out at the
stars-not up-gloomily out at those stars which are low in the
heavens-reassures him. By facing round as she has moved, hL
stands a little behind her.
" Lady Dedlock, I have not yet been able to come to a decision
satisfactory to myself, on the course before me. I am not clear
what to do, or how to act next.  I must request you, in the
mean time, to keep your secret as you have kept it so long, and
not to wonder that I keep it too."
He pauses, but she makes no reply.
"Pardon me, Lady Dedlock.  This is an important subject.
You are honoring me with your attention?"
"I am."
"Thank you. I might have known it, from what I have seen
of your strength of character.  I ought not to have asked the
question, but I have the habit of making sure of my ground, step
by step as I go on. The sole consideration in this unhappy case
is Sir Leicester."
"Then why," she asks in a low voice, and without removing
her gloomy look from those distant stars, "do you detain me in
his house?"
"Because he is the consideration.  Lady Dedlock, I have no
occasion to tell you that Sir Leicester is a very proud man; that
his reliance upon you is implicit; that the fall of that moon out
the sky, would not amaze him more than your fall from your
high position as his wife."
She breathes quickly and heavily, but she stands as unflinchingly as ever he has seen her in the midst of her grandest company.
"I declare to you, Lady Dedlock, that with any thing short of
this case that I have, I would as soon have hoped to root up, by
means of my own strength and my own hands, the oldest tree on
this estate, as to shake your hold upon Sir Leicester, and Sir Leicester's trust and confidence in you. And even now, with this
case, I hesitate. Not that he could doubt (that, even with him,
is impossible), but that nothing can prepare him for the blow."
"Not my flight?" she returned.  "Think of it again."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         643
"Your flight, Lady Dedlock, would spread the whole truth,
and a hundred times the whole truth, far and wide.  It would
be impossible to save the family credit for a day.  It is not to be
thought of."
There is a quiet decision in his reply, which admits of no renonstrance.
" When I speak of Sir Leicester being the sole consideration,
he and the family credit are one.  Sir Leicester and the baronetcy, Sir Leicester and Chesney Wold, Sir Leicester and his ancestors and his patrimony;" Mr. Tulkinghorn very dry here;
"are, I need not say to you, Lady Dedlock, inseparable."
"Go on!"
"Therefore," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, pursuing his case in his
jog-trot style, "I have much to consider.  This is to be hushed
up, if it can be.  How can it be, if Sir Leicester is driven out of
his wits, or laid upon a death-bed? If I inflicted this shock
upon him to-morrow morning, how could the immediate change
in him be accounted for?  What could have caused it?  What
could have divided you?  Lady Dedlock, the wall-chalking and
the street-crying would come on directly; and you are to rememr
ber that it would not affect you merely (whom I can not at all
consider in this business), but your husband Lady Dedlock, your
husband."
He gets plainer as he gets on, but not an atom more emphatic
or animated.
"There is another point of view," he continues, " in which
the case presents itself.  Sir Leicester is devoted to you almost
to infatuation. He might not be able to overcome that infatuation, even knowing what we know.  I am  putting an extreme
case, but it might be so. If so, it were better that he knew nothing.  Better for common sense, better for him, better for me.
I must take all this into account, and it combines to render a
decision very difficult."
She stands looking out at the same stars, without a word.
They are beginning to pale, and she looks as if their coldness
froze her.
" My experience teaches me," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who has
by this time got his hands in his pockets, and is going on in his
business consideration of the matter, like a machine.  " My ex



644                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
perience teaches me, Lady Dedlock, that most of the people I
Iknow would do far better to leave marriage alone.  It is at the
bottom of three-fourths of their troubles. So I thought when
Sir Leicester married, and so I always have thought since. No
more about that. I must now be guided by circumstances. In
the mean while I must beg you to keep your own counsel, and I
will keep mine."
"I am to drag my present life on, holding its pains at your
pleasure, day by day?" she asks, still looking at the distant sky.
"Yes, I am afraid so, Lady Dedlock."
"It is necessary, you think, that I should be tied so to the
stake?"
"I am sure that what I recommend is necessary."
" I am to remain upon this gaudy platform, on which my miserable deception has been so long acted, and it is to fall beneath
me when you give the signal?" she says slowly.
"Not without notice, Lady Dedlock.  I shall take rio step
without forewarning you."
She asks all her questions as if she were repeating them from
mnemory, or calling them over in her sleep.
" We are to meet as usual?"
"Precisely as usual, if you please."
"And I am  to hide my guilt,' as I have done so many
years?"
" As you have done so many years. I should not have made
that reference myself, Lady Dedlock, but I may now remind you
that your secret can be no heavier to you than it was, and is no
worse and no better than it was. I know it certainly, but I believe we have never wholly trusted each other."
She stands absorbed in the same frozen way for some little
time, before asking:
" Is there any thing more to be said to-night?"
"Why," Mr. Tulkinghorn returns methodically, as he softly
rubs his hands, " I should like to be assured of your acquiescence
in my arrangements, Lady Dedlock."
" You may be assured of it."
" Good. And I would wish in conclusion to remind you, as a
business precaution, in case it should be necessary to recall the
fact in any communication with Sir Leicester, that throughout




BLEAK HOUSE.                         645
our interview I have expressly stated my sole consideration to be
Sir Leicester's feelings and honor, and the family reputation.  I
should have been happy to have made Lady Dedlock a prominent consideration too, if the case had admitted of it; but unfortunately it does not."
"I can attest your fidelity, sir."
Both before and after saying it, she remains absorbed; but at
length moves, and turns, unshaken in her natural and acquired
presence, toward the door.  Mr. Tulkinghorn opens both the
doors exactly as he would have done yesterday, or as he would
have done ten years ago, and makes his old-fashioned bow as she
passes out. It is not an ordinary look that he receives from the
handsome face as it goes into the darkness, and it is not an ordinary movement, though a very slight one, that acknowledges his
courtesy. But, as he reflects when he is left alone, the woman
has been putting no common constraint upon herself.
He would know it all the better, if he saw the woman pacing
her own rooms with her hair wildly thrown from her flung back
face, her hands clasped behind her head,, her figure twisted as if
~by pain.  He would think so all the more, if he saw the womanl
thus hurrying up and down for hours, without fatigue, without
intermission, followed by the faithful step upon the Ghost's Walk.
But he shuts out the now chilled air, draws the window-curtain,
goes to bed, and falls asleep.  And truly when the stars go out
and the wan day peeps into the turret chamber, finding him at
his oldest, he looks as if the digger and the spade were both commissioned, and would soon be digging.
The same wan day peeps in at Sir Leicester pardoning the
repentant country in a majestically condescending dream; alnd
at the cousins entering on various public employments, principally
receipt of salary; and at the chaste Volumnia, bestowing a dower
of fifty thousand pounds upon a hideous old General, with a
mouth of false teeth like a piano-forte too fill of keys, long the
admiration of Bath and.the terror of every other community.
Also into rooms high in the roof, and into offices in court-yards
and over stables, where humbler ambition dreams of bliss in
keeper's lodges, and in holy matrimony with Will or Sally.  JUp
comes the bright sun, drawing every thing up with it —the Wills
and Sallys, the latent vapor in the earth, the drooping leaves




646                 BLEAK  HOIfSE.
and flowers, the birds and beasts and creeping things, the gardeners to sweep the dewy turf and unfold emerald velvet where
the roller passes, the smoke of the great kitchen fire wreathing
itself straight and high into the lightsome air. Lastly up comes
the flag over Mr. Tulkinghorn's unconscious head, cheerfully
proclaiming that Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock are in their
happy home, and that there is hospitality at the place in Lincolnshire.




CHAPTER XLII.
IN MR. TULKINGHORN'S CHAMBERS.
FROM the verdant undulations and the spreading oaks of the
Dedlock property, Mr. Tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale
heat and dust of London.' His manner of coming and going between the two places, is one of his impenetrabilities. He walks
into Chesney Wold as if it were next door to his chambers, and
returns to his chambers as if he had never been out of Lincoln's
Inn Fields. He neither changes his dress before the journey, nor
talks of it afterward. He melted out of his turret-room this morning, just as now, in the late twilight, he melts into his own square.
Like a dingy London bird among the birds at roost in these
pleasant fields, where the sheep are all made into parchment,
the goats into wigs, and the pasture into chaff, the Lawyer
smoke-dried and faded, dwelling among mankind but not consorting with them, aged without experience of genial youth, and so
long used to make his cramped nest in holes and corners of human nature that he has forgotten its broader and better range,
comes sauntering home. In the oven made by the hot pavements and hot buildings, he has baked himself dryer than usual;
and he has, in his thirsty mind, his mellowed Port wine half a
century old.
The lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on Mr.
Tulkinghorn's side of the Fields, when that high-priest of noble
mysteries arrives at his own dull court-yard.  He ascends the
door steps and is gliding into the dusky hall, when he encounters
on the top step, a bowing and propitiatory little man.
" Is that Snagsby?"
"Yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir. I was just giving you up,
sir, and going home."
" Ay? What is it? What do you want with me?"
"Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his
(647)




648                  BLEAK HOUSE.
head, in his deifrence toward his best customer.  "I was wishfull to say a word to you, sir."
"Can you say it here?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"Say it then."  The lawyer turns, leans his arm on the iron
railing at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamp-lighter
lighting the court-yard.
"It is relating," says Mr. Snagsby, in a mysterious low voice:
"it is relating-not to put too fine a point upon it-to the foreigner, sir."
Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise.  "What foreigner?"
"The foreign female, sir.  French, if I don't mistake?  I am
not acquainted with that language myself, but I should judge
from her manners and appearance that she was French: anyways, certainly foreign.  Her that was up stairs, sir, when Mr.
Bucket and me had the honor of waiting upon you with the
sweeping-boy that night."
" Oh! yes, yes.  Mademoiselle Hortense."
" Indeed, sir?"  Mr. Snagsby coughs his cough of submission
behind his hat.  "I am not acquainted myself with the names
of foreigners in general, but I have no doubt it would be that."
Mr. Snagsby appears to have set out in this reply with some
desperate design of repeating the name; but on reflection coughs
again to excuse himself.
"And what can you have to say, Snagsby," demands Mr.
Tulkinghorn, " about her?"
"Well, sir," returns the stationer, shading his communication
with his hat, " it falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happiness is very great-at least it's as great as can be expected, I'm
sure-but my little woman is-rather given to jealousy.  Not to
put too fine a point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy.
And you see, a foreign female of that.genteel appearance coming
into the shop. and hovering-I should be the last to make use of
a strong expression, if I could avoid it, but hovering, sir-in the
court-you know it is-now an't it?  I only put it to yourself,
sir."
Mr. Snagsby having said this in a very plaintive manner,
throws in a cough of general application to fill up all the blanks.




BLEAK HOUSE.                         649
"Why, what do you mean?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.
"Just so, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby; "I was sure you would
feel it yourself, and would excuse the reasonableness of my feelings when coupled with the known excitableness of my little
woman.  You see, the foreign female-which you mentioned her
name just now, with quite a native sound, I am sure-caught up
the word Snagsby that night, being uncommon quick, and made
inquiry, and got the direction, and come at dinner-time. Now
Guster, our young woman, is timid and has fits, and she, taking
fright at the foreigner's looks-which are fierce-and at a grinding mainner that she has cf speaking-which is calculated to
alarm  a weak mind-gave way to it, instead of bearing up
against it, and tumbled down the kitchen stairs out of one into
another, such fits as I do sometimes thinl are never gone into, or
come out of, in any house but ours. Consequently ther6 was by
good fortune ample occupation for my little woman, and only me
to answer the shop.  When she did say that Mr. Tulkinghorn,
being always denied to her by his employer (which I had no
doubts at the time was a foreign mode of viewing a clerk), she
would do herself the pleasure of continually calling at my place
until she was let in here.  Since then she has been, as I began
by saying, hovering-hovering, sir," Mr. Snagsby repeats the
word with pathetic emphasis " in the court.  The eflects of which
movement it is impossible to calculate.  I shouldn't wonder if it
might have already given rise to the painfilest mistakes even in
the neighbors' minds, not mentioning (if such a thing was possible) my little woman.  Whereas, Goodness knows," says Mr.
Snagsby, shaking his head, "I never had an idea of a foreign
female, except as being formerly connected with a bunch of
brooms and a baby, or at the present time with a tambourine and
ear-rings. I never had, I do assure you, sir!"
Mr. Tulkinghorn has listened gravely to this complaint, and
inquires, when the stationer has finished, " And that's all, is it,
Snagsby?"
"Why yes, sir, that's all," says Mr. Snagsby, ending with a
cough, that plainly adds, " and it's enough too-for me."
" I don't know what Mademoiselle Hortense may want or
mean, unless she is mad," says the lawyer.
"Even if she was, you know, sir," Mr. Snagsby pleads, "it




650                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
would(l't be a consolation to have some weapon or another in
the fbrm of a foreign dagger, planted in the family."
"No," says the other.  " Well, well! This shall be stopped.
I am sorry you have been inconvenienced. If she comes again,
send her here"
Mr. Snagsby, with much bowing and short apologetic coughing,
takes his leave, lightened in heart. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes upstairs, saying to himself, "These women were created to give
trouble, the whole earth over. The mistress not being enough
to deal with, here's the maid now! But I will be short with
this jade, at least!"
So saying, he unlocks his door, gropes his way into his murky
rooms, lights his candles, and looks about him. It is too dark to
see much of allegory over-head there; but that importunate
Roman who is for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointing,
is at his old work pretty distinctly. Not honoring him with
much attention, Mr. Tulkinghorn takes a small key from his
pocket, unlocks a drawer in which there is another key, which
unlocks a chest in which there is another, and so comes to the
cellar-key, with which he prepares to descend to the regions of
old wine.  He is going toward the door with a candle in his
hand, when a knock comes.
"Who's this? —Ay, ay, Mistress, it's you, is it?  You appear
at a good time.  I have just been hearing of you.  Now! What
do you want?"
He stands the candle on the chimney-piece, in the clerks' hall,
and taps his dry cheek with the key, as he'addresses these words
of welcome to Mademoiselle Hortense.  That feline personage,
with her lips tightly shut, and her eyes looking out at him sideways, softly closes the door before replying.
" I have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir."
"Have you?"
"I have been here very often, sir. It has always been said to
me, he is not at home, he is engage, he is this, he is that, he is
not for you."
" Quite right, and quite true."
"Not true. Lies!"
At times, there is a suddenness in the manner of Mademoiselle
Hortense so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it, that such




BLEAK HOUSE.                        651
subject involuntarily starts and falls back.  It is Mr. Tulking
horn's case at present, though Mademoiselle Hortense, with hei
eyes almost shut up (but still looking, out sideways), is only smiling contemptuously and shaking her head.
"Now, Mistress," says the lawyer, tapping the key hastily
upon the chimney-piece.  "If you have any thing to say, say it,
say it."
"Sir, you have not use me well. You have been mean and
shabby."
"Mean and shabby, eh?" returns the lawyer, rubbing his
nose with the key.
"Yes. What is it that I tell you? You know you have. You
have attrapped me-catched me-to give you information: you
have asked me to show you the dress of mine my Lady muss
have wore that night, you have prayed me to come in it here to
meet that boy-Say! Is it not?"  Mademoiselle Hortense makes
another spring.
"You are a vixen, a vixen!"  Mr. Tulkinghorn seelns to
meditate, as he looks distrustfully at her; then he replies, " Well
wench, well. I paid you."
"You paid me!" she repeats, with fierce disdain.  "Two
sovereign! I have not change them, I ref-use them, I des-pise
them, I throw them from me!" Which she literally does, taking
them out of her bosom as she speaks, and flinging them with such
violence on the floor, that they jerk up again into the light before
they roll away into corners, and slowly settle down there after spinning vehemently.
"Now!" says Mademoiselle Hortense, darkening her large
eyes again.  "You have paid me?  Eh, my God, 0 yes?"
Mr. Tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key, while she entertains herself with a sarcastic laugh.
" You must be rich, my fair friend," he composedly observes,
"to throw money about in that way!"
" I am rich," she returns, " I am very rich in hate. I hate my
lady, of all my heart. You know that."
"Know it?  How should I know it?"
" Because you have known it perfectly, before you prayed me
to give you that information. Because you have known perfectly that I was en-r-r-r-raged!"  It appears impossible fui




652                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
Mademoiselle to roll the letter r sufficiently in this word, not
withstanding that she assists her energetic delivery, by clenching
both her hands, and setting all her teeth.
" Oh! I knew that, did I?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn, examining
the wards of the key.
"Yes, without doubt.  I am not blind.  Yop have made sure
of me because you knew that. You had reason! I det-est her."
Mademoiselle Hortense folds her arms, and throws this last re
mark at him over one of her shoulders.' Having said this, have you any thing else to say, Made.
moiselle?"
" I am not yet placed. Place me well. Find me a good condition! If you can not, or do not choose to do that, employ me
to pursue her, to chase her. to disgrace and to dishonor her. I
will help you well, and with a good-will. It is what you do.
Do I not know that?"
"You appear. to know a good deal," Mr. Tulkinghorn retorts.
"Do I not?  Is it that I am so weak as to believe, like a
child, that I come here in that dress to rec-eive that boy, only
to decide a little bet, a wager?-Eh, my God, 0 yes!" In this
reply, down to the word "wager" inclusive, Mademoiselle has
been ironically polite and tender; then, has suddenly dashed
into the bitterest and most defiant scorn>, with her black eyes in
one and the same moment very nearly shut, and staringly wide
open.
" Now, let us see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin
with the key, and looking imperturbably at her, "how this matter stands."
"Ah! Let us see," Mademoiselle assents, with many angry
and tight nods of her head.
"You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which
you have just stated, and it not being conceded, you will como
again."
"And again," says Mademoiselle, with more tight and angry
nods. "Anrd yet again. And yet again. And many times again.
In effect,.forever!"
"And not only here, but you will go to Mr. Snagsby's, too,
perhaps?  That visit not succeeding either, you will go again,
perhaps?"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         658
"And again," repeats Mademoiselle, cataleptic witn determination.  " And yet again.  And yet again.  And many times
again. In effect, forever."
"Very well.  Now, Mademoiselle Hoitense, let rme recormmend you to take the candle and pick up that money of yours.
I think you will find it behind the clerk's partition in the corner
yonder."
She merely throws a laugh over her shoulder, and stands her
ground with folded arms.
" You will not, eh?"
" No, I will not!"
"So much the poorer you; so much the richer I  Look, Mistress, this is the key of my wine-cellar. It is a large key, but
the keys of prisons are larger. In this city, there are houses of
correction (where the treadmills are, for women), the gates of
which are very strong and heavy, and no doubt the keys, too.
I am  afraid a lady of your spirit and activity would find it an
inconvenience to have one of those keys turned upon her for any
length of time. What do you think?"
" I think," Mademoiselle replies, without any action, and in a
clear, obliging voice, "that you are a miserable wretch."
"Probably," returns  ir. Tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his
nose.  "But I don't ask what you think of myself; I ask what
you think of the prison."
"Nothing.  What does it matter to me?"
"Why, it matters this much, Mistress," says the lawyer, deliberately putting away his handkerchief, and adjusting his frill,
" the law is so despotic here, that it interferes to prevent any of
our good English citizens from being troubled, even by a lady's
visits, against his desire.  And, on his complaining that he is so
troubled, it takes hold of the troublesome lady, and shuts her up
in prison under hard discipline.  Turns the key upon her, Mistress."  Illustrating with the cellar-key. 
Truly?" returns Mademoiselle, in the same pleasant vol.c
"That is droll! But-my faith!-still what does it matter to
me?'
" My fair friend," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "make another visit
here, or at Mr. Snagsby's, and you shall learn."
"In that case, you will send Me to the prison, perhaps?"




fit6;          BLEAK  HOUSE.
"Perhaps."
It would be contradictory for one in Mademoiselle's state of
agreeable jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish
expansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more would
make her do it.
" In a word, Mistress," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, " I am sorry to
be unpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here-or
there-again, I will give you over to the police. Their gallantry
is great, but they carry troublesome people through the streets
in an ignominious manner; strapped down on a board, my good
wench."
"I will prove you," whispers Mademoiselle, stretching out her
hand, "I will try if you dare to do it!"
" And if," pursues the lawyer, without minding her, "I place
you in that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be
some time before you find yourself at liberty again."
"I will prove you," repeats Mademoiselle, in her former
whisper.
" And now," proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her,
" you had better go. Think twice before you come here again."
" Think you," she answers, " twice two hundred times!"
" You were dismissed by your lady, you know," Mr. Tulkinghorn observes, following her out upon the staircase, "as the
most implacable and unmanageable of women.  Now turn over
a new leaf, and take warning by what I say to you. For what
I say, I mean; and what I threaten, I will do, Mistress."
She goes down without answering or looking behind her.
When she is gone, he goes down, too; and. returning with his
cobweb-covered bottle, devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment
of its contents: now and then, as he throws his head back in
his chair, catching sight of the pertinacious Roman pointing from
the ceiling.




CHAPTER XLIII.
ESTHER'S NARRATIVE.
IT matters little now how much I thought of my living mother
who had told me evermore to consider her dead.  I could not
venture to approach her, or to communicate with her in writing.
for my sense of the peril in which her life was passed was only
to be equaled by my fears of increasing it. Knowing that my
mere existence as a living creature was an unforeseen danger in
her way, I could not always conquer that terror of myself which
had seized me when I first knew the secret. At no time did I
dare to utter her name. I felt as if I did not even dare to hear
it. If the conversation any where, when I was present, took that
direction, as it sometimes naturally did, I tried not to hear-I
mentally counted, repeated something that I knew, or went out
of the room.  I am conscious, now, that I often did these things
when there can have been no danger of her being spoken of;
but I did them in the dread I had of hearing any thing that
might lead to her betrayal, and to her betrayal through me.
It matters little now how often I recalled the tones of my
mother's voice, wondered whether I should ever hear it again as
I so longed to do, and thought how strange and desolate it was
that it should be so new to me. It matters little that I watched
for every public mention of my mother's name; that I passed
and repassed the door of her house in town, loving it, but afraid
to look at it; that I once sat in the theatre when my mother
was there and saw me, and when we were so wide asunder, before the great company of al. degrees, that any link or confidence
between us felmed a disam. It is all, all over. My lot has been
io blest that I can relate little of myself which is not a story of
goodness and generosity in others.  I may well pass that little,
and go on
41                                           (655)




656                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
When we were settled at home again, Ada and I had many
conversations with my Guardian, of which Richard was the
theme. My dear girl was deeply grieved that he should do their
kind cousin so mu:ch wrong; but she was so faithfil to Richard,
that she could not bear to blame him, even for that. My Guardian was assured of it, and never coupled his name with a word
of reproof.  "Dick is mistaken, my dear," he would say to her.
" Well, well! we have all been mistaken over and over again.
We must trust to you and time to set him right."
We knew afterward what we suspected then; that he did not
trust to time until he had often tried to open Richard's eyes.
That he had written to him, gone to him, talked with him, tried
every gentle and persuasive art his kindness could devise. Our
poor devoted Richard was deaf and blind to all.  If he were
wrong, he would make amends when the chancery suit was
over.  If he were groping in the dark, he could not do better
than do his utmost to clear away those clouds in which so much
was confused and obscured.  Suspicion and misunderstanding
were the fault of the suit.  Then let him work the suit out, and
come through it to his right mind.  This was his unvarying
reply.  Jarndyce and Jarndyce had obtained such possession of
his whole nature, that it was impossible to place any consideration before him  which he did not -with a distorted kind of
reason-make a new argument in favor of his doing what he
did.  "So that it is even more mischievous," said my Guardian
once to me,  to remonstrate with the poor dear fellow, than to'cave him alone."
I took one of these opportunities of mentioning my doubts of
Mr. Skimpole as a good adviser for Richard.
"Adviser?" returned my Guardian, laughing.  "My dear,
who would advise with Skimpole?"
" Encourager would, perhaps, have been a. better word,"
said I.
"Encourager!" returned my Guardian again., "Who could
be encouraged by Skimpole?"
" Not Richard," said I.
" No," he replied.  " Such an unworldly, uncalculating, gossamer creature, is a relief to him, and an amusement.  But as
to advising or encouraging, or occupying a serlous station toward




BLEAK  HOUSE.                      G57
any body or any thing, it is simply not to be thought of in such
a child as Skimpole."
" Pray, Cousin John," said Ada, who had just joined us,
and now looked over my shoulder, "what made him such a
child?"
"What made him such a child?" inquired my Guardian, rubbing his head, a little at a loss.
"Yes, Cousin John."
"Why," he slowly replied, roughening his head more and more,
"he is all sentiment, and-and susceptibility, and-and sensibility-and-and ilnagilation. And these qualities are not regulated in him, somehow. I suppose the people who admired him
for them in his youth, attached too much importance to them,
and too little to any training that would have balanced and
adjusted them; and so he became what he is. Hey!" said my
Guardian, stopping short, and looking at us hopefully.  "What
do you think, you two?"
Ada, glancing at me, said she thought it was a pity he should
be an expense to Richard.
"So it is, so it is," returned my Guardian, hurriedly. " That
must not be. We must arrange that. I must prevent it. That
will never do."
And I said I thought it was to be regretted that he had ever
introduced Richard to Mr. Vholes, for a present of five pounds.
"Did he?" said my Guardian, with a passing shade of vexation on his face.  "But there you have the man. There you
have the man! There is nothing mercenary in that, with him.
He has no idea of the value of money. He introduces Rick; and
then he is good friends with Mr. Vholes, and borrows five pounds
of him. He means nothing by it, and thinks nothing of it. He
told you himself, I'll be bound, my dear?"
"0 yes!" said I.
"Exactly!" cried my Guardian, quite triumphant.  "There
you have the man! If he had meant any harm by it, or was
conscious of any harm in it, he wouldn't tell it. He tells it as
he does it, in mere simplicity. But you shall see him in his own
home, and then you'll understand him bette:-.  We must pay a
visit to Harold Skimpole, and caution him on these points. Lord
bless you, my dears, an infant, an infiant'"




658                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
In pursuance of this plan, we went into London or an early
day, and presented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole's door.
He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, whert
there were at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking about in cloaks, smoking little paper cigars. Whether he was
a better tenant than one might have supposed, in consequence of
his friend Somebody always paying his rent at last, or whether
his inaptitude for business rendered it particularly difficult to turn
him out, I don't know; but he had occupied the same house some
years. It was in a state of dilapidation quite equal to our expect
ation.  Two or three of the area railings were gone; the waterbutt was broken; the knocker was loose; the bell-handle had been
pulled off a long time, to judge from the rusty state of the wire;
and dirty footprints on the steps were the only signs of its being
inhabited.
A slatternly full-blown girl, who seemed to be bursting out at
the rents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes, like an overripe berry, answered our knock by opening the door a very little
way, and stopping up the gap with her figure. As she knew Mr.
Jarndyce (indeed Ada and I both thought that she evidently associated him with the receipt of her wages), she immediately relented and allowed us to pass in.  The lock of the door being in
a disabled condition, she then applied herself to securing it with
the chain which was not in good action either, and said would
we go up-stairs?
We went up-stairs to the first floor, still seeing no other furniture
than the dirty footprints. Mr. Jarndyce, without further ceremony,
entered a room there, and we followed. It was dingy enough, and
not at all clean; but furnished with an odd kind of shabby luxury,
with a large footstool, a sofa, and plenty of cushins, an easy chair,
and plenty of pillows, a piano, books, drawing materials, music,
newspapers, and a few sketches and pictures. A broken pane of
glass in one of the dirty windows, was papered and watered over;
but there was a little plate of hot-house nectarines on the table,
and there was another of grapes, and another of sponge-cakes, and
there was a bottle of light wine.  Mr. Skimpole himself reclined
upon the sofa, in a dressing-gown, drinking some fragrant coflee
from an old China cup-it was then about mid-day-and looking
at a collection of wall-flowers in the balcony.




bLEAK  HOUSE.                        659
Ile was not in the least disconcerted by our appearance, but
rose and received us in his usual airy manner.
"Here I am, you see!" he said, when we were seated: not
without some little difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being
broken. "Here I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some nmen
want legs of beef and mutton for breakfast; I don't.  Give me
my peach, my cup of coffee, and my claret; I am content. I
don't want them for themselves, but they remind me of the sun.
There's nothing solar about legs of beef and mutton.  Mere animal satisfaction!"
" This is our friend's room, sanctum, studio," said my Guardian to us.
" Yes," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his bright face about, "this
is the bird's cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. They
pluck his feathers now and then, and clip his wings; but he
sings, he sings!"
He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, " he
sings! Not an ambitious note, but still he sings."
"These are very fine," said my Guardian.  "A present?"
"No," he answered.  "No! Some amiable gardener sells
them.  His man wanted to know, when he brought them  last
evening, whether he should wait for the money.'Really, my
friend,' I said,' I think not-if your time is of any value to you.'
I suppose it was, for he went away."
My Guardian looked at us with a smile, as'Sough he asked
us, " is it possible to be worldly with this baby?"
" This is a day," said Mr. Skimpole, gayly taking a little claret
in a tumbler, " that will ever be remembered here. We shall call
it the Saint Clare and Saint Summerson day. You must see my
daughters.  I have a blue-eyed daughter who is my Beauty
daughter, I have a Sentiment daughter, and I have a Comedy
daughter.  You must see them all.  They'll be enchanted."
He was going to summon them, when my Guardian interposed,
and asked him to pause a moment, as he wished to say a word to
him first. " My dear Jarndyce," he cheerfully replied, going back
to his sofa, "as many moments as you please. Time is no object here. We never know what o'clock it is, and we never care.
Not the way to get on in life, you'll tell me?  Certainly.  Bui
we dol't get on in life. We din't preteiid to do it."




6t(0                BLEAK  HOUSE.
My Guardian looked at us again, plainly saying, "You hear
him?"
" Now, Harold," he began, " the word I have to say, relates to
Rick."
" The dearest friend I have!" returned Mr. Skimpole, cordially.
"I suppose he ought not to be my dearest friend, as he is not on
terms with you.  But he is, I can't help it; he is full of youthful poetry, and I love him.  If you don't like it, I can't help it.
I love him."
The engaging frankness with which he made this declaration,
really had a disinterested appearance, and captivated my Guardian; if not, for the moment, Ada too.
" You are welcome to love him as much as you like," returned
Mr. Jarndyce, " but we must save his pocket, Harold."
"Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole. "His pocket? Now, you are coming to what I don't understand." Taking a little more claret, and
dipping one of the cakes in it, he shook his head, and smiled at
Ada and me with an ingenuous foreboding that he never could
be made to understand.
"If you go with him here or there," said my Guardian, plainly,
".you must not let him pay for both."
"My.dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, his genial face
irradiated by the comicality of this idea, " what am I to do? If
he takes me any where, I must go.  And how can I pay?  I
never have any money.  If I had any money, I don't know any
thing about it.  Suppose I say to a man, how much?  Suppose
the man says to me, seven and sixpence? I know nothing about
seven and sixpence. It is impossible for me to pursue the sub
ject, with any consideration for the inan.  I don't go about ask
ing busy people what seven and sixpence is in Moorish-which I
don't understand.  Why should I go about asking them what
seven and sixpence is in Money-which I don't understand?"
"Well," said my Guardian, by no means displeased with this
artless reply, " if you come to any kind of journeying with Rick,
you must borrow the money of me (never breathing the least allusion to that circumstance), and leave the calculation to him."
"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, " I will do any
thing to give you pleasure, but it seems an idle form —  superstition.  Besides, I give you my word, Miss Clare and my dear Miss




BLEAK  HOUSE,.                        661
Summerson, I thought Mr. Carstone was immnensely rich.  1
thought he had only to make over somethin-g, or to sign a bond.
or a draft, or a check, or a bill, or to put something on a file
somewhere, to bring down a shower of money."
"Indeed it is not so, sir," said Ada.  "He is poor."
"No, really?" returned Mr. Skimpole, with his bright snile,
"you surprise me."
" Arid not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed," said
ny Guardian, laying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of Mr.
Skimpole's dressing-gown, " be you very careful not to encourage
him in that reliance, Harold."
" My dear good friend," returned Mr. Skimpole, " and my dear
Miss Summerson, and my dear Miss Clare, how can I do that?
It's business, and I don't know business. It is he who encourages me.  He emerges from great feats of business, presents the
brightest prospects before me as their results, and calls upon me
to admire them.  I do admire them-as bright prospects.  But
I know no more about them, and I tell him so."
The helpless kind of candor with which he presented this before us, the light-hearted manner in which he was amused by his
innocence, the fantastic way in which he took himself under his
own protection and argued about that curious person, combined
with the delightful ease of every thing he said exactly to make
out my Guardian's case. The more I saw of him, the more un
likely it seemed to me, when he was present, that he could design,
conceal, or influence any thing; and yet the less likely that appeared when he was not present, and the less agreeable it was
to think of his having any thing to do with any one for whom I
cared.
Hearing that his examination (as he called it) was now over,
Mr. Skimpole left the room  with a radiant face to fetch his
daughters (his sons had run away at various times), leaving my
Guardian quite delighted by the manner'in which he had vindicated his childish character. He soon came back, bringing with
him the three young ladies and Mrs. Skimpole, whp had once
been a beauty, but was now a delicate high-nosed invalid sufftring under a complication of disorders.
"This," said Mr. Skimpole, " is my Beauty daughter, Julieta remembrance of Shakspeare-plays and sings odds and ends




662                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
like her father.  This is my Sentiment daugl.ter, Laura-a reinembrance of Petrarch-plays a little, but don't sing.  This is
my Comedy daughter, Susannah-a remembrance of Beaumarchais-sings a little, but don't play.  We all draw a little, and
compose a little, and none of us have any idea of time or money."
Mrs. Skimpole sighed, I thought,, as if she would have been
glad to strike out this item in the family attainments. I also
thought that she rather impressed her sigh upon my Guardian,
and that she took every opportunity of throwing in another.
"It is pleasant," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his sprightly eyes
from one to the other of us, " and it is whimsically interesting, to
trace peculiarities in families. In this family we are all children,
and I am the youngest."
The daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were
amused by this droll fact; particularly the Comedy daughter.
My dears, it is true," said Mr. Skimpole, " is it not?  So it
is, and so it must be, because, like the dogs in the hymn,' it is
our nature to.' Now, here is Miss Summerson with a fine administrative capacity, and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising.  It will sound very strange in Miss Summerson's ears, I
dare say, that we know nothing about chops in this house. But
we don't; not the least.  We can't cook any thing whatever.
A needle and thread we don't know how to use.  We admire
the people who possess the practical wisdom we want; but we
don't quarrel with them.  Then why should they quarrel with
us?  Live, and let live, we say to them.  Live upon your prao
tical wisdom, and let us live upon you!"
He laughed, but, as usual, seemed quite candid, and really to
mean what he said.
"We have sympathy, my roses," said Mr. Skimpole, "sympathy, for every thing.  Have we not?"
0"  yes, papa!" cried the three daughters.
" In fact, that is our family department," said Mr. Skimpole,
" in this hurly-burly of life. We are capable of looking on and of
being interested, and we do look on and we are interested.  What
more can we do! Here is my Beauty daughter, married these
three years. Now, I dare say her marrying another child. and
having two more, was all very wrong in point of political economy; but it was very agreeable.  We had our little fist!vities oil




BLEAK  HOUSE.                      663
those occasions, and exchanged social ideas.  She brought her
young husband home one day, and they and their young fledgelings have their nest up-stairs.  I dare say, at some time or other,
Sentiment and Comedy will bring their husbands home, and have
their nests up-stairs too.  So we get on; we don't know how, but
somehow."
She looked very young indeed, to be the mother of two children; and I could not help pitying both her and them. It was
evident that the three daughters had grown up as they could, and
had had just as little hap-hazard instruction as qualified them to
be their father's playthings in his idlest hours.  His pictorial
tastes were consulted, I observed, in their respective styles of
wearing their hair; the Beauty daughter being in the classic
manner; the Sentiment daughter luxuriant and flowing; and
the Comedy daughter in the arch style, with a good deal of
sprightly forehead, and vivacious little curls dotted about tho
corners of her eyes. They were dressed to correspond, though in
a most untidy and negligent way.
Ada and I conversed with these young ladies, and found them
wonderfully like their father. In the mean while Mr. Jarndyce
(who had been rubbing his head to a great extent, and hinting at
a change in the wind) talked with Mrs. Skimpole in a corner,
where we could not help hearing the chink of money. Mr. Skimpole had previously volunteered to go home with us, and had
withdrawn to dress for the purpose.''My roses," he said, when he came back, "take care of
mamma.  She is poorly to-day.  By going home with Mr.
Jarndyce for a day or two, I shall hear the larks sing, and preserve my amiability. It has been tried, you know, and would
be tried again if I remained at home."
" That bad man!" said the Comedy daughter.
"At the very time when he knew papa was lying down by
his wall-flowers, looking at the blue sky," Laura complained.
"And when the smell of hay was in the air!" said Juliet'
" It showed a want of poetry in the man," Mr. Skimpole assented; but with perfect good-humor.  "It was coarse.  There
was an absence of the finer touches of humanity in it!  My
daughters have taken great offense," he explained to us,' at an
honest man-"




664                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
"Not honest, Papa.  Impossible!" they all three protested.
"At a rough kind of fellow-a sort of human hedge-hog rolled
up," said Mr. Skimpole, " who is a baker in this neighborhood,
and from whom we borrowed a couple of arm-chairs.  We wanted a couple of arm-chairs, and we hadn't got them, and therefore
of course we looked to a man who had got them, to lend them.
Welll  this morose person lent them, and we wore them out.
When they were worn out, he wanted them  back.  HIe had
them back.  He was contented, you will say.  Not at all. He
objected to their being worn.  I reasoned with him, and pointed
out his mistake.  I said,' Can you, at your tine of life, be so
headstrong, my friend, as to persist that an arm-chair is a thing
to put upon a shelf and look at?  That it is an object to contemplate, to survey from a distance, to consider fiom a point of
sight?  Don't you know that these arm-chairs were borrowed to
he sat upon?'  He was unreasonable and unpersuadable, and
used intemperate language. Being as patient as I am at this
minute, I addressed another appeal to him.  I said,'Now, my
good man, however our business capacities may vary, we are all
children of one great mother, Nature.  On this blooming summer morning here you see me' (I was on the sofa)' with flowers
before me, fruit upon the table, the cloudless sky above me, the
air full of fragrance, contemplating Nature.  I entreat you, by
our common brotherhood, not to interpose between me and a
subject so sublime, the absurd figure of an angry baker!' But
he did," said Mr. Skimpole, raising his laughing eyebrows in
playful astonishment, " he did interpose that ridiculous figure,
and he does, and he will again. And therefore I am very glad
to get out of his way, and to go home with my friend Jarndyce."
It seemed to escape his consideration that Mrs. Skimpole and
the daughters remained behind to encounter the baker; but this
was so old a story to all of them that it had become a matter
of course. He took leave of his family with a tenderness as airy
and graceful as any other aspect in which he showed himself,
and rode away with us in perfect harmony of mind.  We had
an opportunity of seeing through some open doors, as we went
down-stairs, that his own apartment was a palace to the rest of
the house.
I could have no anticipation, and I had none, that something




,,~~~~~"
SIR. EICESTER DEIOCK.








BLEAK  HOUSE.                       665
very startling to me at the moment, and ever memorable to me
in what ensued from it, was to happen before this day was out.
Our guest was in such spirits on the way home, that I could do
nothing but listen to him and wonder at him; nor was I alone
in this, for Ada yielded to the same fascination. As to my
Guardian, the wind, which had threatened to become fixed in
the east when we left Somer's Town, veered completely round,
before we were a couple of miles from it.
Whether of questionable childishness or not,. in any other matters, Mr. Skimpole had a child's enjoyment of change and bright
weather. In no way wearied by his sallies on the road, he was
in the drawing-room before any of us; and I heard him at the
piano while I was yet looking after my house-keeping, singing
refrains of barcaroles and drinking songs, Italian and German, by
the score.
We were all assembled shortly before dinner, and he was still
at the piano, idly picking out in his luxurious way little strains
of music, and talking between whiles of finishing some sketches
of the ruined old Verulam wall, to-morrow, which he had begun
a year or two ago and had got tired of; when a card was brought
in, and my Guardian read aloud in a surprised voice:
"Sir Leicester Dedlock!"
The visitor was in the room while it was yet turning round
with me,, and before I had the power to stir. If I had had it, I
should have hurried away. I had not even the presence of mind,
in my giddiness, to retire to Ada in the window, or to see the
window, or to know where it was. I heard my name, and found
that my Guardian was presenting me, before I could move to a
chair.
" Pray be seated, Sir Leicester."
" Mr. Jarndyce," said Sir Leicester in reply, as he bowed ant
seated himself, "I do myself the honor of calling here-"
" You do me the honor, Sir Leicester."
"Thank you-of calling here on my road from Lincolnshire,
to express my regret that any cause of complaint, however strong,
that I may have against a gentleman who-who is known to
you and has been your host, and to whom therefore, I will make
no farther reference, should. have prevented you, still more, ladies
under your escort and charge, firom seeing whatever little there




666                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
may be to gratify a polite and refined taste, at my house, Chesney
Wold."
"You are exceedingly obliging, Sir Leicester, and on behalf
of those ladies (who are present) and for myself, I thank you very
much."
" It is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that the gentleman to whom,
for the reasons I have mentioned I refrain from making further
allusion-it is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that that gentleman may
have done me the honor so far to misapprehend my character,
as to induce you to believe that you would not have been received by my local establishment in Lincolnshire with that
urbanity, that courtesy, which its members are instructed to
show to all ladies and gentlemen who present themselves at that
house.  I merely beg to observe, sir, that the fact is the reverse."
My Guardian delicately dismissed this remark without making
any verbal answer.
" It has given me pain, Mr. Jarndyce," Sir Leicester weightily
proceeded. "I assure you, sir, it has given-Me-pain-to learn
from the housekeeper at Chesney Wold, that a gentleman who
was in your company in that part of the county, and who would
appear to possess a cultivated taste for the Fine Arts, was likewise deterred, by some such cause, from examining the family
pictures with that leisure, that attention, that care, which he
might have desired to bestow upon them, and which some of
them might possibly have repaid."  Here he produced a card,
and read, with much gravity and a little trouble, through his
eye-glass, "Mr. Hirrold-Herald-Harold-Skampling-Skumpling-I beg your pardon-Skimpole."
"This is Mr. Harold Skiripole," said my Guardian, evidently
surprised.
"Oh!" exclaimed Sir Leicester, "I am happy to meet Mr.
Sk;inpole, and to have the opportunity of tendering my personal
regrets. I hope, sir, that when you again find yourself in my
part of the county, you will be under no similar sense of restraint."
"You are very obliging, Sir Leicester Dedlock.  So encouraged,
I shall certainly give myself the pleasure and advantage of' another visit to your beautiful house. The owners of such places
as ghesney Wold," said Mr. Skimpole wiwth his usual happy and




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        667
easy air, "are public benefactors.  They are good enough to
maintain a number of delightful objects for the admiration and
pleasure of us poor men; and not to reap all the admiration
and pleasure that they yield, is to be, ungrateful to our belnefactors."
Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this sentiment highly.  "An
artist, sir?"
"No," returned Mr. Skimpole.  "A perfectly idle man.  A
mere amateur."
Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this even more. He hoped
he might have the good fortune to be at Chesney Wold when
Mr. Skimrpole next came down into Lincolnshire.  Mr. Skimpole
professed himself much flattered and honored.
" Mr. Skimpole mentioned," pursued Sir Leicester, addressing
himself again to my Guardian;'' mentioned to the housekeeper,
who, as he may have observed, is an old and attached retainer
of the family-"
(" That is, when I walked through the house the other day, on
the occasion of my going down to visit Miss Summerson and Miss
Clare," Mr. Skimpole airily explained to us.)
"That the friend with whom he had formerly been staying
there, was Mr. Jarndyce."  Sir Leicester bowed to the bearer of
that name.  "And hence I became aware of the circumstance
for which I have professed my regret.  That this should have
occurred to any gentleman, Mr. Jarndyce, but especially a gentleman formerly known to Lady Dedlock, and indeed claiming some
distant connection with her, and for whom (as I learn from my
Lady herself) she entertains a high respect, does, I assurie you,
give-Me-pain."
" Pray say no more about it, Sir Leicester," returned my
Guardian.  "I am very sensible, as I am sure we all are, of your
consideration.  Indeed the mistake was mine, and I ought to
apologize for it."
I had not once looked up. I had not seen the visitor, and had
not even appeared to myself to hear the conversation.  It surprises me to find that I can recall it, for it seemed to make no
impression on me as it passed.  I heard them  speaking, but
my mind was so confused, and my instinctive avoidance of this
gentleman made his presence so distressing to me, that I thought




668                BLEAK  HOUSE.
I understood nothing, through the rushing in my head and the
beating of my heart.' I mentioned the subject to Lady Dedlock," said Sir Leicester,
rising, "and my Lady informed me that she had had the pleasure
of exchanging a few words with Mr. Jarndyce and his wards, on
the occasion of an accidental meeting during their sojourn in the
vicinity. Permit me, Mr. Jarndyce, to repeat to yourself, and to
these ladies, the assurance I have already tendered to Mr. Skimpole.  Circumstances undoubtedly prevent my saying that it
would afford me any gratification to hear that Mr.-Boythorn had
favored my house with his presence; but those circumstances are
confined to that gentleman himself, and do not extend beyond him."
"You know my old opinion of him," said Mr. Skimpole, lightly
appealing to us.  "An amiable bull, who is determined to make
every color scarlet!"
Sir Leicester Dedlock coughed, as if he could not possibly hear
another word in reference to such an individual; and took his
leave with great ceremony and politeness.  I got to my own room
with all possible speed, and remained there until I had recovered
my self-command: It had been very much disturbed; but I was
thankful to find, when I went down-stairs again, that they only
rallied me for having been shy and mute before the great Lincolnshire baronet.
By that time I had made up my mind that the period was
come when I must tell my Guardian what I knew.. The possibility of my being brought into contact with my mother, of my
being taken to her house-even of Mr. Skimpole's, however distantly associated with me, receiving kindnesses and obligations
from her husband-was so painful, that I felt I could no longer
guide myself without his assistance.
When we had retired for the night, and Ada and I had had
our usual talk in our pretty room, I went out at my door again,
and sought my Guardian among his books.  I knew he always
read at that hour; and as I drew near, I saw the light shining
out into the passage from his reading-lamp.
"May I come in, Guardian?"
" Srely, little woman.  What's the matter!"
"Nothing is the matter.  I thought I would like to take this
quiet time of saying a word to you about myself."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       669
He put a chair for me, shut his book, and put it by, and turned
his kind, attentive face toward me.  I could not help observing
that it wore that curious expression I had observed in it once before-on that night when he had said that he was in no trouble
which I could readily understand.
"What concerns you, fny dear Esther," said he "concerns us
all.  You can not be more ready to speak than I am to hear."'  know that. Guardian.  But I have such need of your advice
and support  0! you don't know how much need I have tonight."
He looked unprepared for my being so earnest, and even a
little alarmed.
"Or how anxious I have been to speak to you," said I, " ever
since the visitor was here to-day."
" The visitor, my dear! Sir Leicester Dedlock?"
" Yes."
He folded his arms, and sat looking at me with an air of the
profoundest astonishment, awaiting what I should say next.  I
did not know how to prepare him.
" Why, Esther," said he, breaking into a smile, " our visitor
and you are the two last persons on earth I should have thought
of connecting together!"
"   yes; Guardian, I know it. And I too, but a little while
ago."
The smile passed from his face, and he became graver than
before.  He crossed to the door to see that it was shut (but I had
seen to that), and resumed his seat before me.
"Guardian," said I, " do you remember, when we were overtaken by the thunderstorm, Lady Dedlock's speaking to you of
her sister?"
Of course.  Of course I do."
" And reminding you that she and her sister had differed; had'gone their several ways?' "
"Of course."
"Why did they separate, Guardian?"
His face quite altered as he looked at me.  "My child, what
questions are these! I never knew.  No one but themselves
ever did know, I believe.  Who could tell what the secrets of
those two handsome and proud women were! You have seen




670                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
Lady Dedlock.  If you had ever seen her sister, you would know
her to have been as resolute, and haughty as she."
" 0 Guardian, I have seen her many and many a time!"
" Seen her?"
He paused a little, biting his lip.  "Then, Esther, when you
spoke to me long ago of Boythorn, and when I told you that he
was all but married once, and that the lady did not die, but
died to him, and that that time had had its influence on his later
life-did you know it all, and know who the lady was?"
"No, Guardian," I returned, fearful of the light that dimly
broke upon me,  " Nor do I know yet."
" Lady Dedlock's sister."
" And why," I could scarcely ask him, " why, Guardian, pray
tell me why were they parted?"
" It was her act, and she kept its motives in her inflexible
heart. He afterward did conjecture (but it was mere conjecture),
that some injury which her haughty spirit had received in her
cause of quarrel with her sister, had wounded her beyond all
reason; but she wrote him that from the date of that letter, she
died to him-as in literal truth she did-and that the resolution
was exacted from her by her knowledge of his proud temper and
his strained sense of honor, which. were both her nature too. In
consideration for those master points in him, and even in consideration for themn in herself, she made the sacrifice, she said,
and would live in it and die in it. She did both, I fear: certainly he never saw her, never heard of her from that hour. Noq
did any one."
" O Guardian, what have I done!" I cried, giving way to my
grief; " what sorrow have I innocently caused!"
" You caused, Esther?"
"Yes, Guardian. Innocently, but most surely. That secluded
sister is my first remembrance."
" No, no!" he cried, starting.
"Yes. Guardian, yes! And her sister is my mother!"
I would have told him all my mother's letter, but he would
not hear it then.  He spoke so tenderly and wisely to me, and
he put so plainly before me all I had myself imperfectly thought
and hopecd in my better state of mind, that, penetrated as I had
been with fervent gratitude toward him through so many years,




ELEAK HOUSE.                        671
I believed I had never loved him so dearly, never thanked him
in my heart so fully, as I did that night.  And when he had
taken me to my room and kissed me at the door, and when at
last I lay down to sleep, my thought was how could I ever be
busy enough, how could I ever be good enough, how in my little
way could I ever hope to be forgtfrul evough of myself, devoted
enough to him, and useful enough to others, to show him  how
I blessed and honored him.
42




CHAPTER XLIV
THE LETTER AND THE ANSWER.
MY Guardian called me into his room next mornirg, and then
I told him  what had been left untold on the previous night.
There was nothing to be done, he said, but to keep the secret,
and to avoid another such encounter as that of yesterday.  He
understood my feeling, and entirely shared it. He charged himself even with restraining Mr. Skimpole from improving his opportunity.  One person, whom he need not name to me, it was
not now possible for him to advise or help. He wished it were;
but no such thing could be. If her mistrust of the lawyer whom
she had mentioned were well-founded, which he scarcely doubted,
he dreaded discovery. He knew something of him, both by sight
and by reputation, and it was certain that he was a dangerous
man.  Whatever happened, he repeatedly impressed upon me
with anxious affection and kindness, I was as innocent of, as himself; and as unable to influence.
"Nor do I understand," said he, " that any doubts tend toward
you, my dear.  Much suspicion may exist without that connection."
"With the lawyer," I returned.  "But two other persons have
come into my mind since I have been anxious."  Then I told
him all about Mr. Guppy, who I feared might have had his vague
surmises when I little understood his meaning, but in whose silence after our last interview I expressed perfect confidence."
" Well," said my Guardian.  " Then we may dismiss him for
the present. Who is the other?"
I called to his recollection the French maid, and the eager offer
of' herself she had made to me.
"Ha!" he returned thoughtfully, "that is a more alarming
person than the clerk. But after all, my dear, it was but seeking
for a new service.  She had seen you and Ada a little while, Le(672)




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         673
fore, and it was natural that you should come into her head. She
merely proposed herself for your maid, you know.  She did nothing more."
" Her manner was strange," said I.
" Yes, and her manner was strange when she took her shoes
off, and showed that cool relish for a walk that might have ended
in her death-bed," said my Guardian.  " It would be useless
self-distress and torment to reckon up such chances and possibilities. There are very few harmless circumstances that would
not seem  full of perilous meaning, so considered.  Be hopefill,
little woman.  You can be nothing better than yourself; be that,
through this knowledge, as you were before you had it. It is the
best you can do, for every body's sake.  I sharing the secret with
you —
" And lightening it, Guardian, so much," said I.
"-Will be attentive to what passes in that family, so far as
I can observe it from my distance.  And if the time should come
when I can stretch out a hand to render the least service to otei
whom it is better not to name even here, I will not fail to do it
for her dear daughter's sake."
I thanked him with my whole heart.  What could I ever do
but thank him! I was going out at the door, when he asked
me to stay a moment.  Quickly turning round, I saw that same
expression on his face again; and all at once, I don't know how,
it flashed upon me as a new and far off possibility that I understood it.
My dear Esther," said my Guardian, " I have long had something in my thoughts that I have wished to say to you."
"Indeed?"
"I have had some difficulty in approaching it, and I still have.
I should wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberately
considered.  Would you object to my writing it?"
Dear Guardian, how could I object to your writing any thing
for me to read?"
"Then see, my love," said he, with his cheery smile.; " am I
at this moment quite as plain and easy-do 1 seem as open, as
honest and old fashioned, as I am at any time?"
I answered, in all earnestness, " Q(uite."  With the strictest
truth, fir his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted




674                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
a minute), and his fine, sensible, cordial, sterling manner was
restored.
" Do I look as if I suppressed any thing, meant any thing but
what I said, had any reservation at all, no matter what?" said
he, witn his bright clear eyes on mine.
I answered most assuredly he did not.
" Can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on what I profess, Esther?"
" Most thoroughly," said I with my whole heart.
" My dear girl," returned my Guardian, " give me your hand."
He took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and, looking down into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithfulness of manner-the old protecting manner which had made
that house my home in a moment-said, "You have wrought
changes in me, little woman, since the winter day in the stage
coach.  First and last you have done me a world of good, since
that time."
"Ah, Guardian, what have you done for me since that time!"
" But," said he, " that is not to be remembered now."
" It never can be forgotten."' Yes, Esther," said he with a gentle seriousness, " it is to be
forgotten now; to be forgotten for a while. You are only to remember now that nothing can change me as you know me. Can
you feel quite assured of that, my dear?"
"I can, and I do," I said.
"That's much," he answered.  "That's every thing.  But 1
must not take that, at a word.  I will not write this something
in my thoughts, -until you have quite resolved within yourself that
nothing can change me as you know me.  If you doubt that in
the least degree I will never write it. If you are sure of that, on
good consideration, send Charley to me this night week-' for the
letter.' - But if you are not quite certain, never send. Mind, I
trust to your truth, in this thing as in every thing. If you are
not quite certain on that one point, never send!"
"Guardian," said I, " I am already certain.  I can no more oe
changed in that conviction, than you can be changed toward me.
I shall send Charley for the letter."
He shook my hand and said no more. Nor was any more said
ill reference to this conversation, either by him or me, through




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         675
the whole week.  When the appointed night came, I said to
Charley as soon as I was alone, "Go and knock at Mr. Jarndyce's door, Charley, and say you have come from me-' for the
letter.'"  Charley went up the stairs, and down the stairs, and
along the passages-the zig-zag way about the old-fashioned hcuse
seemed very long in my listening ears that night-and so came
back, along the passages, and down the stairs, and up the stairs,
and brought the letter.'Lay it on the table, Charley," said
I.  So Charley laid it on the table and went to bed, and I
sat looking at it without taking it up, thinking of many
things.
I began with my overshadowed childhood, and passed throulgh
those timid days to the heavy time when my aunt lay dead, withl
her resolute face so cold and set; and when I was more solitary
with Mrs. Rachael, than if I had had no one in the world to
speak to or to look at.  I passed to the altered days when I was
so blest as to find friends in all around me, and to be beloved.  I
came to the time when I first saw my dear girl, and was received
into that sisterly affection which was the grace and beauty of my
life.  I recalled the first bright gleam of welcome which had
shone out of those very windows upon our expectant faces on that
cold bright night, and which had never paled. I lived my happy
life there over again, I went through my illness and recovery, I
thought of myself so altered and of those around me so unchanged;
and all this happiness shone like a light, from one central figure,
represented before me by the letter on the table.
I opened it and read it.  It was so impressive in its love for
me, and' in the unselfish caution it gave me, and the consideration it showed for me in every word, that my eyes were too often
blinded to read much at a time.  But I read it through three
times, before I laid down. I had thought beforehand that I knew
its purport, and I did.  It asked me would I be the mistress of'
Bleak House.
It was not a love letter though it expressed so much love, but,
was written just as he would at any time have spoken to me.  I
saw his face, and heard his voice, and felt the influence of his
kind protecting manner, in every line.  It addressed me as if our
places were reversed: as if all the good deeds had been mine. and
a.ll the feelings they had awakened, his.  It dwelt on my being




676                 BLEAk  HOUSE.
young, and he past the prime of life; on his having attained a
ripe age, while I was a child; on his writing to me with a silvered head, and knowing all this so well as to set it in full before
me for mature deliberation.  It told me that I would gain nothing by such a marriage, and lose nothing by rejecting it; for
no new relation could enhance the tenderness in which he held
me, and whatever my decision was, he was certain it would be
right. But he had considered this step anew, since our late confidence, and had decided on taking it; if it only served to show
me, through one poor instance, that the whole world would readily
unite to falsify the stern prediction of my childhood.  I was the
last to know what happiness I could bestow upon him, but of
that he said no more; for I was always to remember that I owed
him  nothing, and that he was my debtor, and for very much.
He had often thought of our future; and, foreseeing that the time
must come, and fearing that it might come soon, when Ada (now
very nearly of age) would leave us, and when our present mode
of life must be broken up, had become accustomed to reflect on
this proposal. Thus he made it.  If I felt that I could ever give
him the best right he could have to be my protector, and if I felt
that I could happily and justly become the dear companion of his
remaining life, superior to all lighter chances and changes than
death, even then he could not have me bind myself irrevocably,
while this letter was yet so new to me; but, even then, I must
have ample time for reconsideration. In that case, or in the opposite case, let him be unchanged in his old relation, in his old
manner, in the old name by which I called him. And as to his
bright Dame Durden and little housekeeper, she would ever be
the same, he knew.
This was the substance of the letter; written throughout with
a justice and a dignity, as if he were indeed my responsible
Guardian, impartially representing the proposal of a friend against
whom in his integrity he stated the full case.
But he did not hint to me, that when I had been better-looking, he had had this same proceeding in his thoughts, and had
refrained from it.  That when my old face was gone from me,
and I had no attractions, he could love me just as well as in my
fairer days.  That the discovery of my birth gave him no shock.
That his generosity rose above my disfigurement, and my inheri



BLEAK  HOUSE.                       677
tance of shame.  That the more I stood in need of such fidelity,
the more firmly I might trust in him to the last.
But I knew it, I knew it well now. It came upon me as the
close of the benignant history I had been pursuing, and I felt that
I had but one thing to do. To devote my life to his happiness
was to thank him poorly, and what had I wished for the other
night but some new means of thanking him?
Still I cried very much; not only in the fullness of my heart
after reading the letter, not only in the strangeness of the prospect-for it was strange though I had expected the contentsbut as if something for which there was no name or distinct idea
were indefinitely lost to me. I was very happy, very thankful,
very hopeful; but I cried very much.
By-and-by I went to my old glass.  My eyes were red and
swollen, and I said, "0 Esther, Esther, can that be you!" I am
afraid the face in the glass was going to cry again at this reproach, but I held up my finger at it, and it stopped.,"' That is more like the composed look you comforted me with,
my dear, when you showed me such a change!" said I, beginning to let down my hair.  "When you are mistress of Bleak
House, you are to be as cheerful as a bird.  In fact, you are al
ways to be cheerful; so let us begin for once and for all."
I went on with my hair now, quite comfortably. I sobbed a
little still, bVt that was because I had been crying; not because
I was crying then.
"And so Esther; my dear, you are happy for life. Happy with
your best friends, happy in your old home, happy in the power
of doing a great deal of good, and happy in the undeserved love
of the best of men."
I thought, all at once, if my Guardian had married some one
else, how should I have felt, and what should I have done!
That would have been a change indeed. It presented my life in
such a new and blank form, that I rang my housekeeping keys
and gave them  a kiss before I laid them down in their basket
again.
Then I went on to think, as I dressed my hair before the glass,
how often had I considered within myself that the deep traces
of my illness, and the circumstances of my birth, were only new
reasons why I1 should be busy, busy, busyu-seful, amiable, sert




f78                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
viceable, in all honest unpretending ways. This was a good
time, to be sure, to sit down morbidly and cry! As to its seeming at all strange to me at first (if that were any excuse for crying, which it was not) that I was one day to be the mistress of
Bleak House, why should it seem strange? Other people had
thought of such things, if 1 had not. "Don't you remember, my
plain dear," I asked-myself, looking at the glass, "what Mrs.
Woodcourt said before those scars were there, about your marryingl "
Perhaps the name brought them to my remembrance.  The
dried remains of the flowers. It would be better not to keep
them now.  They had only been preserved in memory of some
thing wholly past and gone, but it would be better not to keep
them now.
They were in a book, and it happened to be in the next room
-our sitting-room, dividing Ada's chamber from mine. I took
a candle, and went softly in to fetch it from its shelf. After J
had it in my hand, I saw my beautiful darling, through the open
door, lying asleep, and I stole in to kiss her.
It was weak in me, I know, and I could have no reason for
crying; but I dropped a tear upon her dear face, and another.
and another. Weaker than that, I took the withered flowers
out, and put them for a moment to her lips. I thought about
her love for Richard; though, indeed, the flowers had nothing
to do with that.  Then I took them  into my own room, and
burned them at the candle, and they were dust in an instant.
On entering the breakfast-room next morning, I found my
Guardian just as usual; quite as frank, as open, and free. There
being not the least constraint in his manner, there was none (or
I think there was none) in mine. I was with him several times
in the course of the morning, in and out, when there was no one
there; and I thought it not unlikely that he might speak to me
about the letter; but he did not say a word.
So, on the next morning, and the next, and for at least a
week; over which time Mr. Skimpole prolonged his stay. I expected, every day, that my Guardian might speak to me about
the letter; but he never did.
I thought then, growing uneasy, that I ought to write an




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       679
answer.  I tried over and over again in my own room at night,
but I could not write an answer that at all began like a good
answer; so I thought each night I would wait one more day
And I waited seven more days, and he never said a word.
At last Mr. Skimpole having departed, we three were one
afternoon going out for a ride; and I being dressed before Ada,
and going down, came upon my Guardian, with his back toward
me, standing at the drawing-room window looking out.
He turned on my coming in, and said, smiling, "Ay, it's you,
little woman, is it?" and looked out again.
I had made up my, mind to speak to him now.  In short, I
come down on purpose.  "Guardian," I said, rather hesitating
and trembling, " when would you like to have the answer to the
letter Charley came for?"
" When it's ready, my dear," he replied.
" I think it is ready," said I.
" Is Charley to bring it?" he asked, pleasantly.
"No.  I have brought it myself, Guardian," I returned.
I put my two arms round his neck and kissed him; and he
said was this the mistress of Bleak House; and I said yes; and
it made no difference presently, and we all went out together,
and I said nothing to my precious pet about it.
EE




CHAPTER XLV
IN TRUST.
ONE morning when I had done jingling about with my baskets
of keys, as my beauty and I were walking round and round the
garden I happened to turn my eyes toward the house, and saw a
long thin shadow going in which looked like Mr. Vholes. Ada
had been telling me only that morning, of her hopes that Richard
might exhaust his ardor in the chancery suit by being so very
earnest in it; and therefore, not to damp my dear girl's spirits, I
said nothing about Mr. Vholes's shadow.
Presently came Charley, lightly winding among the bushes,
and tripping along the paths, as rosy and pretty as one of Flora's
attendants instead of my maid, saying, " 0, if you please, miss,
would you step and speak to Mr. Jarndyce!"
It was one of Charley's peculiarities, that whenever she was
charged with a message she always began to deliver it as soon
as she beheld, at any distance, the person for whom it was intended.  Therefore I saw Charley,. asking me in her usual form
of words, to " step and speak" to Mr. Jarndyce, long before I
heard her.  And when I did hear her, she had said it so often
that she was out of breath.
I told Ada I would make haste back. and inquired of Charley,
as we went in, whether there was not a gentleman with Mr.
Jarndyce?  To which Charley, whose grammar, I confess to
my shame, never did any credit to my educational powers, replied, " Yes, miss.  Him as come down in the country with Mr.
Richard."
A more complete contrast than my Guardian and Mr. Vholes,
I suppose there could not be.  I found them looking at one another across a table; the one so open, and the other so close; the
one so broad and upright, %nd the other so narrow and stooping;
(o8())




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        681
the one giving out what he had to say in such a rich, ringing
voice, and the other keeping it in in such a cold-blooded, gasping,
fish-like manner; that I thought I had never seen two people so
unmatched
" You know Mr. Vholes, my dear," said my Guardian.  Not
with the greatest urbanity, I must say.
Mr. Vholes rose, gloved and buttoned up as usual, and seated
himself again, just as he had seated himself beside Richard in
the gig. Not having Richard to look at, he looked straight before him.
" Mr. Vholes," said my Guardian, eying his black figure, as if
he were a bird of ill omen, " has brought an ugly report of our
most unfortunate Rick."  Laying a marked emphasis on most
unfortunate, as if the words were rather descriptive of his connection with Mr. Vholes.
I sat down between them; Mr. Vholes remained immovable,
except that he secretly picked at one of the red pimples on his
yellow face with his black glove.
"And as Rick and you are happily good friends, I should like
to know," said my Guardian, what you think, my dear.  Would
you be so good as to-as to speak up, Mr. Vholes?"
Doing any thing but that, Mr. Vholes observed:
"I have been saying that I have reason to know, Miss Summerson, as Mr. C.'s professional adviser, that Mr. C.'s circumstances are at the present moment in an embarrassed state.  Not
so much in point of amount, as owing to the peculiar and prcssing nature of liabilities Mr. C. has incurred, and the means he
has of liquidating or meeting the same. I have staved off many
little matters for Mr. C.; but there is a limit to staving off, and
we have reached it.  I have made some advances out of pocket
to accommodate these unpleasantnesses, but I necessarily look to
being repaid, for I do not pretend to be a man of capital, and I
have a father to support in the Vale of Taunton, besides striving
to realize some little independence for three dear girls at home.
My appreiension is, Mr. C.'s circumstances being such, lest it
should end in his obtaining leave to part with his commission;
which at all events is desirable to be made known to his connections."
Mr. Vholes, who had looked at me while speaking, here merged




682                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
into the silence he could hardly be skid to have broken, so stifled
was his tone; and looked before him again.
"Imagine the poor fellow without even his present resource,"
said my Guardian to me.  " Yet what can I do?  You know
him, Esther. He would never accept of help from me, now. To
oflBr it, or hint at it, would be to drive him to an extremity, if
nothing else did."
Mr. Yholes hereupon addressed me again.
" What Mr. Jarndyce remarks, miss, is no doubt the case, and
is the difficulty. I do not see that any thing is to be done. I
do not say that any thing is to be done. Far from it. I merely
come down here under the seal of confidence and mention it, in
order that every thing may be openly carried on, and that it
may not be said afterward that every thing was not'openly carried on. My wish is that every thing should be openly carried
on.  I desire to leave a good name behind me.  If I consulted
merely my own interests with Mr. C., I should not be here.  So
insurmountable, as you must well know, would be his objections.
This is not a professional attendance. This can be charged to
nobody.  I have no interest in it,. except as a member of society
and a father —and a son," said Mr. Vholes, who had nearly forgotten that point.
It appeared to us that Mr. Vholes said neither more nor less
than the truth, in intimating that he sought to divide the responsibility, such as it was, of knowing Richard's situation.  I
could only suggest that I should go down to Deal, where Richard was then stationed, and see him, and try if it were possible
to avert the worst. Without consulting Mr. Vholes on this point,
I took my Guardian aside to propose it. while Mr. Vholes gauntly
stalked to the fire, and warmed his funeral gloves.
The fatigue of the journey formed an immediate objection on
my Guardian's part; but as I saw he had no other, and as I was
only too happy to go, I got his consent. We had then merely to
dispose of Mr. Vholes.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Jarndyce, " Miss Summerson will communicate with Mr. Carstone, and we can only hope that his
position may be yet retrievable. You will allow me to order you
lunch after your journey, sir."
" I thank you, Mr. Jarndyce," said Mr. Vhcles, putting outhis




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        683
long black sleeve, to check the ringing of the bell, " not any.  I
thank you, no, not a morsel.  My digestion is much impaired,
and I am but a poor knife and fork at any time.  If I was to
partake of solid food at this period of the day, I don't know what
the consequences might be.  Every thing having been openly
carried on, sir, I will now with your permission take my leave."
"And I would that you could take your leave, and we could
all take our leave, Mr. Vholes," returned my Guardian, bitterly,
"of a Cause you know of."
Mr. Vholes, whose black dye was so deep from head to foot
that it had quite steamed before the fire, diffusing a very unpleasant perfume, made a short, one-sided inclination of his head
from the neck, and slowly shook it.
"We, whose ambition is to be looked upon in the light of
respectable practitioners, sir, can but put our shoulders to the,wheel.  We do it, sir.  At least, I do it myself; and I wish to
think well of my professional brethren, one and all.  You are
sensible of an obligation not to refer to me, miss, in communicating with Mr. C.?"
I said I would be careful not to do it.
" Just so, miss. Good-morning. Mr. Jahndyce, good-morning,
sir." Mr. Vholes put his dead glove, which scarcely seemed to
have any hand in it, on my fingers, and then on my Guardian's
fingers, and took his long, thin shadow away.  I thought of it
on the outside of the coach, passing over all the sunny landscape
between us and London, and chilling the seed in the ground as
it glided along.
Of course it became necessary to tell Ada where I was going,
and why I was going; and of course she was anxious and distressed. But she was too true to Richard. to say any thing but
words of pity and words of excuse; and in a more loving spirit
still-my dear, devoted girl!-she wrote him  a long letter, of
which 1 took charge.
Charley was to be my traveling companion, though I am sure
I wanted none, and would willingly have left her at home. We
all went to London that afternoon, and finding two places in the
mail, secured them. At our usual bed-time, Charley and I were
rolling away seaward, with the Kentish letters.
It was a night's journey in those coach times; but we had




684                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
the mail to ourselves, and did not find the night very tedious,
It/passed with me as I suppose it would with most people under
such circumstances.  At one while my journey looked hopeful,
and at another hopeless.  Now I thought that I should, do some
good, and now I wondered how I could ever have supposed so.
-Now it seemed one of the most reasonable things in the world
that I should have come, and now one of the most unreasonable.
In what state I should find Richard, what I should say to him,
and what he would say to me, occupied my mind by turns with
these two states of feeling; and the wheels seemed to play one
tune over and over again all night.
At last we came into the narrow streets of Deal; and very
gloomy they were, upon a raw misty morning.  The long flat
beach, with its little irregular houses, wooden and bricK, and its
litter of capstans, and great boats, and sheds, and bare upright
poles with tackle and blocks, and loose, gravelly, waste places,
overgrown with grass and weeds, wore as dull an appearance as
any place I ever saw. The sea was heaving under a thick white
fog; and nothing else was moving but a few early ropemakers,
who, with the yarn twisted round their bodies, looked as if, tired
of their present state of existence, they were spinning themselves
into cordage.
But when we got into a warm room in an excellent hotel, and
sat down, comfortably washed and dressed, to an early breakfast
(for it was too late to think of going to bed), Deal began to look
more cheerful.  Our little room was like a ship's cabin, and that
delighted Charley very much.  Then the fog began to rise like
a curtain; and numbers of ships, that we had had no idea were
near, appeared.  I don't know how many sail the waiter told us
were then lying in the Downs.  Some of these vessels were of
grand size: one was a large Indiaman, just come horne; and
when the sun shone through the clouds, making silvery pools in
the dark sea, the way in which these ships brightened, and shadowed, and changed, amid a bustle of boats putting off from Ihe
shore to them, and from them to the shore, and a general life
and motion in themselves and every thing around them, was
most beautiful.
The large Indiaman was our great attraction, because she had
come into the Downs in the night.  She was surrounded by




BLEAK  HOUSE                        685
boats; and we said how glad the people on board of her must be
to come ashore.'Charley was curious, too, about the voyage,
aid about the heat in India, and the serpents and the tigers;
and as she picked up such information much faster than gramnmar, I told her what I knew on those points. I told her, too,
how people in such voyages were sometimes wrecked and cast on
rocks, where they were saved by the intrepidity and humanity
of one man.
And Charley asking how that could be, I told her how we
knew at home of such a case.
I had thought of sending Richard a note, saying I was there,
but it seemed so much better to go to him without preparation.
As he lived in barracks I was a little doubtful whether this was
feasible, but wv  went out to reconnoitre.  Peeping in at the gate
of the barrack yard, we found every thing very quiet at that
time in the morning; and I asked a sergeant standing on the
guardhouse-steps, where he lived. He sent a man before to show
me, who went up some bare stairs, and knocked with his knuckles
at a door, and left us.
" Now then!" cried Richard, fiom within.  So I left Charley
in the little passage, and going on to the half-open door, said,
"Can I come in, Richard.  It's only Dame Durden."
He was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes,
tin cases, books, boots, brushes, and portmanteaus, strewn all
about the floor. He was only half:dressed-in plain clothes, I
observed, not in uniform-and his hair was unbrushed, and he
looked as wild as his room.  All this I saw after he had heartily
welcomed me, and I was seated near him, for he started upon
hearing my voice and caught me in his arms in a moment
Dear Richard! He was ever the same to me. Down to-ah.
poor, poor fellow — to the end he never received me but with
something of his old merry boyish manner.
"Good Heaven, my dear little woman," said he, " how do you
come here.  Who could have thought of seeing you' Nothing
the matter? Ada is well?"
" Cuite well.  Lovelier than ever, Richard!"
" Ah " he said, leaning back in his chair.  " My poor cousin!
I was writing to you, Esther."
So worn and haggard as he looked, even in the fullness of his




686                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
handsome youth, leaning back in his chair, and crushing the
closely written sheet of paper in his hand!' Have you been at the trouble of writing all that, and am I
not to read it after all?" I asked.
"Oh, my dear," he returned, with a hopeless gesture.  "You
may read it in the whole room. It is all over here."
I mildly entreated him not to be despondent. I told him that
I had heard by chance of his being in difficulty, and had come to
consult with him what could best be done.
" Like you, Esther, but useless, and so not like you!" said he
with a melancholy smile.  "I am away on leave this dayshould have been gone in another hour-and that is to smooth ii
over, for my selling out. Well! Let bygones be bygones.  Sc
this calling follows the rest. I only want to have been in the
church, to have made the round of all the professions."
" Richard," I urged, "it is not so hopeless as that?"
" Esther," he returned, "it is indeed. I am just so near dis
grace as that those who are put in authority over me (as th,
catechism goes) would far rather be without me than with me
And they are right.  Apart from debts and duls, and all such
drawbacks, I am not fit even for this employment.  I have no
care, no mind, no heart, no soul, but for one thing. Why, if this
bubble hadn't broken now," he said, tearing the letter he had
written into fragments, and moodily casting them  away, by
driblets, " how could I have gone abroad? I must have been
ordered abroad; but how could I have gone. How could I, with
my experience of that thing, trust even Vholes unless I was at
his back!"
I suppose he knew by my face what I was about to say, but
he caught the hand I had laid upon his arm, and touched my
own lips with it to prevent me from going on.
" No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid-must forbid.
The first is John Jarndyce.  The second, you know what.  Call
it madness, and I tell you I can't help it now, and can't be sane.
But it is no such thing; it is the one object I havento pursue.  It
is a pity I ever was prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any
other. It would be wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time,
anxiety, and pains I have bestowed upon it! 0 yes, true wisdom.
It would be very agreeable, too, to some people; but I never will."




BI,EAK HIOUS'E.                       687
He was in that mood in which I thought it best not to increase
his determinatiou (if any thing could increase it) by opposing
him.  I took out Ada's letter, and put it in his hand.
"Am I to read it now?" he asked.
As I told him yes, he laid it on the table, and, resting his
head upon his hand, began.  IHe had not read far, when he
rested his head upon his two hands-to hide his face from me.
In a little while he rose as if the light were bad, and went to the
window.  He finished reading it there, with his back toward
me; and, after he had finished and had folded it up, stood there
for some minutes with the letter in his hand.  When he came
back to his chair, I saw tears in his eyes.
" Of course, Esther, you know what she says here?"
He spoke in a softened voice, and kissed the letter as he asked
mle.
"Yes, Richard."
" Offers me," he went on, tapping his foot upon the floor, "the
little inheritance she is certain of so soon-just as little and as
much as I have wasted-and begs and prays me to take it, set
myself right with it, and remain in the service."
" I know your welfare to be the dearest wish of her heart,"
said I. "And 0, my dear Richard, Ada's is a noble heart!"
"I am sure it is.  I-I wish I was dead!"
He went back to the window, and laying his arm across it,
leaned his head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see
him so; but I hoped he might become more yielding, and I remained silent. My experience was very limited; I was not at
all prepared for his rousing himself out of this emotion to a new
sense of injury.
"And this is the heart that the same John Jarndyce, who is
not otherwise to be mentioned between us, stepped in to estrange
from me," said he, indignantly.  "And the dear girl makes me
this generous offer from  under the same John Jarndyce's roof,
and with the same John Jarndyce's generous consent and connivance, I dare say, as a new means of buying me off."
"Richard!" I cried out, rising hastily, "I will not hear you
say such shameful words!"  I was very angry with him indeed,
for the first time in my life; but it only lasted a moment. Wheo
I saw his worn young face looking at me, as if he were sorry, I
43




688                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
put my hand on his shoulder, and said, " If you please, my dear
Richard, do not speak in such a tone to me. Consider!"
He blamed himself exceedingly; and told me in the most generous manner, that he had been very wrong, and that he begged
my pardon a thousand times. At that I laughed, but trembled a
little too, for I was rather fluttered after being so fiery.
"To accept this offer, my dear Esther," said he, sitting down
beside me, and resuming our conversation-" once more, pray,
pray forgive me; I am  deeply grieved-to accept my dearest
cousin's offer is, I need not say, impossible.  Besides, I have letters and papers that I could show you, which would convince
you it is all over here. I have done with the red coat, believe
me. But it is some satisfaction, in the midst of my troubles and
perplexities, to know that I am pressing Ada's interests in pressing my own. Vholes has his shoulder to the wheel, and he can
not help urging it on as much for her as for me, thank God!"
His sanguine hopes were rising within him, and lighting up his
features, but they made his face more sad to me than it had been
before.
No, no!" cried Richard, exultingly.  "If every farthing of
Ada's little fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent in
retaining me in what I am  not fit for, can take no interest in,
and am weary of.  It should be devoted to what promises a better return, and should be used where she has a larger stake.
Don't be uneasy for me! I shall now have only one thing on
my mind, and Vholes and I will work it. I shall not be without
means.  Free of my commission, I shall be able to compound
with some small usurers, who will hear of nothing but their bond
now-Vholes says so. I should have a balance in my favor any
way, but that will swell it.  Come, come! You shall carry a
letter to Ada from me, Esther, and you must both of you be more
hopeful of me, and not believe that I am quite cast away just yet,
my dear."
I will not repeat what I said to Richard. I know it was tiresome, and nobody is to suppose for a moment that it was at all
wise.  It only came from my heart.  He heard it patiently and
feelingly; but I saw that on the two subjects he had reserved, it
was at present hopeless to make any representation to him.  I
saw too, and had experienced in this very interview, the sense of




BLEAK HOUSE.                         689
my Guardian's remark that it was even more mischievous to use
persuasion with him than to leave him as he was.
Therefore I was driven at last to asking Richard if he would
mind convincing rme that it really was all over there, as he had
said, and that it was not his mere impression.  He showed me,
without hesitation, a correspondence making it quite plain that
his retirement was arranged?  I found, from what he told me,
that Mr. Vholes had copies of these papers, and had been irk consultation with him throughout. Beyond ascertaining this, and
having been the bearer of Ada's letter, and being (as I was going
to be) Richard's companion back to London, I had done no good
by coming down.  Admitting this to myself with a r;eluctant
heart, I said I would return to the hotel and wait until he joined
me there; so he threw a cloak over his shoulders and saw me to
the gate, and Charley and I went back along the beach.
There was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some
naval officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about
them with unusual interest. I said to Charley this would be one
of the great Indiaman's boats now, and we stopped to look.
The gentlemen came slowly up from the waterside, speaking
good-humoredly to each other and to the people around, and
glancing about them  as if they were glad to be in England
again.  "Charley, Charley!" said I, "come away!"  And 1
hurried on so swiftly that my little maid was surprised.
It was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room, and I had
had time to take breath, that I began to think why I had made
such haste.  In one of the sun-burnt faces I had recognized Mr.
Allan Woodcourt, and I had been afraid of his recognizing
me.  I had been unwilling that he should see my altered looks.
I had been taken by surprise, and my courage had quite failed
Illc.
But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, "My
dear, there is nb reason-there is and there can be no reason at
all-why it should be worse for you now, than it ever has been.
What you were last month, you are to-day; you are no worse,
you are no better. This is not your resolution; call it up, Esther, call it up!"  I was in a great tremble-with running —and
at first was quite unable to calm myself; but I got better, and I
was very glad to know it.




zo90                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
The party came to the hotel.  I heard them speaking on the
staircase.  I was sure it was the same gentlemen, because I
knew their voices again-I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt's.  It
would still have been a great relief to me to have gone away
without making myself known, but I was determined not to do
so.  "No, my dear, no.  No, no, no!"
I untied my bonnet and put my vail half up-I think I mean
half down, but it matters very little-and wrote on one of my
cards that I happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstone;
and I sent it in to Mr. Woodcourt.  He came immediately.  I
told him I was rejoiced to be, by chance, among the first to welcome him home to England. And I saw that he was very sorry
fir me.' You have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, Mr.
Woodcourt," said I, " but we can hardly call that a misfortune
which enabled you to be so useful and so brave. We read of it
with the truest interest. It first came to my knowledge through
your old patient, poor Miss Flite, when I was recovering from my
severe illness."
"Ah! little Miss Flite!" he said.  "She lives the same life
yet?"
" Just the same."
I was so comfortable with myself now, as not to mind the vail,
and to be able to put it aside.
"Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful. She is a
most affectionate creature, as I have reason to say."
"You-you have found her so?" he returned.  "I-I am
glad of that."  He was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak.
"I assure you," said I, "that I was deeply touched by her
sympathy and pleasure at the time I have referred to."
"I was grieved to hear that you had been very ill."
"I was very ill."
"But you have quite recovered?"
"I have quite recovered my health and my cheerfulness," said
I   " You know how good my Guardian is, and what a happy
life we lead; and I have every thing to be thankful for, and nothing in the world to desire."'




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       691
I felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than I had
ever had for myself.  It inspired me with new fortitude, and new
calmness, to find that it was I who was under the necessity of
reassuring him.  I spoke to him of his voyage out and home, and
of his future plans, and of his probable return to India. He said
that was very doubttul.  He had not found himself more favored
by fortune there, than here.  He had gone out -a poor ship's
surgeon, and had come home nothing better. While we were
talking, and when I was glad to believe that I had alleviated
(if I may use such a term) the shock he had had in seeing me,
Richard came in.  He had heard down-stairs who was with me,
and they met with cordial pleasure.
I saw that after their first greetings were over, and when they
spoke of Richard's career, Mr. Woodcourt had a perception that
all was not going well with him. He frequently glanced at his
face, as if there were something in it that gave him pain; and
more than once he looked toward me, as though he sought to
ascertain whether I knew what the truth was. Yet Richard
was in one of his sanguine states, and in good spirits; and was
thoroughly pleased to see Mr. Woodcourt again, whom he had
always liked.
Richard proposed that we all should go to London together;
but Mr. Woodcourt having to remain by his ship a little longer,
could not join us. He dined with us, however, at an early hour;
and became so much more like what he used to be, that I was
still more at peace to think I had been able to soften his regrets.  Yet his mind was not relieved of Richard.  When the
coach was almost ready, and Richard ran down to look after his
iuggage, he spoke to me about him.
I was not sure that I had a right to lay his whole story open;
but I referred in a few words to hi:; estrangement from Mr.
Jarndyce, and to his being entangled in the ill-fated chancery
suit.  Mr. Woodcourt listened with interest and expressed his
regret.,'I saw you observe him rather closely," said I.  "Do you
think him so changed?"
"He-is changed," he returned, shaking his head.
I felt the blood rush into my face for the first time, but it was




002                 1BLEAK  tOUSE.
only an instantaneous emotion.  I turned my head aside, and it
was gone.
"But it is not," said Mr. Woodcourt, "his being so much
younger or older, or thinner or fatter, or paler or ruddier, as there
being upon his face such a singular expression.  I never saw so
remarkable a look in a young person. One can not say that it
is all anxiety,-or all weariness; yet it is both, and like ungrown
despair."' You do not think he is ill?" said I.
No.  He looked robust in body.
" That he can not be at peace in mind, we have too much
reason to know," I proceeded.'"Mr. Woodcourt, you are going
to London?"
"To-morrow or the nextday."
"There is nothing Richard wants so much, as a fiiend.  He
always liked you.  Pray see him  when you get there.  Pray
help him sometimes with your companionship, if you can.  You
do not know of what service it might be.  You can not think
how Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce, and even I-how  we should all
thank you, Mr. Woodcourt!"
"Miss Summerson," he said, more moved than he had been
from the first, "before Heaven, I will be a true friend to him!
I will accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one?"
"God bless you!" said I, with my eyes filling fast; but I
thought they might, when it was not for myself.  " Ada loves
him-we all love him, but Ada'loves him  as we can not.  I
will tell her what you say.  Thank you, and God bless you, in
her name "
Richard came back as we finished exchanging these hurried
words, and gave me his arm to take me to the coach.
"Woodcourt," he said, unconscious with what application,
" pray let us meet in London!"
"Meet?" returned the other.  "  have scarcely a friend there,
now, but you.  Where shall I find you?"
" Why, I must get a lodging of some sort," said Richard pondering.  " Say at-Vholes's, Symond's Inn."
" Gobd! Without loss of time."
They shook hands heartily.  When I was seated in the coach,




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        693
and Richard was yet standing in the street, Mr. Woodcourt laid
his friendly hand on Richard's shoulder, and looked at me.  I
understood him, and waved mine in thanks.
And in his last look as we drove away, I saw that he was
very sorry for me.  I was glad to see it  I felt for my old self as
the dead may feel if they ever revisit these scenes.  I was glad
to be tenderly remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite
forgotten.




CHAPTER XLVI.
STOP HII!
DARKNESS rests upon Tom-all-alone's.  Dilating and dilating
since the sun went down last night, it has gradually swollen until
it fills every void in the place. For a time there were some
dungeon lights burning, as the lamp of Life burns in Tom-all
alone's, heavily, heavily, in the nauseous air, and winking-as
that lamp, too, winks in Tom-all-alone's-at many horrible
things.  But they are blotted out.  The moon has eyed Tom
with a dull cold stare, as admitting some puny emulation of herself in his desert region unfit for life and blasted by volcanic
fires; but she has passed on, and is gone. The blackest nightmare in the infernal stables grazes on Tom-all-alone's, and Tom
is fast asleep.
Much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out
of Parliament, concerning Tom, and much wrathful disputation
how Tom shall be got right.  Whether he shall be put into the
main road by constables, or by beadles, or by bell-ringing, or by
force of figures, or by correct principles of taste, or by high church,
or by low church, or by no church; whether he shall be set to
splitting trusses of polemical straws with the crooked knife of his
mind, or whether he shall be put to stone-breaking instead. In
the midst of which dust and noise, there is but one thing perfectly
clear, to wit, that Tom only may and can, or shall and will, be
reclaimed according to somebody's theory but nobody's practice.
And in the hopeful mean time, Tom goes to perdition head fbremost in his old determined spirit.
But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengers,
and they serve him in these hours of darkness.  There is not a
drop of Tom's corrupted blood but propagates infection antd ontagion somewhere.  It shall pollute, this very night, the choice
stream (in which chemists on analysis would find the genuine nobility) of a Norman house, and his Grace shall not be able to say
(694)




~'ii,? /,     llli U,,i    l  i"I 
-;~                  f ill
"INitS
TOM-,LL-ALONE'S.








BLEAK  HOUSE.                        695
Nay to the infamous alliance. There is not an atom of Tom's
slime; not a cubic inch of any pestilential gas in which he lives,
not one obscenity or degradation about him, not an ignorance, not
a wickedness, not a brutality of his committing, but shall work
its retribution, through every order of society, up to the proudest
of the proud, and to the highest of the high. Verily, what with
tainting, plundering, and spoiling, Tom has his revenge.
It is a moot point whether Tom-all-alone's be uglier by day or
by night.; but on the argument that the more that is seen of it the
more shocking it must be, and that no part of it left to the imagination is at all likely to bemade so bad as the reality, day carries it.  The day begins to break now; and in truth it might be
better for the national glory even that the sun should sometimes
set upon the British dominions, than that it should ever rise upon
so vile a wonder as Tom.
A brown sunburnt gentleman, who appears in some inaptitude
for sleep to be wandering abroad rather than counting the hours
on a restless pillow, strolls hitherward at this quiet time. Attracted by curiosity, he often pauses and looks about him, up and
down the miserable by-ways.  Nor is he merely curious, for in
his bright dark eye there is compassionate interest; and as he
looks here and there, he seems to understand such wretchedness,
and to have studied it before.
On the banks of the stagnant channel of mud which is the
main street of Tom-all-alone's, nothing is to be seen but the crazy
houses, shut up and silent.  No waking creature save himself
appears, except in one direction where he sees the solitary figure
of a woman sitting on a door-step.  He walks that way.  Ap-.
proaching, he observes that she has journeyed a long distance,
and is footsore and travel-stained.  She sits on the door-step in
the manner o one who is waiting, with her elbow on her knee
and her head upon her hand.  Beside her is a canvas bag, or
bundle, she has carried.  She is dozing probably, for she gives no
heed to his steps as he comes toward her.
The broken footway is so narrow, that when Allan Woodcourt
comes to where the woman sits, he has to turn into the road to
pass her.  Looking down at her face, his eye meets hers, and lie
stops.
" What is the matter?"




696'                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
"Nothing, sir."
"Can't you make them hear?  Do you want to be let in?"
I'm waiting till they-get up at another house-a lodginghouse-not here," the woman patiently returns.  "I'm waiting
here because there will be sun here presently to warm me."
" I am afraid you are tired.  I am sorry to see you sitting ill
the street."
"Thank you, sir.  It don't matter."
A habit in him of speaking to the poor, and of avoiding patronage or condescension, or childishness (which is the favorite
device, many people deeming it quite a subtlety to talk to them
like little spelling books), has put him on good terms with the
woman easily.
" Let me look at your forehead," he says, bending down.' I
am  a doctor.  Don't be afraid.  I wouldn't hurt you for the
world."
He knows that by touching her with his skillful and accustomed hand, he can soothe her yet more readily.  She makes a
slight objection, saying, " It's nofhing;" but he has scarcely laid
his fingers on the wounded place when she lifts it up to the light.
"Ay!  A bad bruise, and the skin broken.  This must be
very sore."
"It do ache a little, sir," returns the woman, with a started
tear upon her cheek.
"Let me try to make it more comfortable.  My handkerchief
won't hurt you."
"   dear no, sir, I'm sure of that!"
He cleanses the injured place and dries it; and having carefully examined it and gently pressed it with the palm of his hand,
takes a small case from his pocket, dresses it, and binds it up.
While he is thus employed, he says, after laughing at his establishing a surgery in the street:
"And so your husband is a brick-maker?"
"How do you know that, sir?" asks the woman, astonished.
Why, I suppose so, from the color of the clay upon your bag
and on your dress.  And I know brick-makers go about working
at piecework in different places.  And I am sorry to say I have
known them cruel to their wives too."
The woman hastily lifts up her eyes as if she would deny that




BLEAK HOUSE.                         697
her injury is referable to such a cause. But feeling the hand
upon her forehead, and seeing his busy and composed face, she
quietly drops them again.
" Where is he now?" asks the surgeon.
"He got into trouble last night, sir; but he'll look for me at
the lodging-house."
"He will get into worse trouble if he often misuses his large
and heavy hand as he has misused it here. But you forgive him,
brutal as he is, and I say no more of him, except that I wish he
deserved it. You have no young child?"
The woman shakes her head.  "One as I calls mine, sir, but
it's Liz's."
"Your own is dead.  I see! Poor little thing!"
By this time he has finished, and is putting up his case.  "I
suppose you have some settled home?  Is it far from here?" he
asks, good-humoredly making light of what he has done, as she
gets up and courtesies.
" It's a good two or three-and-twenty mile from here, sir.  At
Saint Albans.  Do you know Saint Albans, sir?  I thought you
gave a start like, as if you did?"
"Yes, I know something of it.  And now I will ask you a
question in return. Have you money for your lodging?"
"Yes, sir," she says, "really and truly."  And she shows it.
He tells her, in acknowledgment of her many subdued thanks,
that she is very welcome, gives her good-day, and walks away
Tom-all-alone's is still asleep, and nothing is astir.
Yes, something is! As he retraces his way to the point from
which he descried the woman at a distance sitting on the step,
he sees a ragged figure coming very cautiously along, crouching
close to the soiled walls-which the wretchedest figure might as
well avoid-and furtively thrusting a hand before it.  It is the
figure of a youth, whose face is hollow, and whose eyes have an
emaciated glare. He is so intent on getting along unseen, that
even the apparition of a stranger in whole garments does not
tempt him to look back.  He shades his face with his ragged
elbow as he passes on the other side of the way, and goes shrinking and creeping on, with his anxious hand before him, and his
shapeless clothes hanging in shreds.   Clothes made for what
purpose, or of what material, it would be impossible to say. They




698                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
look, in color and in substance, like a bundle ot rank leaves of
swampy growth, that rotted long ago.
Allan Woodcourt pauses to look after him and note all this, with
a shadowy belief that he has seen the boy before. He can not
recall how, or where; but there is some association in his mind
with such a form.  He imagines that he must have seen it in
some hospital or refuge; still, can not make out why it comes
with any special force on his remembrance.
He is gradually emerging from Tom-all-alone's in the morning
light, thinking about it, when he hears running feet behind him;
and looking round, sees the boy scouring toward him at great
speed, followed by the woman.
" Stop him, stop him!" cries the woman, almost breathless.
" Stop him, sir!"
He darts across the road into the boy's path, but the boy is
quicker than he-makes a curve-ducks-dives under his hands
-comes up half-a-dozen yards beyond him, and scours away
again. Still, the woman follows, crying, " Stop him, sir, pray
stop him!"  Allan, not knowing but that he has just robbed her
of her money, follows in chase, and runs so hard, that he runs the
boy down nearly a dozen times; but each time he repeats the
curve, the duck, the dive, and scours away again.  To strike at
him. on any of these occasions, would be to fell and disable him;
but the pursuer can not resolve to do that; and so the grimly
ridiculous pursuit continues. At last the fugitive, hard-pressed,
takes to a narrow passage, and a court which has no thoroughfare. Here, against a hoarding of decaying timber, he is brought
to bay, and tumbles down, lying gasping at his pursuer, who
stands and gasps at him until the woman comes up.
" 0 you Jo!" cries the woman.  " What? I have found you
at last!"
"Jo," repeats Allan, looking at him  with attention.  "Jo!
Stay.  To be sure! I recollect this lad some time ago being
brought before the coroner."
"Yes, I see you once afore at the Inkwhich," whimpers Jo.
"What of that?  Can't you never let such an unfortnet as me
alone? An't I unfortnet enough for you yet? How unfoltnet dc
you want me fur to be?  I've been a-chivied and a-chivied, first
by one on you and nixt by another on you, till I'm worrited to'




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        699
skins and bones.  The Inkwhich warn't my fault.  f done
rothink.  He wos wery good to me, he wos; he wos the only
one I knowed to speak to, as ever come across my crossing.
It an't wery likely I should want him to be Inkwhich'd.  I only
wish I wos, myself.  I don't know why I don't go and make a
hole in the water, I'm sure I don't."
He says it with such a pitiable air, and his grimy tears appear
so real, and he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like
a growth of fungus, or any unwholesome excrescence produced
there in neglect and impurity, that Allan Woodcourt is softened
toward him. He says to the woman, " Miserable creature, what
has he done?"
To which she only replies, shaking her head at the prostrate
figure more amazedly than angrily: "0 you Jo, you Jo. I have
found you at last!"
" What has he done?" says Allan.  "Has he robbed you?"
"No, sir, no.  Robbed me?  He did nothing but what was
kind-hearted by me, and that's the wonder of it."
Allan looks from Jo to the woman, and from the woman to Jo,
waiting for one of them to unravel the riddle.
"But he was along with me, sir," says the woman-" 0 you
Jo!-he was along with me, sir, down at Saint Albans, ill, and
a young lady, Lord bless her for a good friend to me, took pity on
him when I durstn't, and took him home-"
Allan shrinks back from him with a sudden horror.
" Yes sir, yes.  Took him home, and made him comfortable,
and like a thankless monster he ran away in the night, and never
has been seen or heard of since, till I set eyes on him just now.
And that young lady that was such a pretty dear, caught his illness, lost her beautiful looks, and wouldn't hardly be kno6wn for
the same young lady now, if it wasn't for her angel temper, and
her pretty shape, and her sweet voice.  Do you know it?  You
ungrateful wretch, do you know that this is all along of you and
of her goodness to you?" demands the woman, beginning to rage
at him as she recalls it, and breaking into passionate tears.
The boy, in rouiih sort stunned by what he hears, falls to
smearing his dirty forehead with his dirty palm, and to staring at
the ground, and to shaking from head to fcot until the crazy
hoarding against which he leans rattles.




700                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
Allan restrains the woman, merely by a quiet gestuie, but
effectually.
"Richard told me," he falters, "-I mean, I have heard of
this-don't mind me for a moment, I will speak presently."
He turns away, and stands for a while looking out at the
covered passage.  When he comes back, he has recovered his
composure; except that he contends against an avoidance of the
boy, which is so very remarkable, that it absorbs the woman's
attention.
"You hear what she says.  But get up, get up!"
Jo, shaking and chattering, slowly rises, and stands, after the
manner of his tribe in a difficulty, sideways against the hoarding,
resting one of his high shoulders against it, and covertly rubbing
his right hand over his left, and his left foot over his right.
"You hear what she says, and I know it's true.  Have you
been here ever since?"; Wishermaydie if I seen Tom-all-alone's till this blessed morn.
ing," replies Jo, hoarsely.
"Why have you come here now?"
Jo looks all round the confined court, looks at his questioner
no higher than the knees, and finally answers:
"I don't know how to do nothink, and I can't get nothink to
do.  I'm wery poor and ill, and I thought I'd come back here
when there warn't nobody about, and lay down and hide somewheres as I knows on till arter dark, and then go and beg a trifle
of Mr. Sangsby.  He wos allus willin fur to give me sornethink.
he wos, though Mrs. Sangsby she wos allus a-chivying on melike every body every wheres."
" Where have you come from?"
Jo looks all round the court again, looks at his questionel.'s
knees again, and concludes by laying his profile against the
hoarding in a sort of resignation'.
"Did you hear me ask you where you have come from?"
"Tramp then," says Jo.
" Now, tell me," proceeds Allan, making a strong effort to
overcome his repugnance, going very near to him, and leaning
over him with an expression of confidence, " tell me how it came
about that you left that house, when the good young lady had
been so unfortunate as to pity you, and take you home."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        101
Jo suddenly comes out of his resignation, and excitedly declares, addressing the woman, that he never known about the
young lady, that he never heern about it, that he never went
fur to hurt her, that he would sooner have hurt his own self,
that he'd sooner have had his unfortnet ed chopped off than ever
gone a-nigh her, and that she wos wery good to him, she wos.,Conducting himself throughout as if in his poor fashion lie really
meant it, and winding up with some very miserable sobs.
Allan Woodcourt sees that this is not a sham.  He constrains
himself to touch him.  "Come, Jo.  Tell me?"
" No.  I dustn't," says Jo, relapsing into the profile state.  "I
dustn't, or I would."
"But I must know," returns the other, "all the same. Come,
Jo."
After two or three such adjurations, Jo lifts up his head again,
looks round the court again, and says in a low voice, " Well, I'll
tell you somethink.  I was took away.  There!"
"Took away?  In the night?"
"Ah!"  Very apprehensive of being overheard, Jo looks about
him, and even glances up some ten feet at the top of the hoarding,
and through the cracks in it, lest the object of his distrust should
be looking over, or hidden on the other side.
" Who took you away?"
"I dustn't name him," saysJo.  "I dustn't do it, sir."
"But I want, in the young lady's name, to know.  You may
trust me.  No one else shall hear."
" Ah, but I don't know," replies Jo, shaking his head fearfully,
"as he don't hear."
" Why, he is not in this place."
"Oh, ain't he though?" says Jo.  "He's in all manner of
places, all at wunst."
Allan looks at him in perplexity, but discovers some real meaning and good faith at the bottom of this bewildering reply.  He
patiently awaits dn explicit answer; and Jo, more baffled by his
patience than by any thing else, at last desperately whispers a
name in his ear.
" Ay!" says Allan.  "Why, what had you been doing?"
"Nothink, sir.  Never done nothink to get myself into no
trouble,'sept in not moving on and the Inkwhich.  But I'm a



702                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
mloving on now.  I'm a-moving on to the berryin ground-that's
the move as I'm up to."
"No, no, we will try to prevent that.  But what did he do
with you?"
" Put me in a horsepittle," replied Jo, whispering, " till I was
discharged, then giv me a little money-four half bulls, wot you
may call half-crowns-and ses'Hook it! Nobody wants you
here,' he ses.'You hook it.  You go and tramp,' he ses.'You
move on,' he ses.'Don't let me ever see you nowheres within
forty mile of London, or you'll repent it.' So I shall, if ever he
does see me, and he'll sed me if I'm above ground," concludes Jo,
nervously repeating all his former precautions and investigations.
Allan considers a little; then remarks turning to the woman,
but keeping an encouraging eye on Jo; " He is not so ungrateful
as you supposed.  He had'a reason for going away, though it
was an insufficient one."
"' Thank'ee, sir, thank'ee!" exclaims Jo.  "There now! See
how hard you wos upon me.  But ony you tell the young lady
wot the genlmn ses, and it's all right.  For you wos wery good
to me too, and I knows it."
"Now, Jo," says Allan, keeping his eye upon him, "come with
me, and I will find you a better place than this to lie down and
hide in. If I take one side of the way and you the other, to
avoid observation, you will not' hook it,' I know very well, if
you make me a promise."
" I won't, not unless I wos to see him a coming, sir."
"Very well.  I take your word.  Half the town is getting up
by this time, and the whole town will be broad awake in another
hour.  Come along.  Good-day again, my good woman."
" Good-day again, sir, and I thank you kindly many times
again."
She has been sitting on her bag, deeply attentive, and now
rises and takes it up.  Jo, repeating, " Ony you tell the young
lady as I never went fur to hurt her and wot the genlmn ses I"
nods and shambles, and shivers, and smears and blinks, and half
laughs and half cries a farewell to her, and takes his creeping
way along after Allan Woodcourt, close to the houses on the opposite of the street.  In this order, the two come up out of Tomall-alone's into the broad rays of the sunlight and the purer air.




CHAPTER XLVII.
JO'S WILL.
As Allan Woodcourt and Jo proceed along the streets, where
the high church spires and the distances are so near and clear in
the morning light that the city itself seems renewed by rest,
Allan revolves in his mind how and where he shall bestow his
companion.  " It surely is a strange fact," he considers, " that
in the heart of a civilized world this creature in human form
should be more difficult to dispose of than an unowned dog."
But it is none the less a fact because of its strangeness, and the
difficulty remains.
At first, he looks behind him often, to assure himself that Jo
is still really following. But, look where he will, he still beholds him close to the opposite houses, making his way with his
wary hand from brick to brick and fiom door to door, and often,
as he creeps along, glancing over at him, watchfully. Soon satisfied that the last thing in his thoughts is to give him the slip,
Allan goes on; considering with a less divided attention what he
shall do.
A breakfast-stall at a street corner suggests the first thing to
be done.  He stops there, looks round, and beckons Jo.  Jo
crosses, and comes halting and shuffling up, slowly scooping the
knuckles of his right hand round and round in the hollowed palm
of his left-kneading dirt with a natural pestle and mortar.
What is a dainty repast to Jo is then sat before him, and he begins to gulp the coffee, and to gnaw the bread and butter; looking anxiously about him in all diiections as he eats and drinks,
like a scared animal.
But he is so sick and miserable, that even hunger has abandoned him.  "I thought I was almost a starvin, sir," says Jo,
soon putting down his food; "but I don't know nothink-not even
44                                                 (703)




704                 BLEAK' HOUSE.
that.  I don't care for eating wittles nor yet for drinking on em."
And Jo stands shivering, and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.
Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse, and on his
chest.  " Draw breath, Jo!"  " It draws," says Jo, " as heavy
as a cart."  He might add, " and rattles like it;" but he only
mutters, " I'm a moving on, sir."
Allan looks about for an apothecary's shop. There is none at
hand, but a tavern does as well or better. He soon obtains a
little measure of wine, and gives the lad a portion of it very
carefully. He begins to revive, almost as soon as it passes his
lips.  "We may repeat that dose, Jo," observes Allan, after
watching him  with his attentive face.  "So!  Now we will
take five minutes rest, and then go on again."
Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stall,
with his back against an iron railing, Allan Woodcourt paces up
and down in the early sunshine, casting an occasional look toward hirr without appearing to watch him.  It requires no discernment to perceive that he is warmed and refreshed. If a face
so shaded can brighten, his face brightens somewhat; and, by little
and little, he eats the slice of bread he had so hopelessly laid down.
Observant of these signs of improvement, Allan engages him in
conversation; and elicits to his no small wonder the adventure
of the lady in the vail, with all its consequences. Jo slowly
munches, as he slowly tells it. When he has finished his story
and his bread, they go on again.
Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place
of refuge for the boy, to his old patient, zealous little Miss Flite,
Allan leads the way to the court where he and Jo first foregathered.  But all is changed at the rag-and-bottle shop; Miss
Flite no longer lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featured
female, much obscured by dust, whose age is a problem-but
who is indeed no other than the interesting Judy-is tart and
spare in her replies. These sufficing, however, to inform the
visitor that Miss Flite and her birds are domiciled with a Mrs.
Blinder, in Bell Yard, he repairs to that neighboring place;
where Miss Flite (who rises early that she may be punctual at
the Divan of justice held by her excellent friend the chancellor)
comes running down stairs with tears of welcome and with open
arms.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         7C5
"My dear physician!" cries Miss Flite.  "My meritorious.
distinguished, honorable officer!" She uses some odd expres.
sions, but is as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can bemore so than it often is. Allan, very patiently with her, waits
until she has no more raptures to express; then points out Jo,
trembling in a door-way, and tells her how he comes there.
"Where can I lodge him  hereabouts for the present! Now
you have a fund of knowledge and good sense, and can advise me."
Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself to
consider; but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her.
Mrs. Blinder is entirely let, and she herself occupies poor Gridley's
room.  "Gridley!" exclaims Miss Flite, clapping her hantds,
after a twentieth repetition of this remark.  " Gridley! To be
sure! of course! My dear physician!  General George, will
help us out."
It is hopeless to ask for any information about General George,
and would be, though Miss Flite had not already run up-stairs
to put on her pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl, and to
arm herself with her reticule of documents. But as she informs
her physician, in her disjointed manner, on coming down in fill
array, that General George, whom she often calls upon, knows
her dear Fitz-Jarndyce, and takes a great interest in all connected with her, Allan is induced to think that they may be in the
right way.  So he tells Jo, for his encouragement, that this
walking about will soon be over now; and they repair to the
(eneral's.  Fortunately it is not far.
From the exterior of George's Shooting Gallery, and the long
entry, and the bare perspective beyond it, Allan Woodcourt augurs
well.  He also descries promise in the figure of Mr. George
himself, striding toward them in his morning exercise with his
pipe in his mouth, no stock on, and his muscular arms, developed by broadsword and dumb-bell, weightily asserting themselves
through his light shirt-sleeves.
" Your servant, sir," says Mr. George, with a military salute.
Good-humoredly smiling all over his broad forehead up into his
crisp hair, he then defers to Miss Flite, as, with great stateliness,
and at some length, she performs the courtly ceremony of presentation.  He winds it up with another "Your servant, sir!" and
another salute.




BLEAK HOUSE.
"Excuse me, sir.  A sailor, I believe?" says Mr. George.
"I am proud to find I have the air of one," returns Allan;
* but I am only a sea-going doctor."
"Indeed, sir! I should have thought you was a regular bluejacket, myself."
Allan hopes Mr. George will forgive his intrusion the more
readily on that account, and particularly that he will not lay
aside his pipe, which, in his politeness, he has testified some intenrtion of doing.  " You are very good, sir," returns the trooper.
"A.s I know by experience, that it's not disagreeable to Miss Flite,
and since it's equally agreeable to yourself " and finishes the
sentence by putting it between his lips again.  Allan proceeds to
tell him all he knows about Jo; unto which the trooper listens
with a grave face.
"And that's the lad, sir, is it?" he inquires, looking along the
entry to where Jo stands staring up at the great letters on the
whitewashed front, which have no meaning in his eyes.
"That's he," says Allan.  "And, Mr. George, I am  in this'
difficulty about him. I am unwilling to place him in a hospital,
even if I could procure him immediate admission, because I foresee that he would not stay there many hours, if he could be so
much as got there.  The same objection applies to a workhouse;
supposing I had the patience to be evaded and shirked, and handed
about from post to pillar in trying to get him into one-which is
a system I don't take kindly to."
"No man does, sir," returns Mr. George.
" I am convinced that he would not remain in either place,
because he is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person
who ordered him to keep out of the way; and who, in his ignorance, he seems to believe is every where, and cognizant of every
thing."
"I ask your pardon, sir," says Mr. George.  "But you have
not mentioned that party's name.  Is it a secret, sir?"
"The boy makes it one.  But the name is Bucket."
"Bucket the Detective, sir?"
"The same man."
"The man is known to me, sir," returns the trooper, after blowing out a cloud of smoke, and squaring his chest; "and the boy
is so far correct that he undoubtedly is a-rum customer." Mr.




BLEAK HOUSE.                         707
George smokes with a profound meaning after this, and surveys
Miss Flite in silence.
"Now, I wish Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson at least tot
know that this Jo, who tells so strange a story, has re-appeared;
and to have it in their power to speak with him, if they should
desire to do so.  Therefore I want to get him, for the present
moment, into any poor lodging kept by decent people, where he
would be admitted.  Decent people and Jo, Mr. George," says
Allan, following the direction of the trooper's eyes along the entry,
"have not been much acquainted, as you see.  Hence the difficulty.  Do you happen to know any one in this neighborhood,
who would receive him  for a while, on my paying for him beforehand?"
As he puts the question, he becomes aware of a dirty-faced little
man, standing at the trooper's elbow, and looking up, with an
oddly twisted figure and countenance, into the trooper's face.
After a few more puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant
at the little man, and the little man winks up at the trooper.
Well, sir," says Mr. George, " I can assure you that I would
willingly be knocked on the head at any time, if it would be at
all agreeable to Miss Summerson; and consequently I esteem it
a privilege to do that young lady any service, however small.
We are naturally in the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and
Phil.  You see what the place is.  You are welcome to a quiet
corner.of it for the boy, if the same would meet your views. No
charge made, except for rations.  We are not in a flourishing
state of circumstances here, sir.  We are liable to be tumbled out
neck and crop, at a moment's notice.  However, sir, such as the
place is, and so long as it lasts, here it is at your service."
With a comprehensive wave of his pipe, Mr. George places the
whole building at his visitor's disposal.
"I take it for granted, sir," he adds, "you being one of the
medical staff, that there is no present infection about this unfortuna.te subject?"
Allan is quite sure of it.' Because, sir," says Mr. George, shaking his head sorrowfully,
"we have had enough of that."
His tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new acquaintance.
"Still, I am bound to tell you," observes Allan, after repeating




708                  BLEAK HOUSE.
his former assurance, "that the boy is deplorably low and reduced; and that he may be-I'do not say that he is-too far
gone to recover."
"Do you consider him in present danger, sir?" enquires the
trooper.
"Yes, I fear so."
"Then, sir," returns the trooper, in a decisive manner, " it appears to me-being naturally in the vagabond way myself-that
the sooner he comes out of the street, the better.  You Phil'
Bring him in!"
Mr. Squod tacks out, all on one side, to execute the word of
command; and the trooper, having smoked his pipe, lays it by.
Jo is brought in.  He is not one of Mrs. Pardiggles' Tockahoopo
Indians; he is not one of Mrs. Jellyby's lambs, being wholly un
connected with Borrioboola-Gha; he is not softened by distance
andf unfamiliarity; he is not a genuile foreign-grown savage; he
is the ordinary home-made article. Dirty, ugly, disagreeable to
all the senses, in body a common creature of the conmmon streets,
only in soul a heathen.  Homely- filth begrimes him, homely
parasites devour him, homely sores are in him, homely rags are on
him: native ignorance, the growth of English soil and climate,
sinks his immortal nature lower than the beasts that perish.
Stand forth, Jo, in uncompromising colors! From the sole of thy
foot to the crown of thy head, there is nothing interesting about
thee.
He shuffles slowly into Mr. George's gallery, and stands huddled
together in a bundle, looking all about the floor.  He seems to
know that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly
for what he is, and partly for what he has caused.  He, too,
shrinks from them. He is not of the same order of things, not of
the same place in creation.  He is of no order and no place;
neither of the beasts, nor of humanity.
Look here, Jo!" says Allan.  "This is Mr. George."
Jo searches the floor for some time longer, then looks up for a
moment, and then down again.
He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodging room here."
Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a
bow.  After a little more consideration, and some backing and




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        709
chanoing of the foot on which he rests, he mutters that he is
"wery thankful."
"You. are quite safe here.  All you have to do at present is to
be obedient, and to get strong.  And mind you tell us the truth
here, whatever you do, Jo."
" Wishermaydie if I don't, sir," says Jo, reverting to his favorite declaration.  "I never done nothink yit, but wot you knows
on, to get myself into no trouble. I never was in no other trouble at all, sir-sept not knowin' nothink and starwation."
" I believe it.  Now attend to Mr. George.  I see he is going
to speak to you."
"My intention merely was, sir," observes Mr. George, amazingly broad and upright, "to point out to him where he can lie
down, and get a thorough good dose of sleep. Now, look here."
As the trooper speaks, he conducts them to the other end of the,gallery, and opens one of the little cabins.  "There you are, you
see   Here is a mattrass, and here you may rest, on good behavior as long as Mr., I ask your pardon, sir;" he refers apologetically to the card Allan has given him; " Mr. Woodcourt pleases.
Don't you be alarmed if you hear shots; they'll be aimed at the
target, and not you. Now, there's another thing I would recommend, sir," says the trooper, turning to his visitor.  "Phil, come
here!"
Phil bears down upon them, according to his usual tactics.
"Here is a man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the
gutter.  Consequently, it is to be expected that he takes a natural interest in this poor creature. You do, don't you, Phil?"
"Certainly and surely I do, Guv'ner," is Phil's, reply.
"Now I was thinking, sir," says Mr. George, in a martial sort
of confidence, as if he were giving his opinion in a council of war
at a drum-head, " that if this man was to take him to a bath,
and was to lay out a few shillings in getting him one or two
coarse articles-"
"Mr. George, my considerate friend," returns Allan, taking
out His purse, " it is the very favor I would have asked."
Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on this work of
improvement.  Miss Flite, quite enraptured by her success, makes
the best of her way to Court; having great fears that otherwise
her fiiend the Chancellor may be uneasy about her. or may give




710                BLEAK  HOUSE.
the judgment she has so long expected, in her absence; and observing "which you know my dear Physician and General, after
so many years, would be too absurdly unfortunate!" Allan takes
the opportunity of going out to procure some restorative meditines; and obtaining them near at hand, soon returns, to find the
trooper walking up and down the gallery, and to fall into step
and walk with him.
"I take it, sir," says Mr. George, "that you know Miss Summerson pretty well?"
Yes, it appears.
"Not related to her, sir?"
No, it appears.
"Excuse the apparent curiosity," says Mr. George.  "It
seemed to me probable that you might take more than a common
interest in this poor creature, because Miss Summerson had taken
that unfortunate interest in him.'Tis my case, sir, I assure,
you."
"And mine, Mr. George."
The trooper looks sideways at Allan's sun-burnt cheek and
bright dark eye, rapidly measures his height and build, and
seems to approve of him.
" Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that I
unquestionably know the rooms in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where
Bucket took the lad, according to his account. Though he is not
acquainted with the name, I can help you to it. It's Tulkinghorn. That's what it is."
Allan looks at him inquiringly, repeating the name.
"Tulkinghorn.  That's the name, sir. I know the man; ana
know him to have been in communication with Bucket before,
respecting a deceased person who had given him offense.  I
know the man, sir.  To my sorrow."
Allan naturally asks what kind of man he is?
" What kind of man.  Do you mean to look at?"
"I think I know that much of him.  I mean to deal with,
generally, what kind of man?"
"Why, then I'll tell you, sir," returns the trooper, stopping
short, and folding his arms on his square chest, so angrily, that
his face fires and flushes all over; " he is a confoundedly bad
kind of man.  He is a slow-torturing kind of man.  lie is no




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        711
more like flesh and blood, than a rusty old carbine is.  He is a
kind of man-by George!-that has caused me more restlessness,
and more uneasiness, and more. dissatisfaction with myself than
all other men put together.  That's the kind of man Mr. Tulkinghorn is!"
I am sorry," says Allan, " to have touched so sore a place."
"Sore?"  The trooper plants his legs wider apart, wets the
palm of his broad right hand, and lays it on his imaginary mustache.  "It's no fault of yours, sir; but you shall judge.  He
has got a power over me.  He is the man I spoke of just now,
as being able to tumble me out of this place neck and crop. He
keeps me on a constant see-saw.  He won't hold off, and he
won't come on.  If I have a payment to make him, or time to
ask him for, or any thing to go to him about, he don't see me,
don't hear me-passes me cn to Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn,
Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn passes me back again to himhe keeps me prowling and dangling about him, as if I was made
of the same stone as himself' Why, I spend half my life now
pretty well, loitering and dodging about his door.  What does he
care?  Nothing.  Just as much as the rusty old carbine I have
compared him to.  He chafes and goads me, till-Bah! nonsense
-I am forgetting myself. Mr. Woodcourt;" the trooper resumes
his march; "all I say is, he is an old man; but I am glad I
shall never have the chance of setting spurs to my horse, and rid
ing at him in a fair field.  For if I had that chance, in one of
the humors he drives me into-he'd go down, sir!"
Mr. George has been so excited, that he finds it necessary to
wipe his forehead on his shirt-sleeve.  Even while he whistles
his impetuosity away with the National Anthem, some involuntary shakings of his head and heavings of his chest still linger
behind; not to mention an occasional hasty adjustment with
both hands of his open shirt-collar, as if it were scarcely open
enough to prevent his being troubled by a choking sensation.  In
short, Allan Woodcourt has not much doubt about the going down
of Mr. Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.
Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is assisted to his
mattrass by the careful Phil; to whom, after due administration
of medicine by his own hands, Allan confides all needful means
and instructions   The morning is by this time getting oil apace




712                  BLEAK HOUSE.
He repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast; and then, without seeking rest, goes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate his
discovery.
With him  Mr. Jarndyce returns alone, confidentially telling
him that there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed; and showing a serious interest in it.  To Mr. Jarndyce, Jo
repeats in substance what he said in the morning; without any
material variation.  Only, that cart of his is heavier to draw,
and draws with a hollower sound.
" Let me lay here quiet, and not be chivied no more," falters
Jo; " and be so kind any person.as is a passin' nigh where I used
fur to sweep, as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he know
once, is a moving on right forards with his duty, and I'll be wery
thankful.  I'd be more thankful than I am aready, if it was any
ways possible for an unfortnet to be it."
He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in
the course of a day or two, that Allan, after conferring with Mr.
Jarndyce, good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook's Court; the
rather, as the cart seems to be breaking down.
To Cook's Court, therefore, he repairs.  Mr. Snagsby is behind
his counter in his gray coat and sleeves, inspecting an indenture
of several skins which has just come in fiom the engrosser's; an
immense desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there
a resting-place of a few big letters, to break the awful monotony,
and save the traveler from despair.  Mr. Snagsby puts up at one
of these inky wells, and greets the stranger with his cough of
general preparation for business.
"You don't remember me, Mr. Snagsby?"
The stationer's heart begins to thump heavily, for his old apprehensions have never abated.  It is as much as he can do to
answer, " No, sir, I can't say that I do.  I should have considered
-not to put too fine a point upon it-that I never saw you before, sir."
" Twice before," says Allan Woodcourt.  "Once at a poor bedside, and once-"
"It's come at last!" thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection breaks upon him.  "It's got to a head now, and is going to
burst!"  But he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his
visitor Into the little counting-house, and to shut the door.




PBLEAK  HOUSE.                       713
"Are you a married man, sir?"
" No, I am not."
" Would you make the attempt, though single," says Mr. Snagsby in a melancholy whisper, " to speak as low as you can? For
my little woman is a listening somewhere, or I'll forfeit the business and five hundred pound!"
In deep dejection Mr. Snagsby sits down on his stool, with his
back against his desk, protesting:
"I never had a secret of my own, sir.  I can't charge my
memory with ever having once attempted to deceive my little
woman on my own account since she named the day. I wouldn't
have done it, sir.  Not to put too fine a point upon it, I couldn't
have done it, I durstn't h" - done it. Whereas, and nevertheless
I find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery, till my
life is a burden to me."
His visitor professes his regret to hear it, and asks himn does lie
remember Jo?  Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan,
0 don't he!
"You couldn't name an individual human being —except myself-that my little woman is more set and determined against
than Jo," says Mr. Snagsby.
Allan asks why?
"Why?" repeats Mr. Snagsby, in his desperation actually
clutching at the clump of hair at the back of his bald head,' How should I know why?  But you are a single person, sir,
and may you long be spared to ask a married person such a
question!"
With this beneficent wish, Mr. Snagsby coughs a cough of
dismal resignation, and submits himself to hear what the visitor
has to communicate.
"There again!" says Mr. Snagsby, who, between the earnestness of his feelings, and the suppressed tones of his voice, is discolored in the face. " At it again, in a new direction! A certain
person charges me, in the solemnest way, not to talk of Jo to any
one, even my little woman.  Then comes another certain person,
in the person of yourself, and charges me, in an equally solemn
way, not to mention Jo to that other certain person above all
persons.  Why, this is a private asylum! Why, not to put too
fine a point upon it, this is Bedlam, sir "' says Mr. Snagsby.




714                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
But it is better than he expected, after all; being no explosion
of the mine below him, or deepening of the pit into which he has
fallen  And being tender-hearted, and affected by the account be
hears of Jo's condition, he readily engages to "look round," as
early in the evening as he can manage it quietly.  He looks
round very quietly, when the evening comes; but it may turn out
that Mrs. Snagsby is as quiet a manager as he.
Jo is very glad to see his old friend; and says, when they are
left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby, should
come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him.  Mr.
Snagsby, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays
upon the table half-a-crown: that magic balsam of his for all
kinds of wounds.
" And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquires the
stationer, with his cough of sympathy.
"I am  in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, " and don'4
want fbr nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think, Mr.
Sangsby! I'm wery sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do
it, sir."
The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and asks
him what it is that he is sorry for having done?
" Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady
as wos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of em never
says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being
ser good and my having been s' unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yes day, and she ses,'Ah Jo i' she ses.'We
thought we'd lost you, Jo!' she ses. And she sits down a smilin
so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having
done it, she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby.
AndMr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to turn away his own self.
And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to giv me somethink fur to ease
me, wot he's allus a doin on day and night, and wen he come a
bendin over me and a speakin up so bold, I see his tears a fallin,
Mr. Sangsby."
The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table.
Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his feelings.
"Wot I wos a thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, " wos
as you wos able to write wery large, p'raps?"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       715
" Yes Jo, please God," returns the stationer.
" Uncommon previous large, p'raps?" says Jo, with eagerness.
" Yes, my poor boy."
Jo laughs with pleasure.  "Wot I wos a thinkin on then,
Mr. Snagsby, wos, that wen I was moved on as fur as ever I
could go and couldn't be moved no furder, whether you might be
so good p'raps, as to write out, wery large so that any one could
see it anywheres, as that I wos wery truly hea.rty sorry that I
done it and that I never went fur to do it; and that though I
didn't know nothink at all I knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried
over it, and wos allus grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd
be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could be made
to say it wery large he might."
"It shall say it, Jo. Very large."
Jo laughs again.  "Thankee, Mr. Snagsby.  Its wery kind'of you, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore."
The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough,
slips down his fourth half-crown-he has never been so close to
a case requiring so many-and is fain to depart.  And Jo and
he, upon this little earth, shall meet no more. No more.
For the cart so hard to, draw, is near its journey's end, and
drags over stony ground. All round the clock, it labors up the
broken steeps, shattered and worn. Not many times can the sun
rise, and behold it still upon its weary road.
Phil Squod, with his smoky gunpowder visage, at once acts as
nurse and works as armorer at his little table in a corner; often
looking round, and saying with a nod of his green baize cap, and
an encouraging elevation of his one eyebrow, " You hold up, my
boy! Hold up!"  There, too, is Mr. Jarndyce many a time,
and Allan Woodcourt almost always; both thinking, much, how
strangely Fate has entangled this rough outcast in the web of
very different lives. There too, the trooper is a frequent visitor;
filling the doorway with his athletic figure, and, from his superfluity of life and strength, seeming to shed down temporary vigor
upon Jo, who never fails to speak more robustly in answer to.
his cheerful words.
Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt,
newly arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted
form.  After a while, he softly seats himself upon the bedside




716                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
with his face toward him-just as he sat in the law-writer's
room-and touches his chest and heart.  The cart had very
nearly given up, but labors on a little more.
The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. Phil has
stopped in a low clinking noise, with his little hammer in his
hand.  Mr. Woodcourt looks round with that grave professional
interest and attention on his face, and, glancing significantly at
the trooper, sig. s to Phil to carry his table out.  When the
little hammeri is next used, there will be a speck of rust upon it.
"Well, Jo! what is the matter?  Don't be frightened."
"I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round,
"I thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin.  An't there nobody
here but you, Mr. Woodcot?"
" Nobody."
"And I an't took back to Tom-all-Alone's.  Am I,, sir?"
"No."  Jo closes his eyes, muttering, " I'm wery thankful."
After watching him  closely a little while, Allan puts his
mouth very near his ear, and says to him  in a low, distinct
voice:
"Jo! Did you ever know a prayer?"
Never know'd nothink, sir."
"Not so much as one short prayer?"
" No, sir.  Nothink at all.  Mr. Chadbands he wos a prayin
wunst at Mr. Snagsby's and I heerd him, but he sounded
as if he wos a speakin' to his-self, and not to me.  He prayed a
lot, but Icouldn't make out nothink on it.  Different times there
wos other gernlmen come down Tom-all-Alone's a prayin, but
they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all
mostly sounded to be a talking to theirselves, or a passing blame
on the t'others, and not a talkin to us.  We never knowd
nothink.  I never know'd what it wos all about."
It takes him a long time to say this; and few but an expericnced and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand
him.  After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a
sudden, a strong effort to get out of bed.
"Stay, Jo, stay! What now?"'"It's time for mne to go to that there berryin ground, sir," ho
returns with a wild look.
"Lie dowin, and tell me.  What burying grcund, Jo?"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       717
"Where they laid him as wos wery good to me: wery good
to me indeed, he wos.  It's time for me to go down to that there
berryin ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him.  I wants
to go there and be berried. He used fur to say to me,'I am as
poor as you to-day Jo,' he ses.  I wants to tell him that I ant
as poor as him now, and have come there to be laid along with
him."
"By-and-by, Jo.  By-and-by."
"Ah! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself.  But
will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with
him?"
"I will, indeed."
" Thankee sir.  Thankee sir! They'll have to get the key of
the gate afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked.  And
there's a step there, as I used fur to clean with my broom.-It's.turned wery dark, sir.  Is there any light a-conin?"
" It is coming fast, Jo."
Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is
very near its end.
" Jo mny poor fellow!"
" I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm  a gropin-a gropin —
let me catch hold of your hand."
" Jo, can you say what I say?"
" I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good."
"()OR FATHER."
" Our Father!-yes, that's wery good, sir?"
" WHICH ART IN HEAVEN."
"Art in Heaven-is the light a-comin, six?"
" It is close at hand.  HALLOWED BE THY NAME!
" Hallowed be —thy-name "
The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!
Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead,
Right Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order.  Dead,
men and women, born with Heavenly compassion in your hearts.
And dying thus around us, every day!




CHAPTER XLVIII.
CLOSING IN.
THE place in Lincolnshire, has shut its many eyes again, and
the house in town is awake.  In Lincolnshire, the Dedlocks of
the past doze in their picture frames, and the low wind murmurs
through the long drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty
regularly. In town, the Dedlocks of the present rattle in their
fire-eyed carriages through the darkness of the night, and the
Dedlock Mercuries with ashes (or hair-powder) on their heads,
symptomatic of their great humility, loll away the drowsy mornings in the little windows of the hall. The fashionable world:
tremendous orb, nearly five miles round: is in full swing, and
the solar system works respectfully at its appointed distances.
Where the throng is thickest, where the lights are brightest,
where all the senses are ministered to with the greatest delicacy
and refinement, Lady Dedlock is.  From the shining heights she
has scaled and taken, she is never absent.  Though the belief
she of old reposed in herself, as one able to reserve whatsoever
she would under her mantle of pride, is beaten down; though
she has no assurance that what she is to those around her, she
will remain another day; it is not in her nature, when envious
eyes are looking on, to yield or to droop.  They say of her, that
she has lately grown more handsome and more haughty.  The
debilitated cousin says of her that she's beauty nough-tsetup
Shopofwomen —but rather larming kind.  Remindingmanfactinconvenient woman-who will getoutofbedandbawth'stablishinent-Shakspeare.
Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, looks nothing.  Now, as heretofore, he is to be found in doorways of rooms, with his limp white
cravat loosely twisted into its old-fashioned tie, receiving patronage from the Peerage and making no sign.  Of all men he is still
(718)




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        719
the last who might be supposed to have any influence upon nmy
Lady.  Of all women she is still the last who might be supposed
to have any dread of him.
One thing has been much on her mind since their late intei
view in his turret-room at Chesney Wold.  She is now decided,
and prepared to throw it off.' It is morning in the great world; afternoon according to the
little sun. The Mercuries, exhausted by looking out of window,
are reposing in the hall; and hang their heavy heads, gorgeous
creatures, like overblown sun-flowers. Like them too, they seem
to run to a deal of seed in their tags and trimmings.  Sir Leicester, in the library, has fallen asleep for the good of the country,
over the report of a Parliamentary committee.  My Lady sits in
the room in which she gave audience to the young man of the
name of Guppy.  Rosa is with her, and has been writing for her
and reading to her.  Rosa is now at work upon emrbroidering,
or some such pretty thing; and as she bends her head over it,
my Lady watches her in silence.  Not for the first time to-day.
" Rosa."
The pretty village face looks brightly up.  Then, seeing how
serious my Lady is, looks puzzled and surprised.
" See to the door.  Is it shut?"
Yes.  She goes to it and returns, and looks yet more surprised.
"I am about to place confidence in you, child, for I know I
may trust your attachment, if not your judgment.  In what I
am going to do, I will not disguise myself to you at least.  But
I confide in you.  Say nothing to any one of what passes between
us."
The timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to be trustworthy.
"Do you know," Lady Dedlock asks her, signing to her to
bring her chair nearer; " do you know, Rosa, that I am different
to you from what I am to any one?"
" Yes, my Lady.  Much kinder.  But then I often think I
know you as you really are."
" You often think you know me as I really am?  Poor child,
poor child!"
She says it with a kind of scorn-though not of Rosa-and
sits brooding, looking dreamily at her.
45




720                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
"Do you think, Rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me?
Do you suppose your being young and natural, and fond of nre,
and grateful to me, makes it any pleasure to me to have you neai
me?
"I don't know, my Lady; I can scarcely hope so.  But, with
all my heart, I wish it was so."
" It is so, little one."
The pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure, by the dark
expression on the handsome face before it.  It looks timidly for
an explanation.
" And if I were to say to-day, Go! Leave me! I should say
what would give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what
would leave me very solitary."
" My Lady! Have I offended you?"
" In nothing. Come here."
Rosa bends down on the footstool at my Lady's feet.  My
Lady, with that motherly touch of the famous Ironmaster night,
lays her hand upon her dark hair, and gently keeps it there.
" I told you, Rosa, that I wished you to be happy, and that I
would make you so if I could make any body happy on this earth.
I can not.  There are reasons now knownv to me, reasons in
which you have no part rendering it far better for you that you
should not remain here.  You must not remain here.  I have
determined that you shall not.  I have written to the father of
your lover, and he will be here to-day. All this I have done for
your sake."
The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses, and says what
shall she do, what shall she do, when they are separated!. Her
mistress kisses her on the cheek, and makes no other answer.
" Now, be happy, child, under better circumstances.  Be beloved, and happy!"
" Ah, my Lady, I have sometimes thought-forgive my being
so'free-that you are not happy."
"I'"
"Will you be more so, when you have sent me away?  Pray,
pray, think again.  Let me stay a little while!"
"I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake,
not my own.  It is done.  What I am  toward you, Rosa, is
what I am now-not what I shall be a little while hence.  Rl



BLEAK  HOUSE.                          721
member this, and keep my confidence.  Do so much for my sake,
and so all ends between us!"
She detaches herself fiom her simple-hearted companion, and
leaves the room.  Late in the afternoon, when she next appears
upon the staircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state.
As indifierent as if all passion, feeling, and interest, had beent
worn out in the earlier ages of the world, and had perished fiom
it surface with its other departed monsters.
Mercury has announced Mr. Rouncewell, which is the cause
of her appearance.  Mr. Rouncewell is not in the library; but
she repairs' to the library.  Sir Leicester is there, and she wishes
to speak to him first.
" Sir Leicester, I am desirous- but you are engaged."
" 0 dear no! Not at all.  Only Mr. Tulkinghorn."
Always at hand.  Haunting every place.  No relief or security from him for a moment.
"I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlcck.  Will you allow me to
retire?"
With a look that plainly says, " You know you have the power
to remain if you will," she tells him it is not necessary, and mnoves
toward a chair.  Mr. Tulkinghorn brings it a little forward for
her with his clumsy bow, and retires into a window opposite.
Interposed between her and the fading light of day in the now
quiet street, his shadow falls upon her, and he darkens all before
her.  Even so does lie darken her life.
It is a dull street, under the'best of circumstances; where the
two long rows of houses stare at ea.,h other with that severity,
that half a dozen of its greatest mansions seem  to have been
slowly stared into stone, rather than originally built in that
material.  It is a street of such dismal grandeur, so determined
not to condescend to liveliness, that the doors and windows hold
a gloomy state of their own in black paint and dust, and the
echoing mews behind have a dry and massive appearance, as if
they were reserved to stable the stone chargers of noble statues.
Complicated garnish of iron-work entwines itself over the flights
of steps in this awful street; and, from  these petrified bowers,
extintuishers for obsolete flambeaux gasp at the upstart gas.
Here and there a weak little iron hoop, through which bold boys
aspire to throw their friends' caps (its only present use), retains




i22                  BLEAK HOUSE.
its place among the rusty foliage, sacred to the memory of departed oil.  Nay, even oil itself, yet lingering at long intervals
in a little absurd glass pot, with a knob in the bottom like an
oyster, blinks and surks at newer lights every night, like its high
and dry master in the House of Lords.
Therefore there is not much that Lady Dedlock, seated in her
chair, could wish to see through the window in which Mr. Tulkinghorn stands.  And yet-and yet-she sends a look in that
direction, as if it were her heart's desire to have that figure
removed out of the way.
Sir Leicester begs his Lady's pardon.  She was about to say?
Only that Mr. Rouncewell is here (he has called by my
appointment), and that we had better make an end of the question of that girl. I am tired to death of the matter."
" What can I do-to-assist?" demands Sir Leicester, in some
considerable doubt.
" Let us see him here, and have done with it.  Will you tell
them to send him up?"
" Mr. Tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring.  Thank you.  Request," says Sir Leicester, to Mercury, not immediately remernbering the business term, "request the iron gentleman to walk
this way."
Mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, and
produces him.  Sir Leicester receives that ferruginous person,
graciously.
"I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell.  Be seated.  (My
solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn.)   My Lady was desirous, Mr.
Rouncewell," Sir Leicester skillfully transfers him  with a solemn wave of his hand, "was desirous to speak with you.Hem!"
"I shall be very happy," returns the iron gentleman "to give
my best attention to any thing Lady Dedlock does me the honor
to say."
As he turns toward her, he finds that the impression she
makes upon him is less agreeable than on the former occasion.
A distant, supercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her;
and there is nothing in her bearing, as there was before, to encourage openness.
"Pray, sir," says Lady Dedlock, listlessly, "may I be allowed




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        723
to inquire whether any thing has passed between you and your
son, respecting your son's fancy?"
It is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a
look upon him, as she asks this question.
"If my memory serves me, Lady Dedlock, I said, when I had
the pleasure of seeing you before, that I should seriously advise
my son to conquer that-fancy."  The Ironmaster repeats her
expression with a little emphasis.
"And did you?"
" 0  of course I did."
Sir Leicester gives a nod, approving and confirmatory. Very
proper.  The iron gentleman having said that he would do it,
was bound to do it.  No difference in this respect between the
base metals and the precious. Highly proper.
" And pray has he done so?"
" Really, Lady Dedlock, I can not make you a definite reply.
I fear not. Probably not yet. In our condition of life, we sometimes couple an intention with our-our fancies, which renders
them not altogether easy to throw off.  I think it is rather our
way to be in earnest."
Sir Leicester has a misgiving that there may be a hidden Wat
Tylerish meaning in this expression, and fumes a little.  Mr.
Rouncewell is perfectly good-humored and polite; but, within
such limits,'evidently adapts his tone to his reception.
"Because," proceeds my Lady, " I have been thinking of the
subject-which is tiresome to me."
"I am very sorry, I am sure."
"And also of what Sir Leicester said upon it, in which I quite
concur;" Sir Leicester flattered; "and if you can not give us
the assurance that this fancy is at an end, I have come to the
conclusion that the girl had better leave me."
"I canl give no such assurance, Lady Dedlock.  Nothing of
the kind."
"Then she had better go."
"Excuse me, my Lady," Sir Leicester considerately nterposes,
"but perhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman,
which she has not merited.  Here is a young woman," says Sir
Leicester, magnificently laying out the matter with his right
hand, like a service of plate, "whose good fortune it is to havo




724                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
attracted the notice and favor of an eminent lady, and to live,
under the protection of that eminent lady, surrounded by the various advantages which such a position confers. and which are unquestionably very great-I believe unquestionably very great, sir-for
a young woman in that station of life.  The question then arises,
should that young woman be deprived of these many advantages
and that good fortune, -simply because she has;" Sir Leicester,
with an apologetic but dignified inclination of his head toward the
Ironmaster, winds up his sentence; "has attracted the notice of
Mr. Rouncewell's son? Now, has she deserved this punishment?
Is this just toward her?  Is this our previous understanding?"
" I beg your pardon," interposes Mr. Rouncewell's son's father.
"Sir Leicester, will you allow me?  I think I may shorten the
subject.  Pray dismiss that from your consideration.  If you remembered any thing so unimportant-which is not to be expected
-you would recollect that my first thought in the affair was
directly opposed to her remaining here."
Dismiss the Dedlock patronage from consideration?  0  Sir
Leicester is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handed
down to him through such a family, or he really might have mistrusted their report of the iron gentleman's observations.
" It is not necessary," observes my Lady, in her coldest manner, before he can do any thing but breathe amazedly, "to enter
into these matters on either side.  The girl is a very good girl;
I have nothing whatever to say against her; but she is so far insensible to her many advantages and her good fortune, that she
is in love-or supposes she is, poor little fool-and unable to appreciate them."
Sir Leicester begs to observe, that wholly alters the case. He
might have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and
reasons in support of her view. He entirely agrees with my
Lady.  The young woman had better go.
"As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last occasion when we were fatigued by this business," Lady Dedlock languidly proceeds, "we can not make conditions with you.  Without conditions, and under present circumstances, the girl is quite
misplaced here, and had better go. I have told her so.  Would
you wish to have her sent back to the village, or would you like
to take her with you, or what would you prefer?"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                          725
"Lady Dedlock, if 1 may speak plainly-"' By all means."
"-  I should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve
you ofthe incumbrance, and remove her from her present position."
"And to speak as plainly," she returns,,with the same studied
carelessness, "so should I.  Do I understand that you will take
her with you,?"
The iron gentleman makes an i'on bow.
"Sir Leicester, will you ring?" Mr. Tulkinghorn steps for.
ward from his window and pulls the bell. "I had forgotten you.
Thank you."  He makes his usual bow, and goes quietly back
again.  Mercury, swift-responsive, appears, receives instructions
whom to produce, skims away, produces the aforesaid and departs.
Rosa has been crying, and is yet in distress.  On her coming
in, the Ironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm  in his, and
remains with her near the door ready to depart.
"You are taken charge of, you see," says my Lady, in her weary
manner, " and are going away, well protected. I have mentioned
that you are a very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for."
" She seems after all," observes Mr. Tulkinghorn loitering a'ittle forward with his hands behind him, "as if she were crying
at going away."
"Why, she is not well-bred, you see," returns Mr. Rouncewell
with some qiickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have
the lawyer to retort upon; " and she is an inexperienced little
thing, and knows no better.  If she had remained here, sir, she
would have improved no doubt."
"No doubt," is Mr. Tulkinghorn's composed reply.
Rosa sobs out that she is very sorr-y to leave my Lady, and that
she was happy at Chesney Wold, ana has been happy with my
Lady, and that she thanks my Lady over and over again. " Out
you silly little puss!" says the Ironmaster, checking her in a loA
voice, though not angrily; " have a. spirit, if you're fond of Wat!"
My Lady merely waves her off with illdi ftrence, saying " There,
there, child! You are a good girl.  Go away!"  Sir Leicester
has magnificently disengaged himself from the subject, and retired
into the sanctuary of his blue coat.  Mr. Tulkinghorn, an indistinct form against the dark street now dotted with lamps, looms
in my Lady's view bigger and blacker than before.




726                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Rouncewell, alter
a pause of a few momenets, " I beg to take my leave with an apology for having again troubled you, though not of my own act, on
this tiresome subject. I can very well understand, I assure you,
how tiresome so small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock.  If I am doubtful of my dealing with it, it is only because
I (lid not at first quietly exert my influence to take my young
friend here away, without troubling you at all.  But it appeared
to me-I dare say magnifying the importance of the thing-that
it was respectful to explain to you how the matter stood, and
candid to consult your wishes and convenience. I hope you will
excuse my want of acquaintance with the polite world."
Sir Leicester considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary by
these remarks.  "Mr. Rouncewell," he returns, " do not mention
it. Justifications are unnecessary, I hope, on either side.
" I am glad to hear it, Sir Leicester; and if I may, by way of
a last word, revert to what I said before of my mother's long connection with the family, and the worth it bespeaks on both sides,
I would point out this little instance here on my arm. Who shows
herself so affectionate and faithful in parting, and in whom my
mother, I dare say, has done something to awaken such feelingsthough of course Lady Dedlock, by her heartfelt interest and her
genial condescension, has done much more."
If he rlean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. He
points it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward manner of speech, though in saying it he turns toward that part of
the dim room where my Lady sits.  Sir Leicester stands to return
his parting salutation, Mr. Tulkinghorn again rings, Mercury takes
another flight, and Mr. Rouncewell and Rosa leave the house.
Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn still
standing in his window with his hands behind him, and my Lady
still sitting with his figure before her, closing up her view of the
night as well as of the day.  She is very pale. Mr. Tulkirighorn
observing it as she rises to retire, thinks, "Well she may be 
The power of this woman is astonishing. She has been acting a
part the whole time."  But he can act a part too-his one
unchanging character-and as he holds the door open for this
woman, fifty pairs of eyes, each fifty times sharper than Sir
Leicester's pair, should find no flaw in him.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       727
Lady Dedlock dines alone in her own room to-day. Sir Leicester is whipped in to the rescue of the Doodle Party, and the
discomfiture of the Coodle Faction. Lady Dedlock asks, on sitting down to dinner, still deadly pale (and quite an illustration of
the debilitated cousin's text), whether he is gone out?   Yes.
Whether Mr. Tulkinghorn is gone yet? No. Presently she asks
again, is hegone yet?  No. What is he doing? Mercury thinks
he is writing'letters in the library. Would my Lady wish to see
him?  Any thing but that.
But he wishes to see my Lady.  Within a few more minutes,
he is reported as sending his respects, and could my Lady please
to receive him for a word or two after her dinner? My Lady will
receive him now.  He comes now apologizing for intruding, even
by her permission, while she is at table. When they are alone,
my Lady waves her hand to dispense with such mockeries.
"What do you want, sir?"
"Why, Lady Dedlock," says the lawyer, taking a chair at a
little distance from her, and slowly rubbing his rusty legs up and
down, up and down, up and down; "I am rather surprised by
the course you have taken."
" Indeed?"
" Yes, decidedly.  I was not prepared for it.  I consider it a
departure from our agreement and your promise. It puts us in
a new position, Lady Dedlock. I feel myself under the necessity
of saying that I don't approve of it."
He stops in his rubbing, and looks at her, with his hands on
his knees and his head on one side. Imperturbable and unchangeable as he is, there is still an indefinable freedom in his manner,
which is new, and which does not escape this woman's observation.
"I do not quite understand you,"
0 yes you do, I think.  I think you do.  Come, come, Lady
Dedlock, we must not fence and parry now. You know you like
this girl!"
"Well, sir?"
"And you know-and I know-that you have not sent her
away for the reasons you have assigned, but for the purpose of
separating her as much as possible from-excuse my mentioning
it as a matter of business-any reproach, and exposure that impend over yourself."




728                  BLEAK  IIOUSE.
" Well, sir?"
"Well, Lady Dedlock," returns the lawyer, crossing his legs and
nursing the uppermost knee, " I object to that.  I consider that a
dangerous proceeding. I know it to be unnecessary, and calculated to awaken speculation, doubt, rumor, I don't know what,
in the house.  Besides, it is a violation of our agreement.  You
were to be exactly what you were before. Whereas, it must be
evident to yourself; as it is to me, that you have been this even
ing very diflerent from  what you were before.  Why, bless my
soul Lady Dedlock, transparently so!"
" If, sir," she begins, " in my knowledge of my secret-"  But
he interrupts her.
"Now, Lady Dedlock, this is a matter of business, and in a
matter of business the ground can not be kept too clear.  It is no
longer your secret.  Excuse me! That is just the mistake.  It
is my secret, in trust for Sir Leicester and the family.  If it were
your secret, Lady Dedlock, we should not be here holding this
conversation."
" That is very true.  If, in my knowledge of the secret, I do
what I can to spare an innocent girl (especially, remembering
your own reference to her when you told my story to the assembled
guests at Chesney Wold) from the taint of my impending shame,
I act upon a resolution I have taken. Nothing in the world, and
no one in the world, could shake it, or could move me." This
she says with great deliberation and distinctness, and with no
more outward passion than himself. As for him he methodically
discusses his matter of business, as if she were any insensible
instrument used in business.
" Really?  Then you see Lady Dedlocl," he returns, " you are
not to be trusted.  You have put the case in a perfectly plain
way, and according to the literal fact; and, that being the case,
you are not to be trusted."'Perhaps you may remember that I expressed some anxiety
on this same point, when we spoke at night at Chesney Wold?"
" Yes," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, cooly getting up and standing
on the hearth.  " Yes.  I recollect, Lady Dedlock, that you certainly referred to the girl; but that was before we came to our
arrangement, and ooth the letter and the spirit of our arrangement altoethe.r precluded any action on your part, founded upon




11,LEAK  HOUSE.                       729
my discovery.  There can be no doubt about that.  As to sparing the girl, of what importance or value is she? Spare! Lady
Dedlock, here is a family name compromised.  One might have
supposed that the course was straight on-over every thing,
neither to the right nor to the left, regardless of all considerations
in the way, sparing nothing, treading every thing under foot."
She has been looking at the table. She lifts up her eyes, and
looks at him.. There is a stern expression on her face, and a part
of her lower lip is compressed under her teeth. " This woman
understands me." Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks, as she lets her glance
fall again.  "She can not be spared.  Why should she spare
others?"
For a little while they are silent. Lady Dedlock has eaten no
dinner, but has twice or thrice poured out water with a steady
hand and drunk it.  She rises from table, takes a lounging-chair,
and reclines in it, shading her face.  There is nothing in her
manner to express weakness or excite compassion. It is thoughtful, gloomy, concentrated. " This woman," thinks Mr. Tulkinghorn, standing on the hearth, again a dark object closing up her
view, " is a study."
He studies her at hisleisure, not speaking for a time.  She, too,
studies something at her leisure.  She is not the first to speak;
appearing indeed so unlikely to be so, though he stood there until
midnight, that even he is driven upon breaking silence.
"Lady Dedlock, the most disagreeable part of this business
interview remains; but it is business.  Our agreement is broken.
A  lady of your sense and strength of character will be prepared for my now declaring it void, and taking my own course."
"I am quite prepared."
Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head.  "That is all I have to
trouble you with, Lady Dedlock."
She stops him  as he is moving out of the room, by asidng,
"This is the notice I was to receive?  I wish not to'misappre.
hend you!"
" Not exactly the notice you were to receive, Lady Dedlock,
because the contemplated notice supposed the agreement to have
been observed.  But virtually the same, virtually the same.  The
diflirence is merely in a lawyer's mind."
"You intend to give me no other notice?"




730                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
"You are right.  No."
"' Do you contemplate undeceiving Sir Leicester to-night.'
"A  home question!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn, with a slight
smile, and cautiously shaking his head at the shaded face.
"No, not to-night."
"To-morrow."
"Ali things considered, I had better decline answering that
question, Lady Dedlock.  If I were to say I don't know when,
exactly, you would not believe me, and it would answer no purpose. It may be to-morrow.  I would rather say no more.  You
are prepared, and I hold out no expectations which circumstances
might fail to fulfill.  I wish you good-evening."
She removes her hand, turns her pale face toward him as he
walks silently to the door, and stops him once again as he is about
to open it.
" Do you intend to remain in the house any time? I heard
you were writing in the library.  Are you going to return
there?"
"Only for my hat.  I am going home."
She bows her eyes rather than her head, the movement is so
slight and curious; and he withdraws.  Clear of the room, he
looks at his watch, but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or
thereabouts. There is a splendid clock upon the staircase, famous,
as splendid clocks not often are, for its accuracy.  " And what do
you say," Mr. Tulkinghorn inquires, referring to it.  "What do
you say?"
If it said now, " Don't go'home!"  What a famous clock,
hereafter, if it said to-night of all the nights that it has counted
off, to this old man of all the young and old men who have ever
stood before it, " Don't go home!"  With its sharp clear bell, it
strikes three-quarters after seven, and ticks on again.  "Why,
you are worse than I thought you," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, muttering reproof to his watch.  "Two minutes wrong?  At this
rate you won't last my time." What a watch to return good for
evil, if it ticked in answer, "Don't go home!"
He passes out into the streets, and walks on, with his hands
behind him, under the shadow of the lofty houses, many of whose
mysteries, difficulties, mortgages, delicate affairs of all kinds, are
treasured up within his old black satin waistcoat.  He is in the




BLEAK HOUSE.                         731
confidence of the very bricks and mortar. The high chimneystacks telegraph family secrets to him.  Yet there is not a voice.in a mile of them to whisper, " Don't go home!"
Through the stir and motion of the commoner streets; through
the roar and jar of many vehicles, many feet, many voices; with
the blazing shop-lights lighting him  on, the west wind blowing him  on, and the crowd pressing him  on; he is pitilessly
urged upon his way, and nothing meets him, murmuring, "Don't
go home I"  Arrived at last in his dull room, to light his candles,
and look round and up, and see the Ioman pointing from the
ceiling, there is no new significance in the Roman's hand to-night,
or in the flutter of the attendant groupes, to give him the late
warning, " Don't come here!"
It is a moonlight night; but the moon being past the full, is
only now rising over the great wilderness of London.  The stars
are shining as they shone above the turret-leads at Chesney
Wold.  This woman, as he has of late been so accustomed to call
her, looks out upon them.  Her soul is turbulent within her; she
is sick at heart, and restless.  The large rooms are too cramped
and close.  She can not endure their restraint, and will walk
alone in a neighboring garden.
Too capricious and imperious in all she does, to be the cause
of much surprise in those about her as to any thing she does, this
woman, loosely muffled, goes out into the moonlight.  Mereury
attends with the key.  Having opened the garden gate, he delivers the key into his Lady's hand at her request, and is bidden
to go back.  She will walk there some time, to ease her aching
head.  She may be an hour; she may be more.  She needs
no further escort.  The gate shuts upon its spring with a clash,
and he leaves her, passing on into the dark shade of some
trees.
A fine night, and a bright large moon, and multitudes of stars
Mr. Tulkinghorn, in repairing to his cellar, and in openilg and
shutting those resounding doors, has to cross a little prison-like
yard; and he looks up casually, thinking what a fine night,
what a bright large moon, what multitudes of stars! A quiet
night, too.
A very quiet night.  When the moon shines very brilliantly,
a solitude and stillness seem to proceed from her, that influence




732                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
even crowded places full of life.  Not only is it a still night on
dusty high roads and on the hill summits, whence a wide expanse of country may be seen in repose, quieter and quieter as it
spreads away into a fringe of trees against the sky, with the gray
ghost of a bloom upon them; not only is it a still night in gardelns and in woods, and on the river where the water-meadows
are fresh and green, and the stream  sparkles on among pleasant
islands, murmuring weirs, and whispering rushes; not only does
the stillness attend' it as it flows where houses cluster thick,
where nmany bridges are reflected in it, where wharves and shipping make it black and awful, where it winds from these disiigurements through marshes  whose grinm  eacons stand like
skeletons washed ashore, where it expands through the bolder
region of rising grounds rich in corn-field, windmill and steeple,
and where it iningles with the ever-heaving sea; not only is it
a still night on the deep, and on the shore where the watcher
stands to see the ship with her spread wings cross the path of
light that appears to be presented to only him;-but even on
this stranger's wilderness of London there is some rest.  Its
steeples and towers, and its one great domre, grow more ethereal;
its smoky house-tops lose their grossness, in the pale eflulgence;
the noises that arise from the streets are fewer and are softened,
and the footsteps on the pavements pass more tranquilly away.
In these fields of Mr. Tulkinghorn's inhabiting, where the shepherds play on Chancery pipes that have no stop, and keep their
sheep in the fold by hook and by crook until they have shorn them
exceeding close, every noise is merged this moonlight night into a
distant ringing hum, as if the city were a vast glass, vibrating.
What's that?  Who fired a gun or pistol?  Where was it?
The few fbot-passengers start, stop, and stare about them.
Some windows and doors are opened, and people come out to look.
It was a loud report, and echoed and rattled heavily.  It shook
one house, or so a man says who was passing.  It has aroused
all the dogs in the neighborhood, who bark vehemently.  Terrified cats scamper across the road.  While the dogs are yet barking and howling —there is one dog howling like a demon —the
church-clocks, as if they were startled too, begin to strike.. The
hurn fiom the streets likewise seems to swell into a shout.  But
it is soon over.  Before the last clock begins to strike ten, there




BLEAK HOUSE.                           733
is a lull.  When it has ceased, the fine night, the bright large
moon, and multitudes of stars, are left at peace again.
Has Mr. Tulkinghorn been disturbed?  His windows are dark
and quiet, and his door is shut.  It must be something unusual'indeed, to bring himn out of his shell.  Nothing is heard of him,
nothing is seen of him.  What power of cannon might it take to
shake that rusty old man out of his immovable composure?
For many years, the persistent Roman has been pointing, with
no particular meaning, from that ceiling.  It is not likely that
lhe has any new meaning in him to-night.  Once pointing, always pointing-like any Roman, or even Briton, with a single
idea.  There he is, no doubt, in his impossible attitude, pointing
unavailiagly, all night long.  Moonlight, darkness, dawn, sunrise, day.  There he is still, eagerly pointing, and no one minds
him.
But, a little after the coming of the (lay, come people to clean
the rooms.  And either the Roman has some new meaning in
him, not expressed before, or the foremost of them goes wild; for,
looking up at his outstretched hand, and looking down at what
is below it, that person shrieks and flies.  The others, looking in
as the first one looked, shriek and fly too, and there is an alarm
in the street.
What does it mean?  No lilght is admitted into the darkened
chamber, and people, unaccustomed to it, enter, and treading
softly, but heavily, carry a weight into the bed-room, and lay it
down.' There is whispering and wondering all day, strict search
of every corner, careful tracing of steps, and careful noting of
the disposition of every-article of furniture.  All eyes look up at
the Roman, and all voices murmur, " If he could only tell what
he saw I"
He is pointing at a table, with a bottle (nearly full of wine)
and a glass upon it, and two candles that were blown out suddenly, soon after being lighted.  He is pointing at an empty chair,
and at a stain upon the ground before it, that might be almost
covered with a hand.  These objects lie directly within his range.
An excited imagination might suppose that there was something
in them so terrific, as to drive the rest of the composition, not
only the attendant big-legged boys, but the clouds and flowers
and pillars too-in short, the very body and soul of Allegory and




734                 BLEAK HOUSE.
all the brains it has-stark mad.  It happens surely that every
one who comes into the darkened room and looks at these things,
looks up at the Roman, and that he is invested in all eyes with
mystery and awe, as if he were a paralyzed dumb witness.
So, it shall happen surely through many years to come, that
ghostly stories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to
be covered, so hard to be got out; and that the Roman, pointing
from  the ceiling, shall) point, so long as dust and damp and
spiders spare him, with far greater significance than he ever had
in Mr. Tulkinghorn's time, and with a deadly meaning.  For
Mr. Tulkinghorn's time is over for evermore; and the Roman
pointed at the murderous hand uplifted against his life, and
pointed helplessly at him from night to morning, lying face down.
ward on the floor, shot through the heart.




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CHAPTER XLIX.
DUTIFUL FRIENDSHIP.
A GREAT annual occasion has come round in the establishment
of Mr. Joseph Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitae, ex-artilleryman
and present bassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival.
The celebration of a birth-day in the family.
It is not Mr. Bagnet's birth-day.  Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishes that epoch in the musical instrument business, by kissing the children with an extra smack before breakfast, smoking
an additional pipe after dinner, and wondering toward evening
what his poor old mother is thinking about it-a subject of
infinite speculation, and rendered so by his mother having departed this life twenty years.  Some men rarely revert to their
father, but seem, in the bank-books of their remembrance, to
have transferred all their stock of filial affection into their
mother's name.  Mr. Bagnet is one of these.  Perhaps his exalted appreciation of the merits of the old girl, causes him usually to make the noun-substantive, Goodness, of the feminine
gender
It is not the birth-day of one of the three children. Those occasions are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarely
overleap the bounds of Happy returns and a pudding.  On young
Woolwich's last birth-day, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observirg upon his growth and general advancement, proceed, in a
moment of profound reflection on the changes wrought by time,
to examine him in the catechism; accomplishing with extreme
accuracy the questions number one and two, What is your name?
46                                             (73.5)




736                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
and Who gave you that name? but there failing in the exact
precision of his memory, and substituting for number three, the
question. And how do you like that name? which he propounded
with a sense of its importance, in itself so edifying and improving, as to give it quite the air of a Fortieth Article.  This, however, was a speciality on that particular birth-day, and not a
generic solemnity.
It is the old girl's birthday; and that is the greatest holiday
and reddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet's calendar. The auspicious
event is always commemorated according to certain forms, settled
and prescribed by Mr. Bagnet some years since.  Mr. Bagnet
being deeply convinced that to have a pair of fowls for dinner
is to attain the highest pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes
forth himself very early in the morning of this day to buy a pair;
he is, as invariably, taken in by the vendor, and installed in the
possession of the oldest inhabitants of any coop in Europe.  Returning with these triumphs of toughness tied up in a clean blue
and white cotton handkerchief (essential to the arrangements), he
in a casual manner invites Mrs. Bagnet to declare at breakfast
what she would like for dinner. Mrs. Bagnet, by a coincidence
never known to fail, replying Fowls, Mr. Bagnet instantly produces his bundle from  a place of concealment, amid general
amazement and rejoicing.  He further requires that the old girl
shall do nothing all day long, but sit in her very best gown, and
be served by himself and the young people. As he is not illustrious for his cookery, this may be supposed to be a matter of state
rather than enjoyment on the old girl's part; but she keeps her
state with all imaginable cheerfulness.
On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the
usual preliminaries.  He has bought two specimens of poultry,
which, if there be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught
with chaff, to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and
rejoiced the family by their unlooked-for production: he is
himself directing the roasting of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnet,
with her wholesome brown fingers itching to prevent what she
sees going wrong, sits in her gown of ceremony, an honored guest.
Q.uebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich,




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        737
serving, as oeseems him., under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. To these young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts
a wink, or a shake of the head, or a crooked face, as they make
mistakes.
"At half-after one."  Says Mr. Bagnet.  "To the minute.
They'll be done."
Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a stand-still
before the fire, and beginning to burn.
"You shall have a dinner, old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, " fit for
a queen."
Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the perception of her son betrays so much uneasiness of spirit, that he is
impelled by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes,
what is the matter?-thus standing, with his eyes wide open,
more oblivious of the fowls than before, and not affording the
least hope of a return of consciousness.  Fortunately, his elder
sister perceives the cause of the agitation in Mrs. Bagnet's breast,
and with an admonitory poke recalls him.  The stopped fowls
going round again, Mrs. Bagnet closes her eyes, in the intensity
of her relief.
"George will look us up," says Mr. Bagnet.  "At half-after
four.  To the moment.  How many years, old girl.  Has George
looked us up. This afternoon?"
" Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a
young one, I begin to think..  Just about that, and no less,"
returns Mrs. Bagnet; laughing, and shaking her head.
"Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet.  "Never mind.  You'd be as
young as ever you was.  If you wasn't younger.  Which you are.
As every body knows."
Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that
Bluffy is sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate
on what it will be.
"Do you know, Lignum," says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance
on the table-cloth, and winking "salt!" at Malta with her
right eye, and shaking the pepper away from  Quebec with
her head; "I begin to think George is in the roving way
again."




,73S                 D  E` BLEAK  IOITTSE-.
"George," returns Mr. Bagnet, " will never desert  And leave
his old comrade.  In the lurch.  Don't be afraid of it."
"No, Lignum.  No.  I don't say he will.  I don't think he
will.  But if he could get over this money-trouble of' iis, I believe
he would be off."
Mr. Bagnet asks why?
"Well," returns his wife, considering, "George seems to
me to be getting not a little impatient and restless.  I don't
say but what he's as free as ever.  Of course lie must be
fiee, or he wouldn't be George; but he smarts, and seems put
out."
" He's extra-drilled," says Mr. Bagnet.  " By a lawyer. Who
would put the devil out."
"There's something in that," his wife assents; " but so it is,
Lignum."
Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessity under which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole
force of his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by
the dry humor of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by
the made-gravy acquiring no flavor, and turning out of a flaxen
complexion.  With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble
off forks in the process of peeling, upheaving fiom their centres in,very direction, as if they were subject to earthquakes.  The
legs of the fowls, too, are longer than could be desired, and extremely scaly.  Overcoming these disadvantages to the best of
his ability, Mr. Bagnet at last dishes, and they sit down at
table; Mrs. Bagnet occupying the guest's place at his right
hand.
It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a
year, for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious.
Every kind of finer tendon and ligament that it is in the nature
of poultry to possess, is developed in these specimens in the singular form of guitar-strings.  Their limbs appear to have struck
roots into their breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into
the earth.  Their legs are so hard, as to encourage the idea that
they must have devoted the greater part of their long and ariuous lives to pedestrian exercises, and the walking of matches.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        739
But Mr. Bagnet, unconscious of these little defects, sets his
heart on Mrs. Bagnet eating a most severe quantity of the
delicacies before her; an(t as that good old girl would not
cause him a moment's disappointment on any day, least of all
on such a day, for any consideration, she imperils her digestion
fearfully.  How young Woolwich cleans the drum-sticks without being of ostrich descent, his anxious mother is at a loss to
understand.
The old gill has another trial to undergo after the conclusion
of the repast, in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth
swept, and the dinner-service washed up, and polished.i the
back yard.  The great delight and energy with which the two
young ladies apply themselves to these duties, turning up their
skirts in imitation of their mother, and skating in and out on little
scaffolds of pattens, inspire the highest hopes for the future, but
some anxiety for the present. The same causes lead to a confusion of tongues, a clattering of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs,
a whiskinlg of brooms, and an expenditure of water, all in excess;
while the saturation of the young ladies themselves is almost too
moving a spectacle for Mrs. Bagnet to look upon, with the calmness proper to her position.  At last the various cleansing processes are triumphantly completed; Quebec and Malta appear
in fresh attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco, and something
to drink, are placed upon the table; and the old girl enjoys the
first peace of mind she ever knows on the day of this delightful
entertainment.
When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock
are very near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr.
Bagnet announces,
George! Military time!"
It is George; and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl
(whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and
for Mr. Bagnet.  " Happy returns to'all!" says Mr. George.
" But, George, old man!" says Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him
curiously.  "What's come to you?"
" Come to me?"
" Ah!  you are so white, George-for you-and look so shocked.
Now don't he, Lignum?'




740                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
"George," says Mr. Bagnet, "tell the old girl what's the
matter."
"I didn't know I looked white," says the trooper, passing his
hand over his brow, " and I didn't know I looked shocked, and
I'm sorry I do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at
my place died yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked
me over."
"Poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet, with a mother's pity. "Is
he gone? Dear, dear!"
"I didn't mean to say any thing about it, for it's not birthday talk, but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit
down.  I should have roused up in a minute," says the trooper,
making himself speak more gayly, " but ybu're so quick, Mrs.
Bagnet."
"You're right! The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet.  "Is as quick.
As powder."
"And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll
stick to her," cries Mr. George.  "See here, I have brought a
little brooch along with me.  It's a poor thing, you know, but
it's a keepsake. That's all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet."
Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a
species of reverential admiration by Mrs. Bagnet.  "Old girl,"
says, Mr. Bagnet.  "Tell him my opinion of it."
"Why, it's a wonder, George!" Mrs. Bagnet exclaims.  "It's
the beautifullest thing that ever was seen."
"Good!" says Mr. Bagnet.  "My opinion."
"It's so pretty, George," cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on all
sides, and holding it out at arm's length, " that it seems too choice
for me."
"Bad!" says Mr. Bagnet.  " Not my opinion."
"But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," says Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure,
and her hand stretched out to him; " and though I have been
a cross-grained soldier's wife to you sometimes, George, we
are as strong friends I am  sure, in reality, as ever can be.
Now you shall fasten it on yourself, for good luck, if you will,
George."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        741
The children close up to see it done, and  Mr. Bagnet
looks over young Woolwich's head to see it done, with an
interest so maturely wooden, yet so pleasantly childish, that
Mrs. Bagnet can not help laughing in her airy way, and saying, "    Lignun, Lignum, what a preciouls old chap you
are!"  But the trooper fails to fasten the brooch.  His hand
shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off.  "Would any one believe this?" says he, catching it as it drops, and looking
round.  "I am  so out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job
like this!"
Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no
remedy like a pipe; and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the trooper to be inducted into his usual snug
place, and the pipes to be got into action.  "If that don't bring
you round, George," says she, "just throw your eyellcross here
at your present now  and then, and the two together nmust
do it."'
You ought to do it of yourself," George answers; " I know
that very well, Mrs. Bagnet. I'll tell you how, one way and
another, the blues have got to be too many for me. Here was
this poor lad.'Twas dull work to see him dying as he did, and
not be able to help him."
" What do you mean, George?  You did help him.  You took
him under your roof."
" I helped him so far, but that's little.  I mean, Mrs. Bagnet,
there he was, dying without ever having been taught much
more than to know his right hand from his left.  And he was
too far gone to be helped out of that."
"Ah, poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet.
"Then," says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing his heayy hand over his hair, " that brought up Gridley in a
man's mind.  His was a bad case too.  Then the two got mixed
up in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do
with both.  And to think of that rusty carbine, stock and
barrel, standing up on end in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking
every thing so easy-it made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure
y advice to you," returns   rs. B        t, "is to light your
".My advice to you." returns Mrs. Bagnet, "is to light your




742                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
pipe, and tingle that way.  It's wholesomer, and comfortabler,
and better fbr the health altogether."
"You're right," says the trooper, " and I'll do it!"
So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that
impresses the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to
defer the ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health; always
given by himself, on these occasions, in a speech of exemplary
terseness. But the young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling "the mixtui," and George's pipe
being now in a glow, Mr. Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed
to the toast of the evening He addresses the assembled company
in the following terms.
"George.  Woolwich.  Quebec.  Malta.  This is her birthday.  Take a day's march.  And you won't find such another.
Here's tovwrds her!"
The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet
returns thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity.  This
model composition is limited to the three words " And wishing
yours!" which the old girl follows up with a nod at every body
in succession, and a well regulated swig of the mixture. This
she again follows up, on the present occasion, by the wholly
unexpected exclamation, " Here's a man!"
Here is a man, much to the astonishment of the little company, looking in at the parlor door.  He is a sharp-eyed man-a
quick, keen man-and he takes in every body's look at him, all at
once, individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him
a remarkable man.
"George," says the man, nodding, "how do you find yourself?"
" Why, it's Bucket!" cries Mr. George.
"Yes," says the man, coming in.  "I was going down the
street here, when I happened to stop and look in at the musical
instruments in the shop window-a friend of mine is in wants
of a second-hand wiolinceller, of a good tone-and I saw a
party enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner,; I thought I couldn't be mistaken.  How goes the world
with you, George, at the present moment?  Pretty smooth?
And with you, ma'am?   And with your governor?  And




BLEAK  HOUISE.                      743
Lord!" says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, "here's children
too!  You may do any thing with me, if you only show me
children.  Give us a kiss, my pets.  No occasion to inquire who
your father and mother is.  Never saw such a likeness in my
life "'
Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr.
George, and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees.  "You
pretty dears," says Mr. Bucket, " give us another kiss; it's the
only thing I'm  greedy in.  Lord bless you, how healthy you
look.! And what may be the ages of these two, ma'arn?  J
should put'em down at the figures of about eight and ten."
" You're very near, sir;" says Mrs. Bagnet.
"I generally am near," returns Mr. Bucket, " being so fond of
children.  A friend of mine has had nineteen of'em, ma'am, all
by one mother, and she's still as fresh and rosy as the morning.
Not so much so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near
it! And what do you call these, my darling?" pursues Mr.
Bucket, pinching Maltas cheek.  "These are peaches, these
are.  Bless your heart! And what do you think about father?
Do you think father could recommend a second-hand wiolinceller
of a good tone for Mr. Bucket's friend, my dear? My name's
Bucket. Ain't that a funny name?"
These blandishments have entirely won the family heart.
Mrs. Bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and
glass for Mr. Bucket, and waiting upon him hospitably.  She
would be glad to receive so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she tells him that as a friend of George's she is
particularly glad to see him this evening, for George has not been
in his usual spirits.
"Not in his usual spirits?" exclaims Mr. Bucket.  "iWhy,
I never heard of such a thing! What's the matter, George?
You don't intend to tell me you've been out of spirits.  What
should you be out of spirits for.  You haven't got any thing on
your mind, you knpw."
"Nothing particular," returns the trooper.
" I should think not," rejoins Mr. Bucket.  "What could you
have on your mind, you know! And have these pets got any
thing on their minds, eh?  Not they; but they'll be upon the




744                 BLEAK HOUSE.
minds of some of the young fellows, some of these days, and make
them precious low-spirited. I ain't much of a prophet, but I can
tell you that, ma'am."
Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of
his own.
" There, ma'am!" says Mr. Bucket.  "Would you believe it?
No, I haven't. My wife, and a lodger, constitute my fanily.
Mrs. Bucket is as fond of children as myself, and as wishful to
have'em; but no.  So it is.  Worldly goods are divided unequally, and man must not repine.  What a very nice back
yard, ma'am! Any way out of that yard, now?"
There is no way out of that yard.
"Ain't there really'?" says Mr. Bucket.  "I should have
thought there might have been.  Well, I don't know as I evel
saw a back yard that took my fancy more.  Would you allow
me to look at it?  Thank you.  No, I see there's no way out.
But what a very good-proportioned yard it is!"
Having cast his sharp eye all about it, Mr. Bucket returns to.his chair next his friend Mr. George, and pats Mr. George affectionately on the shoulder.
"How are your spirits, now, George?"
"All right now," returns the trooper.
"That's your sort!" says Mr. Bucket. "Why should you ever
have been otherwise?  A man of your fine figure and constitution has no right to be out of spirits.  That ain't a chest to be out
of spirits, is it, ma'am?  And you haven't got any thing on your
mind, you know, George; what could you have on your mind?"
Somewhat harping on this phrase, considering the extent and
variety of his conversational powers, Mr. Bucket twice or thrice
repeats it to the pipe he lights, and with a listening face that is
particularly his own. But the sun of his sociality soon recovers
fiom this brief eclipse, and shines again.
"And this is brother, is it, my dears?" says Mr. Bucket, referring to Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of
young Woolwich.  "And a nice brother he is-half brother I
mean to say.  For he's too old to be your's, ma'am."
" I can certify at all events that he is not any body else's,"
returns Mrs. Bagnet, laughing.




BLEAK HOUSE.                          715
" Well, you do surprise me! Yet he's like you, there's no
denying. Lord, he's wonderfully like you! But about what you
may call the brow, you know, there his father comes out!" Mr
Bucket compares the faces with one eye shut up, while Mr.
Bagnet smokes in stolid satisfaction.
This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnet to inform him, that the
boy is George's godson.
"George's godson, is he?" rejoins Mr. Bucket, with extreme
cordiality.  "I must shake hands over again with George's godson. Godfather and godson do credit to one another.  And what
do you intend to make of him, ma'am? Does he show any turn
for any musical instrument?"
Mr. Bagnet suddenly interposes, "Plays the Fife. Beautiful."
"Would you believe it, governor," says Mr. Bucket, struck by
the coincidence, " that when I was a boy I played the fife my
self?  Not in a scientific way, as I expect he does, but by ear.
Lord bless you! British Grenadiers-there's a tune to warm
an Englishman up!  Could you give us British Grenadiers, my
fine fellow?"
Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than this
call upon young Woolwich, who immediately fetches his fife and
performs the stirring melody: during which performance Mr.
Bucket, much enlivened, beats time, and never fails to come in
sharp with the burden, "Brit Ish Gra-a-anadeers!"  In short,
he shows so much musical taste, that Mr. Bagnet actually takes
his pipe from his lips to express his conviction that he is a singer.
Mr. Bucket receives the harmonious impeachment so modestly:
confessing how that he did once chant a little, for the expression
of the feelings of his own bosom, and with no presumptuous idea
of entertaining his friends: that he is asked to sing.  Not to be
behindhand in the sociality of the evening, he complies, and
gives them  " Believe me if all those endearing young charms."
This ballad, he informs Mrs. Bagnet in confidence, he considers to have been his most powerful ally in moving the heart
of Mrs. Bucket wlicn a maiden, and inducing her to approach
the altar-Mr. Bucket's own words are, to come up to the
scratch,
This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature




740                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
in the evening, that Mr. George, who testified no great emotions
of pleasure on his entrance, begins, in spite of himself, to be
rather proud of him.  He is so friendly, is a marl of so many
resources, and so easy to get on with, that it is something to
have made him  known there.  Mr. Bagnet becomes, after another pipe, so sensible of the value of his acquaintance, that he
solicits the honor of his company on the old girl's next birth-day.
If any thing can more closely cement and consolidate the esteem
which Mr. Bucket has formed for the family, it is the discovery
of the nature of the occasion.  He drinks to Mrs. Bagnet with a
warmth approaching to rapture, engages himself for that day
twelvemonth more than thankfully, makes a memorandum  of
the day in a large black pocket-book with a girdle to it, and
breathes a hope that Mrs. Bucket and Mrs. Bagnet may before then become, in a manner, sisters. As he says himself,
what is public life without private ties? He is in his humble
way a public man, but it is not in that sphere that he finds
happiness.  No, it must be sought within the confines of domestic bliss.
It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn,
should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising an acquaintance.  And he does.  He keeps very close to
him.  Whatever the subject of the conversation, he keeps a
tender eye upon him.  He waits to walk home with him.  He
is interested in his very boots; and observes even them attentively, as Mr. George sits smoking cross-legged in the chimneycorner.
At length, Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment
Mr. Bucket, with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises.
He dotes upon the children to the last, and remembers the commission he has undertaken for an absent friend.
"Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor-could
you recommend me such a thing?"
" Scores," says Mr. Bagnet.
"I am  obliged to you," returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his
hand.  "You're a friend in need.  A good tone, mind you! My
friend is a regular dab at it.  Ecod, he saws away at Mo-zart
and Handel, and the rest of the big-wigs, like a thorough work



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BLEAK  HOUSE.                        747
man..  And you needn't," says Mr. Bucket, in a considerate and'
private tone, "you needn't commit yourself to too low a figure,
governor.  I don't want to pay too. large a price for my friend;
but I want you to have your proper per centage, and. he paid for
your loss of time. That is but fair.  Every man must live, and
ought to it."
Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl, to the effect that
they have found a jewel of price.
"Suppose I was to give you a look in, say at half arter ten tomorrow morning.  Perhaps you coulI name the figures of a few
wiolincellers of a good tone?" says Mr. Bucket.
Nothing easier.  Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have
the requisite information ready, and even hint to each other at
the practicability of having a small stock collected there for approval.
"Thank you," says Mr. Bucket, "thank you.  Good-night,
ma'am.  Good-night, governor.  Good-night, darlings.  I am
much obliged to you for one of the pleasantest evenings I ever
spent in my life."
They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure he has given them  in his company.; and so they part with
many expressions of goodwill on both sides.  "Now, George,
old boy," says Mr. Bucket, taking his arm at the shop door,
" come along!" As they go down the little street, and the Bagnets pause for a minute looking after them, Mrs. Bagnet remarks
to the worthy Lignum that Mr. Bucket " almost clings to George
like, and seems to be really fond of him."
The neighboring streets being narrow and ill paved, it is a
little inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm-in-arm.
Mr. George therefore soon proposes to walk singly.  But Mr.
Bucket, who can not make up his mind to relinquish his friendly
hold, replies, "Wait half a minute., George.  I should wish to
speak to you first."  Immediately afterward, he twists him into
a public-house and into a parlor, where he confronts him, and
claps his back against the door.
"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket.  "Duty is duty, and'
friendship is friendship.  I never want the two to clash, if I can
help it. I have endeavored to make things pleasant, and I put




748                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
it to you whether I have done it or not.  You must consider
yourself in custody, George."
"Custody?  What for?" returns the trooper, thunderstruck.
"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, urging a sensible view of
the case upon him with his fat forefinger, "duty, as you kilow
very well, is one thing, and conversation is another.  It's my
duty to inform you that any observations you may' make will be
liable to be used against you. Therefore, George, be careful
what you say.  You don't happen to have heard of a rmur-der."
"Murder!"
" Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger in an
impressive state of action, "bear in mind what I've said to you.
I ask you nothing.  You have been in low spirits this afternoon.
- say, you don't happen to have heard of a murder."
"No.  Where has there been a murder?"
"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, " don't you go and commit
yourself. I'm  going to tell you what I want you for.  There
has been a murder in Lincoln's Inn Fields-gentleman of the
name of Tulkinghorn.  He was shot last night.  I want you for
that."
The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops
start out upon his forehead, and a deadly palor overspreads his
lace.
"Bucket! It's not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been
killed, and that you suspect me?"
"George," returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going,
"it is certainly possible, because it's the case. This deed was
done last night at ten o'clock.  Now, you know  where you
were last night at ten o'clock, and you'll be able to prove it, no
doubt."
"Last night?  Last night?" repeats the trooper, thoughtfully.
Then it flashes upon him.  " Why, great Heaven, I was there
last night!"
"So I have understood, George," returns Mr. Bucket, with
great deliberation.  "So I have understood.  Likewise you've
beei very often there.  You've been seen hanging about the
place, and you've been heard more than once in a wrangle with




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        749
him, and it's possible-I don't say it's certainly so, mind you,
but it's possible-that he may have been heard'to call you a
threatening, murdering, dangerous fellow."
The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all, if he could speak.
".Now, George," continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon
the table, with an air of business rather in the upholstery way
than otherwise, " My wish is, as it has been all the evening, to
make things pleasant.  I tell you plainly that there's a reward
out, of a hundred guineas, offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet.  You and me have always been pleasant together; but
I have got a duty to discharge; and if that hundred guineas is
to be made, it may as well be made by me as by another man.
On all of which accounts, I should hope it was clear to you that
I must have you, and that I'm damned if 1 don't have you.  Am
I to call in any assistance, or is the trick done?"
Mr. George has recovered himself, and stands up like a soldier.
" Come," he says; " I am ready."
" George," continues Mr. Bucket, " wait a bit!"  With his
upholsterer manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted
up, he takes from his pocket a pair of handcuffs.    This is a
serious charge, George, and such is,my duty."
The trooper flushes angrily, ard hesitates a moment; but
holds out his two hands clasped together, and says, " There
Put them on!"
Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment.  "How do you find
them?  iAre they comfortable?  If not, say so, for I wish to
make things as pleasant as is consistent with my duty, and I've
got another pair in my pocket." This remark he offers like a
most respectable tradesman, anxious to execute an order neatly,
and to the perfect satisfaction of his customer.  " They'll do as
they are? Very well! Now you see, George;" he takes a cloak
from a corner, and begins adjusting it about the trooper's neck;
"I was mindful of your feelings when 1 come out, and brought
this on purpose.  There! Who's the wiser?"
"Only I," returns the trooper; " but, as I am, do me one more
good turn, and pull my hat over my eyes."
"Really, though! Do you mean it?  Air't it a pity?  It
cloks so."




750                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
"I can't look chance men in the face with these things on,"
Mr. George hurriedly replies.  "Do, for God's sake, pull my hat
forward."
So strongly entreated, Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat on,
and conducts his prize into the streets; the trooper marching on
as steadily as usual, though with his head less erect; and Mr.
Bucket guiding him with his elbow over the crossings and up the
turnings.




CHAPTEIR L.
ESTHER'S NARRATIVE.
IT happened that when I came home from Deal, I found a
note fiom Caddy Jallyby (as we always continued to call her),
informing me that her health, which had been for some time
very delicate, was worse, and that she would be more glad than
she could tell me if I would go to see her.  It was a note of a
few lines, written fiom the couch on which she lay, and inclosed
to me in another from her husband, in which he seconded her
entreaty with much solicitude.  Caddy was now the mother,
and I the godmother, of such a poor little baby-such a tiny oldfaced mite, with a countenance that seemed to be scarcely any
thing but cap-border, and a little, lean, long-fingered hand, always
clenched under its chin;  It would lie in this attitude all day,
with its bright specks of eyes open, wondering (as I used to imagine) how it came to be so small and weak. Whenever it was
moved, it cried; but at all other times it was so patient, that
the sole desire of its life appeared to be, to lie quiet and think
It had curious little dark veins in its face, and curious little dark
marks under its eyes, like faint remembrances of poor Caddy's
inky days; and altogether, to those who were not used to it, it
was quite a piteous little sight.
But it was enough for Caddy that she was used to it.  The
projects with which she beguiled her illness, for little Esther's
education, and little Esther's marriage, and even for her own old
age as the grandmother of little Esther's little Esthers, were so
prettily expressive of devotion to this pride of her life, that I should
be tempted to recall some of them, but for the timely remembrance
that I am getting on irregularly as it is.
To return to the letter.  Cad.d  had a superstition about me,
47                                            (751)




752                 BLEAK HOUSE.
which had been strengthening in her mind ever since that night
long ago, when she had lain asleep with her head in my lap.
She almost-I think I must say quite-believed that I did her
good whenever I was near her.  Now, although this was such a
fancy of the affectionate girl's, that I am almost ashamed to
mention it, still it might have all the force of a fact when sht
was really ill. Therefore I set off to Caddy, with my Guardian'i
consent, post-haste; and she and Prince made so much of me,
that there never was any thing like it.
Next day I went again to sit with her, and next day I went
again.  It was a very easy journey; for I had only to rise a little
earlier in the morning, and keep my accounts, and attend to
house-keeping matters before leaving home.  But when I had
made these three visits, my Guardian said to me, on my return
at night:
" Now, little woman, little woman, this will never do. Constant dropping will wear asway a stone, and constant coaching
will wear out a Dame Durden.  We will go to London for a while
and take possession of our old lodgings."
" Not for me, dear Guardian," said I, " for I never feel tired;"
which was strictly true. I was only too happy to be in such request.
" For me then," returned my Guardian; " or for Ada, or for
both of us. It is somebody's birthday to-morrow, I think."
"Truly I think it is," said I, kissing my darling, who would
be twenty-one to-morrow.
"Well," observed my Guardian, half pleasantly, half seriously
" that's a great occasion, and will give my fair cousin some necessary business to transact in assertion of her independence, and
will make London a more convenient place for all of us. So to
London we will go.  That being settled, there is another thinghow have you left Caddy?"
"Very unwell, Guardian.  I fear it will be some time before
she regains her health and strength."
"What do you call some time, now?" asked my Guardian
thoughtfully.
"Some wesks, I am afraid."
"Ah!"  He began to walk about the room with his hands in
his pockets, showing that he had been thinking as much.' Now




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        753
what do you say about her doctor?  Is he a good doctor, my
love?"
I felt obliged to confess that I knew nothing to the contrary;
but that Prince and I had agreed only that evening, that we
would like his opinion to be confirmed by some one.
" Well, you know!" returned my Guardian, quickly, " there's
Woodcourt."
I had not meant that, and was rather taken by surprise. Fol
a moment, all that I had had in my mind in connection with
Mr. Woodcourt seemed to come back and confuse me.
"You don't object to him, little woman?"
" Object to him, Guardian?  Oh no?"
"And you don't think the patient would object to him?"
So far from that, I had no doubt of her being prepared to have
a great reliance on him, and to like him very much.  I said that
he was no stranger to her personally, for she had seen him often
in his kind attendance on Miss Flite."
"Very good," said my Guardian.  " He has been here to-day,
my dear, and I will see him about it to-morrow."
I felt, in this short conversation-though I did not know how,
for she was quiet, and we interchanged no look-that my dear
girl well remembered how merrily she had clasped me round the
waist, when no other hands than Caddy's had brought me the
little parting token.  This caused me to feel that I ought to tell
her, and Caddy too, that I was going to be the mistress of Bleak
House; and that if I avoided that disclosure any longer, I might
become less worthy in my own eyes of its master's leve.  Therefore, when we went up-stairs; and had waited listening until the
clocks struck twelve, in order that only I might be the first to
wish my darling all good wishes on her birthday, and to take her
to my heart, I set before"her, just as I had set before myself, the
goodness and honor of her cousin John, and the happy life that
was in store for me.  If ever my darling were fonder of me at
one time than at another in all our intercourse, she was surely
fondest of me that night.  And I was so rejoiced to know it, and
so comforted by the sense of having done right in casting this last
idle reservation away, that I was ten times happier than I had been
before.  I had scarcely thought it a reservation a few hours ago;
but now that it was gone, I felt as if I understood its nature better,




754                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
Next day we went to London. We found our old lodging
vacant, and in half an hohr were quietly established there, as if
we had never gone away.  Mr. Woodcourt dined with us, to celebrate my darling's birthday; and we were as pleasant as we
could be with the great blank among us that Richard's absence
naturally made on such an occasion.  After that day I was for
some weeks-eight or nine as I remember-very much with
Caddy; and thus it fell out that I saw less of Ada at this time
than any other since we had first come together, except the tirme
of my own illness.  She ofter came to Caddy's; but our function
there was to amuse and cheer her, and we did not talk in our
usual confidential manner.  Whenever I went home at night, we
were together; but Caddy's rest was broken by pain, and I often
remained to nurse her.
With her husband and her poor little mite of a baby to love,
and their home to strive for, what a good creature Caddy was!
So self-denying, so uncomplaining, so anxious to get well on their
account, so afraid of giving trouble, and so thoughtful of the
unassisted labors of her husband and- the comforts of old Mr.
Turveydrop; I had never known the best of her until now. And
it seemed so curious that her pale face and helpless figure should
be lying there day after day, where dancing was the business of
life; where the kit and the apprentices began early every morning in the ball-room, and where the untidy little boy waltzed by
himself in the kitchen all the afternoon.
At Caddy's request, I took the supreme direction of her. apartment, trimmed it up, and pushed her, couch and all, into a lighter
and more airy and more cheerful corner than she had yet occupied; then, every day, when we were in our neatest array I
used to lay my small namesake in her arms, and sit down to chat
or work, or read to her.  It was at one of the first of these quiet
times that I told Caddy about Bleak House.
We had other visitors besides Ada. First of all, we had Prince,
who in his hurried intervals of teaching used to come softly in
and sit softly down, with a face of loving anxiety for Caddy and
the very little child.  Whatever Caddy's condition really was,
she never failed to declare to Prince that she was all but wellwhich I, Heaven forgive me, never failed to confirm.  This would
put Prince in such good spirits, that he would sometimes take




BLEAK  HOUSE.                          75 
the kit fronm his pocket and play a chord or two to astonish the
baby-which I never knew it to do in the least degree, for mry
tiny namesake never noticed it at all.
Then there was Mrs. Jellyby.  She would come occasionally,
with her usual distraught manner, and sit calmly looking miles
beyond her grandchild, as if her attention were absorbed by a
young Borrioboolan on its native shores.  As bright-eyed as ever,
as serene, and as untidy, she would say, " Well Caddy, child, and
how do you do to-day?"  And then would sit amiably smiling,
and taking no notice of the reply; or would sweetly glide off into
a calculation of the number of letters she had lately received and
answered, or of the coffee-beariigr power of Borrioboola Gha.
This she would always do with a serene contempt for our limited
sphere of action, not to be disguised.
Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop, who was from morning
to night arnd from night to morning the subject of innumerable
precautions.  If the baby cried, it was nearly stifled lest the noise
should make him uncomfortable.  If the fire wanted stirring in
the night, it was surreptitiously done lest his rest should be broken.
If Caddy required any little comfort that the house contained, she
first carefully discussed whether he was likely to require it too.
In return for this consideration, he would come into the room
once a day, all but blessing it-showing a condescension, and a
patronage, and a grace of mariner, in dispensing the light of his
high-shouldered presence, from  which 1 might have supposed
him (if I had hot known better) to have been the benefactor of
Caddy's life.
"My Caroline," he would say, making the nearest approach
that he could to bending over her.  " Tell me that you are better
to-day."
"0 much better, thank you, Mr. Turveydrop," Caddy would
reply.
" Delighted! Enchanted! And our dear Miss Summerson.
She is not quite prostrated by fatigue?"  Here he would crease
uphis eyelids, and kiss his fingers to me; though I am halpply to
say he had ceased to be particular in his attentions, since I had
been so altered."
" Not at all," I would assure him.
"Charming! We must take care of our dear Caroline, Miss




750                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
Slunmerson.  We must spare nothing that will restore her.  Wo
must nourish her.  My dear Caroline;" he would turn to his
daughter-in-law with infinite generosity and protection; "want
for nothing, my love.  Frame a wish and gratify it, my daughter.
Every thing this house contains, every thing my room contains,
is at your service, my dear. Do not," he would sometimes add,
in a burst of Deportment, "even allow my simple requirements
to be considered, if they should at any time interfere with your
own, my Caroline.  Your necessities are greater than mine."
He had established such a long prescriptive right to this Deportment (his son's inheritance from his mother), that I several
times knew both Caddy and her husband to be melted to tears by
these affectionate self-sacrifices.
" Nay, my dears," he would remonstrate; and when I saw
Caddy's thin arm  about his fat neck as he said it, 1 would be
melted too, though not by the same process; "Nay, nay! I
have promised never to leave ye.  Be dutiful and affectionate
toward me, and I ask no other return.  Now, bless ye! I am
going to the Park."
He would take the air there, presently, and get an appetite for
his hotel dinner.  I hope I do old Mr. Turveydrop no wrong;
bi.t I never saw any better traits in him than these I faithfilly
record, except that he certainly conceived a liking for Peepy, and
would take the child out walking with great pomp-always, on
those occasions, sending him home before he went to dinner himself, and occasionally with a halfpenny in his pocket. But even
this disinterestedness was attended with no inconside-rable cost,
to my knowledge; for before Peepy was sufficiently decorated to
walk hand in hand with the professor of Deportment, he had to
te newly dressed, at the expense of Caddy and her husband, from
top to toe.
Last of our visitors, there was Mr. Jellyby. Really when he
used to come in of an evening, and ask Caddy in his meek voice
how she was, and then sit down with his head against the wall,
and make no attempt to say any thing more, I liked him very
much.  If he found me bustling about, doing any little thing,
he sometimes half took his coat off, as if with an intention of helpi:ng by a great exertion; but he never got any further.  His sole
occupation was to sit with his head against the wall, looking




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       757
lard at the thoughtful baby; and I could not quite divest my
mild of a i:tacy that they understood one another.
I have not counted Mr. Woodcourt among our visitors because
he was now Caddy's regular attendant.  She soon began to improve under his care; but he was so gentle, so skillful, so unwearyirg in the pains he took, that it is not to be wondered at, I am
sure.  I saw a good deal of Mr. Woodcourt during this time,
though not so much as might be supposed; for, knowing Caddy
to be safe in his hands, I often slipped home at about the hours
when he was expected.  We frequently met, notwithstanding.  I
was quite reconciled to myself now; but I still felt glad to think
that he was sorry for me, and he still was sorry for me I believed. He helped Mr. Badger in his professional engagements,
which were numerous; and had as yet no settled projects for the
future.
It was when Caddy began to recover, that I began to notice
a change in my dear girl. I can not say, how it first presented
itself to me; because I observed it in many slight particulars,
which were nothing in themselves, and only became something
when they were pieced together.  But I made out, by putting
them together, that Ada was not so frankly cheerful with me as
she used to be.  Her tenderness for me was as loving and true as
ever; I did not for a moment doubt that; but there was a quiet
sorrow about her which she did not confide to me, and in which
I traced some hidden regret.
Now I could not understand this; and I was so anxious for
the happiness of my own pet, that it caused me some uneasiness,
and set me thinking often.  At length, feeling sure that Ada
suppressed this something from me, lest it should make me unhappy too, it came into my head that she was a little grievedfor me-by what I had told her about Bleak House.
How I persuaded myself that this was likely, I don't know.
I had no idea that there was any selfish reference in my doing
so. I was not grieved for myself: I was quite contented and
quite happy.  Still, that Ada might be thinking-for mne, though
I had abandoned all such thoughts-of what once was, but was
now' all changed, seemed so easy to believe, that I believed it.
What could I do to reassure my darling (I considered then)
and show her that I had no such feelings?  Well! I could olly




758                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
be as brisk and busy as possible; and that, I had tried to,be all
along. However, as Caddy's illness had certainly interfered, more
or less, with my home duties-though I had always been there
in the morning to make my Guardian's breakfast, and he had a
hundred times laughed, and said there must be two little women,
for his little woman was never missing-I resolved to be doubly
diligent and gay. So I went about the house, humming all the
tunes I knew; and I sat working and working in a desperate
manner, and I talked and talked, morning, noon and night.
And still there was the same shade between me and my darling.
"So, Dame Trot," observed my Guardian shutting up his book,
one night when we were all three together; " so, Woodcourt
has restored Caddy Jellyby to the full enjoyment of life again?"
"Yes," I said; " and to be repaid by such gratitude as hers,
is to be made rich, Guardian."
" I wish it was," he returned, "with all my heart."
So did I too, for that matter.  I said so.
"Ay! We would make him as rich as a Jew, if we knew
how.  Would we not, little woman?"
I laughed as I worked, and replied that I was not sure about
that, fbr it might spoil him, and he might not be so useful, and
there might be many who could ill spare him.  As, Miss Flite,
and Caddy herself, and many others.
"True," said my Guardian.  "I had forgotten that.  But we
would agree to make him rich enough to live, I suppose?  Rich
enough to work with tolerable peace of mind? Rich enough to
have his own happy home, and his own household gods-and
household goddess too, perhaps?"
That was quite another thing, I said. We must all agree in
that.
"To be sure," said my Guardian.  "All of us. I have a
great regard for Woodcourt, a high esteem for him; and I have
been sounding him delicately about his plans. It is difficult to
offer aid to an independent man, with that just kind of pride
which he possesses. And yet I would be glad to do it if I might,
or if I knew how.  He seems half inclined for another voyage.
But that appears like casting such a man away."
"'It might open a new world to him," said I.




BLEAK  HOUSE                         759
"So it might, little woman," my Guardian assented.  "I doubt
if he expects much of the old world.  Do you know 1 have fancied that he sometimes feels some particular disappointment, or
misfortune, encountered in it.  You never heard of any thing of
that sort?"
I shook my.head.
" Humph," said my Guardian.  "I am mistaken, I dare say."
As there was a little pause here, which I thought, for my dear
girl's satisfaction, had better be filled up, I hummed an air as I
worked which was a favorite with my Guardian..
"And do you think Mr. Woodcourt will make another voyage?" I asked him,.when T had hummed ic quietly all through.' I don't quite know what to think, my dear, but I should say
it was likely at present that he will give a long trial to another
country."
" I am sure he will take the best wishes of all our hearts with
him wherever he goes," said I; " and though they are not riches,
he will never be the poorer for them, Guardian at least."
Never, little woman," he replied.
I was sitting in my usual place, which was now beside my
Guardian's chair.  That had not been my usual place before the
letter, but it was now. I looked up at Ada, who was sitting opposite; and I saw, as she looked at me, that her eyes were filled
with tears, and that tears were falling down her face.  I felt
that I had only to be placid and merry, once for all to undeceive
my dear, and set her loving heart at rest.  I really was so, and
I had nothing to do but to be myself.
So I made my sweet girl lean upon my shoulder-how little
thinking what was heavy on her mind!-and I said she was
not quite well, and put my arm about her, and took her up-stairs.
When we were in our own room, and. when she might perhaps
have told me what I was so unprepared to hear, I gave her no
encouragement to confide in me; I never thought she stood in
need of it.
"0 my dear good Esther," said Ada, "if I could only make
up my mind to speak to you and my cousin John, when you are
together!"
Why, my love'"  I remonstrated.  "Ada? why should you
not speak to us'"




760                  BLEAK HOUSE.
Ada only drooped her head and pressed me closer to hei
heart.
"You surely don't forget, my beauty," said I, smiling," what
quiet old-fashioned people we are, and how I have settled down to
be the discreetest of dames? You don't forget how happily and
peacefully my life is all marked out for me, and by whom?  I
am certain that you don't forget by what a noble character, Ada.
That can never be."
"-No, never, Esther."
"Why, then, my dear," said I, " there can be nothing amiss
-and;why should you not speak to us!"
"Nothing amiss, Esther?" returned Ada.  " 0 when I think
of all these years, and of his fatherly care and kindness, and of
the old relations among us, and of you, what shall I do, what
shall I do!"
I looked at my child in some wonder, but I thought it better
not to answer, otherwise than by cheering her; and so I turned
offkaito many little recollections of our life together, and prevented her from saying more.  When she lay down to sleep, and not
befire, I returned to my Guardian to say good-night; and then I
carre back to Ada, and sat near her for a little while.
She was asleep, and I thought as I looked at her that she was
a little changed.  I had thought so, more than once lately.  I
could not decide, even looking at her while she was unconscious,
how she was changed; but something in the familiar beauty of
lier face looked different to me. My Guardian's old hopes of her
and Richard arose sorrowfully in my mind, and I said to myself,
"she has been anxious about him," and I wondered how that
love would end.
When I had come home from  Caddy's while she was ill, I
had often found Ada at work, and she had always put her work
away, and I had never known what it was. Some of it how lay
in a drawer near her, which was not quite closed. I did not open
the drawer; but I still rather wondered what the work could be,
for it was evidently nothing for herself.
And I noticed as I kissed ry dear, that she lay with one hand
under her pillow so that it was hidden.
How much less amiable I must have been than they thought
me, how much less amiable than I thought myself, to be so pre



BLEAK  HOUSE.                        761
occuplled with my own cheerfulness and contentment, as to think
that it only rested with me to put my dear girl right, and set her
mind at peace!
But I lay down, self-deceived, in that belief.  And I awoke in
it next day, to find that there was still the same shade between
me and may darling.




CHAPTER LI.
ENLIGHTENED.
WIEN Mr. Woodcourt arrived in London, he went, that very
same day, to Air. Vholes's in Symond's Inn. For he never once,
from the moment when I entreated him to be a friend to Richard,
neglected or forgot his promise. He had told me that he accepted
the charge as a sacred trust, and he was ever true to it in that spirit.
He found Mr. Vholes in his office, and informed Mr. Vholes of
his agreement with Richard, that he should call there to learn
his address.
" Just so, sir," said Mr. Vholes.  "Mr. C.'s address is not a
hundred miles from here, sir, Mr. C.'s address is not a hundred
miles from here.  Would you take a seat, sir."
Mr. Woodcourt thanked Mr. Vholes, but he had no business
with him beyond what he had mentioned.
" Just so, sir. I believe, sir," said Mr. Vholes, still quietly insisting on the seat by not giving the address, that you have influence with Mr. C.  Indeed I am aware that you have."
"I was not aware of it myself," returned Mr. Woodcourt; but
I suppose you know best."
"Sir," rejoined Mr. Vholes, self-contained, as usual, voice and
all, "it is a part of my professional duty to know best.  It is
a part of my professional duty, to study and to understand a
gentleman who confides his interests to me. In my professional
duty I shall not be wanting, sir, if I know it.  I may, with the
best intentions, be wanting in it without knowing it; but not if I
know it, sir."
Mr. Woodcourt again mentioned the address.
"Give me leave, sir," said Mr. Vholes.  "Bear with me for a
moment.  Sir, Mr. C. is playing for a considerable stake, and can
not play without-need I say what?"
(762)




BLEAK HOUSE.                         763
"Money, I presume?"
"Sir," said Mr. Vholes, " to be honest with you (honesty being
my golden rule, whether I gain by it or lose, and I find that I
generally lose), money is the word. Now, sir, upon the chances
of Mr. C.'s'game I express to you no opinion, no opinion.  It
might be highly impolitic ih Mr. C. after playing so long and so
high, to leave off; it might be the reverse. I say nothing. No,
sir," said Mr. Vholes, bringing his hand flat down upon his desk,
in a positive manner, "nothing."
"You seem to forget," returned Mr. Woodcourt, "that I ask
you to say nothing, and have no interest in any thing you say."
"Pardon me, sir!" retorted Mr. Vholes, "you do yourself an
injustice.  No, sir! Pardon me!  You shall not-shall not in
my office, if I know it —do yourself an injustice.  You are in
terested in any thing, and in every thing, that relates to your
friend.  I know human nature much better, sir, than to admit
for an instant that a gentleman of your appearance is not interested in whatever concerns his friend."
"Well," replied Mr. Woodcourt, "that may be.  I am  particularly interested in his address."
" (The number, sir,") said Mr. Vholes, parenthetically (" I
believe I have already mentioned.)  If Mr. C. is to continue to
play for this considerable stake, sir, he must have funds.  Understand me! There are funds in hand at present.  I ask for
nothing; there are funds in hand.  But, for the onward play,
more funds must be provided; unless Mr. C. is to throw away
what he has already ventured-which is wholly and solely a
point for his consideration.  This, sir, I take the opportunity of
stating openly to you, as the friend of Mr. C. Without funds, I
shall always be happy to appear and act for Mr. C., to the extent of all such costs as are safe to be allowed out of the estate:
not beyond that. I could not go beyond that, sir, without wronging some one.  I must either wrong my three dear girls; or my
venerable father, who is entirely dependent on me-in the Vale
of Taunton; or some one.  Whereas, sir, my resolution is (call
it weakness or folly if you please) to wrong no one."
Mr. Woodcourt rather sternly rejoined that he was glad to
hear it.
" I wish, sir," said Mr. Vholes, " to leave a good name behind




764                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
me.  Therefore, I take every opportunity of openly stating to a
friend of Mr. C., how Mr. C. is situated.  As to myself,.sir. the
laborer is worthy of his hire. If I undertake to put my shoulder
to the wheel, I do it, and I earn what I get.  I am here for that
purpose.  My name is painted on the door outside, with that
object."'And Mr. Carstone's address, Mr. Vholes?"
"Sir," returned Mr. Vholes, "as I believe I have already
mentioned, it is next door.  On the second story you will find
Mr. C.'s apartments.  Mr. C. desires to be near his professional
adviser; and I am far from objecting, for I court inquiry."
Upon this, Mr. Woodcourt wished Mr. Vholes good-day, and
went in search of Richard, the change in whose appearance he
began to understand now but too well.
He found him in a dull room, fadedly furnished; much as I
had found him in his barrack-room but a little while before, except that he was not writing, but was sitting with a book before
him, from which his eyes and thoughts were far astray. As the
door chanced to be standing open, Mr. Woodcourt was in his
presence for some moments without being perceived; and he told
me that he never could forget the haggardness of his face, and
the dejection of his manner, before he was aroused from his
dream.
" Woodcourt, my dear fellow!" cried Richard, starting up
with  extended hands, "you come upon my vision like a
ghost."
" A friendly one," he replied, " and only waiting, as they say
ghosts do, to be addressed.  How does the moital world go?"
They were seated now, near together.
"Badly rnough, and slowly enough," said Richard; " speaking
at least for my part of it."
"What part is that?"
"The Chancery part."
"I never heard," returned Mr. Woodcourt, shaking his head,'; of its going well yet."
"Nor I," said Richard, moodily.    Who ever did?"
He brightened again in a moment, and said, with his natural
opelnness:
";Woodcourt, I should be sorry to be misunderstood by you,




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       765
even if I gained bj it in your estimation.  You must know that
I have done no good this long time.  I have not intended to do
much harm, but I seem to have been capable of nothing else.
It may be that I should have done better by keeping out of the
net into which my destiny has worked me; but I think not,
though I dare say you will soon hear, if you have not already
heard, a very different opinion.  To make short of a long story,
I am afraid I have wanted an object; but I have an object now
-or it has me-and it is too late to discuss it.  Take me as I
am, and make the best of me."
" A bargain," said Mr. Woodcourt.  "Do as much by me in
return."
"Oh! You," returned Richard, "you can pursue your art
for its own sake; and can put your hand upon the plow, and
never turn; and can strike a purpose out of any thing. You,
and I, are very different creatures."
He spoke regretfully, and lapsed for a moment into his weary
condition.
"Well, well," he cried, shaking it off, " every thing has an
end.  We shall see! So you will take me as I am, and make
the best of me?"
"Ay! indeed I will." They shook hands upon it laughingly,
but in deep earnestness. I can answer, for one of them, with
my heart of hearts.
"You come as a godsend," said Richard, "for I have seen
nobody here yet but Vholes. Woodcourt, there is one subject I
should like to mention, for once and for all, in the beginning of
our treaty.  Yot can hardly make the best of me if I don't.
You know, I dare say, that I have an attachment to my cousin
Ada?"
Mr. Woodcourt replied that I had hinted as much to him.
"Now pray," returned Richard, " don't think me a heap of
selfishness. Don't suppose that I am splitting my head and
half breaking my heart over {his miserable Chancery suit, for my
own rights and interests alone. Ada's are bound up with mine;
they can't be separated; Vholes works for both of us. Do think
of that I"
He was so very solicitous on this head, that Mr. Woodcourt
gave him the strongest assurances that he did him no injustice.




766                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
"You see," said Richard, with something pathetic in his manner of lingering on the point, though it was off-hand and unstudied, " to art upright fellow like you, bringing a friendly face
like yours here, I can not bear the thought of appearing selfish
and mean.  I want to see Ada righted, Woodcourt, as well as
myself; I want to do my utmost to right her,.as well as myself;
I venture what I can scrape together to extricate her, as well as
myself. Do, I beseech you, think of that!"
Afterward, when Mr. Woodcurt came to reflect on what had
passed, he was so very much impressed by the strength of Richard's anxiety on this point, that in telling me generally of his
first visit to Symond's Inn, he particularly dwelt upon it. It revived a fear I had had before, that my dear girl's little property
would be absorbed by Mr. Vholes, and that Richard's justification
to himself would be sincerely this.  It was just as I began to
take care of Caddy, that the interview took place; and I now
return to the time when Caddy had recovered, and the shade
was still-between me and my darling.
I proposed to Ada, that morning, that we should go and see
Richard.  It a little surprised me to find that she hesitated, and
was not so radiantly willing as I had expected.
"My dear," said I, "you have not had any difference with
Richard since I have been so much away?"
" No, Esther."
" Not heard of him, perhaps?" said I.
" Yes, I have heard of him," said Ada.
Such tears in her eyes, and such love in her face. I could not
make my darling out.  Should I go to Richard's by myself? I
said.  No, Ada thought I had better not go by myself.  Would
she go with me? Yes, Ada thought she had better go with me.
Should we go now?  Yes, let us go now.  Well, I could not
understand my darling, with the tears in her eyes and the love
in her face!
We were soon equipped, and went out.  It was a sombre day,
and drops of chill rain fell at intervals.  It was one of those colorless days when every thing looks heavy and harsh. The houses
frowned at us, the dust rose at us, the smoke swooped at-us,
nothing made any compromise about itself, or wore a softened
aspect. I fancied my beautiful girl quite out of place in the




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         767
rugged streets; and I thought there were more funerals passing
along the dismal pavements, than I had ever seen before.
We had first to find out Symond's Inn.  We were going to
inquire in a shop, when Ada said she thought it was near Chancery Lane.  " We are not likely to be far out, my love, if we go
in that direction," said I. So to Chancery Lane we went; and
there, sure enough, we saw it written up.  Symond's Inn.
We had next to find out the number. " Or Mr. Vholes's office
ill do," I recollected, " for Mr. Vholes's office is next door."
Upon which Ada said, perhaps that was Mr. Vholes's office in
the corner there.  And it really was.
Then came the question,, which of the two next doors? I was
for going to the one, and my darling was for going to the other;
and my darling was right again. So, up we went to the second
story, where we came to Richard's name in great white letters
on a hearse-like panel.
I should have knocked, but Ada said perhaps we had better
turn the handle and go in.  Thus we came to Richard, poring
over a table covered with dusty bundles of papers which seemed
to me like dusty mirrors reflecting his own mind.' Wherever I
looked, I saw the ominous words that ran in it, repeated.  Jam
dyce and Jarndyce.
He received us very affectionately, and' we sat down.  "If
you had come a little earlier," he said, " you would have found.
Woodcourt here.  There never was such a good fellow as Woodcourt is.  He finds time to look in between whiles, when any
body else with half his work to do would be thinking about not
being able to come.  And he is so cheery, so fresh, so sensible, so earnest, so-every thing that I am  not, that the. place
brightens whenever he comes, and darkens whenever he goes
again."
" God bless him," I thought, " for his truth to me!"
" He is not so sanguine, Ada," continued Richard, casting his
dejected look over the bundles of papers, " as Vholes and I are
usually; but he is only an outsider, and is not in the mysteries.
We have gone into them, and he has not.  He can't be expected
to know much of such a labyrinth."
As his look wandered over the papers again, and he passed
his two hands over his head, I noticed how sunken and how large
48




7603)               BLEAK  HOUSE.
his eyes appeared, how dry his lips were, and how his finger-nails
were all bitten away.
" Is this a healthy place to live in, Richard, do you think?"
said 1.
"Why, my dear Minerva," answered Richard, with his old
gay laugh,'"it is neither a rural nor a cheerfil place; and whent
the sun shines here, you may lay a pretty heavy wager that it is
shining brightly in an open spot. But it's well enough for the
time.  It's near the offices, and near Vholes."
"Perhaps," I hinted, " a change from both-"
"-Might do me good?" said Richard, forcing a laugh, as he
finished the sentence.  "I shouldn't wonder! But it can only
come in one way now-in one of two ways, I should rather say.
Either the suit must be ended, Esther, or the suitor. But it shall
be the suit, the suit, my dear girl!"
These latter words were addressed to Ada, who was sitting
nearest to him.  Her face being turned away from  me and toward him, I could not see it.
"We are doing very well," pursued Richard.  " Vholes will
tell you so. We are really spinning along. Ask Vholes  We are
giving them no rest. Vholes knows all their windings and turnings,
and we are upon them every where.  We have astonished them
already. We shall rouse up that nest of sleepers, mark my words!"
" His hopefulness had long been more painful to me than his
despondency; it was so unlike hopefulness, had something so
fierce in its determination to be it; was so hungry and eager, and
yet so conscious of being forced and unsustainable, that it had
long touched me to the heart. But the commentary upon it now
indelibly written in his handsome face, made it far more distressing than it used to be.  I say indelibly; for I felt persuaded that
if the fatal cause could have been forever terminated, according
to his brightest visions, in that same hour, the traces of the premature anxiety, self-reproach, and disappointment it had occasioned him, would have remained upon his features to the hour
of his death.
"The sight of our dear little woman," said Richard: Ada still
remaining silent and quiet; "is so natural to me, and her comnpassionate face is so like the face of old days-"
Ah! No, no.  I smiled and shook my head.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        769
"-So exactly like the face of old days," said Richard, in his
cordial voice, and taking my hand with the brotherly regard
which nothing ever changed, " that I can't make pretenses with
her.  I fluctuate a little; that's the truth.  Sometimes I hope,
my dear, and sometimes I-don't quite despair, but nearly.  I
get," said Richard, relinquishing my hand gently, and walking
across the room, "so tired!"
He took a few turns up and down, and sunk upon the sofa.
"I get," he repeated, gloomily, "so tired.  It is such weary,
weary work."
He was leaning on his arm, saying these words in a meditative
voice, and looking at the ground, when my darling rose, put off.her bonnet, kneeled down beside him with her golden hair falling like sunlight on his head, clasped her two arms round his
neck, and turned her face to me. 0, what a loving and devoted
face I saw!
"Esther, dear," she said, very quietly, "I am not going home
again."
A light shone in upon me all at once.
" Never any more. I am going to stay with my dear husband.
We have been married above two months. Go home without me,
my own Esther; I shall never go home any more!" With those
words my darling drew his head down on her breast, and held it
there. And if ever in my life I saw a love that nothing but death
could change, I saw it then before me.
"Speak to Esther, my dearest," said Richard, breaking the
silence presently.  "Tell her how it was."
I met her before she could come to me, and folded her in my
arms.  We neither of us spoke; but with her cheek against my
own, I wanted to hear nothing.  "My pet," said I.  "My love.
My poor, poor girl!" I pitied her so much. I was very fond of
Richard, but the impulse that I had upon me was to pity her so
much.
"Esther, will you forgive me?  Will my cousin John forgive
me?"
"My dear," said I, " to doubt it for a moment, is to do him a
great wrong.  And as to me!"-why, as to me, what had I to
forgive I
I dried my sobbing darling's eyes, and sat beside her on tho




770                 BLEAK HOUSE.
sofa, and Richard sat on my other side; anti while I was reminded of that so different night when they had first taken me
into their confidence and had gone on in their own wild happy
way, they told me between them how it was.
"All I had was Richard's," Ada said; "and Richard would
not take it, Esther, and what could I do but be his wife when I
loved him dearly!"
" And you were so fully and so kindly occupied, excellent Dame
Durden," said Richard, "that how could we speak to you at such
a time! And besides, it was not a long-considered step.  We
went out one morning, and were married."
"Anrd when it was done, Esther," said my darling, "I was
always thinking how to tell you, and what to do for the best.
And sometimes I thought you ought to know it directly; and
sometimes I thought you ought not to know it, and keep it from
my cousin John; and I could not tell what to do, and I fretted
very much."
How selfish I must have been not to have thought of this before'
I don't know what I said now. I was so sorry, and yet I was so
fond of them, and so glad that they were fond of me; I pitied
them so much, and yet I felt a kind of pride in their loving one
another. I never had experienced such painful and pleasurable
emotion at one time; and in my own heart I did not know which
predominated.  But I was not there to darken their way; I did
not do that.
When I was less foolish and more composed, nlm darling took
her wedding ring from her bosom, and kissed it, and put it on.
Then I remembered last night, and told Richard that ever since
her marriage she had worn it at night when there was no one to
see. Then Ada blushingly asked me how did I know that, my
dear?  Then 1 told Ada how I had seen her hand concealed
under her pillow, and had little thought why, my dear.  Then
they began telling me how it was, all over again; and I began
to be sorry and glad again, and foolish again, and to hide my
plain old face as much as I could, lest I should put them out of
heart.
Thus the time went on, until it became necessary for me to
think of returning. When that time arrived it was the worst of
all, for then my darling completely broke down. She clung round




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        771
my neck, calling me by every dear name she could think of, and
saying what should she do without me.! Nor was Richard much
letter; and as for me I should have been the worst of the three,
i,' I had not severely said to myself, " Now, Esther; if you do,
I'll never speak to you again!"
"Why, I declare," said I, " I never saw such a wife.  I don't
think she loves her husband at all. Here, Richard, take my
child, for goodness' sake."  But I held her tight all the while,
and could have wept over her I don't know how long.
"I give this dear young couple notice," said I, "that I am only
going away to come back to-morrow; and that I shall be always
coming backward and forward, until Symond's Inn is tired of the
sight of me. So I shall not say good-by, Richard. For what
would be the use of that, you know, when I am coming back so
SOO1!"
I had given my darling to him now, and I meant to go; but
I lingered for one more look of the precious face, which it seemed
to rive my heart to turn from.
So I said (in a merry, bustling manner), that unless they gave
me some encouragement to come back, I was not sure that I
could take that liberty; upon which my dear girl'looked up,
faintly smiling through her tears, and I folded her lovely face between my hands, and gave it one last kiss, and laughed, and
ran away.
And when I got down-stairs, 0 how I cried! It almost seemed
to me that I had lost my Ada forever.  I was so lonely, and so
blank without her, and it was so desolate to be going home with
no hope of seeing her there, that I could get no comfort for a little
while, asIwalked up and down in a dim corner, sobbing and crying.
I came to myself by-and-by,' after a little scolding, and took a
coach home. The poor boy whom I had found at St. Albans had
reappeared a short time before, and was lying at the point of
death; indeed, was then dead, though I did not know it.  My
Guardian had gone out to inquire about him, and did not return
to (dinner.  Being quite alone, I cried a little again; though, on
the whole, I don't think I behaved so very, very ill.
It was only natural that I should not be quite accustomed to
lhe loss of my darling yet.' Three or four hours were not a long
time, al.er years. But my mind dwelt so much upon the unconr



772                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
genial scene in which I had left her, and I pictured it as such an
overshadowed stony-hearted one, and I so longed to be iear her,
and taking some sort of care of her, that I determined to go back
in the evening, ouly to look up at her windows.
It was foolish, I dare say; but it did not then seem at all so
to me, and it does not seem quite so even now.  I took Charley
into my confidence, and we went out at dusk. It was dark when
we came to the new strange home of my dear girl, and there was
a light behind the yellow blinds.  We walked past cautiously
three or four times, looking up; and narrowly missed encountering Mr. Vholes, who came out of his office while we were there,
and turned his head to look up too before going home. The sight
of his lank black figure, and the lonesome air of that nook in the
dark, were favorable to the state of my mind.  I thought of the
youth and love and beauty of my dear girl, shut up in such an
ill-assorted refuge, almost as if it were a cruel place.
It was very solitary and very dull, and I did not doubt that I
might safely steal up-stairs. I left Charley below, and went up
with a light foot, not distressed by any glare fiom the feeble oil
lanterns on the way.  I listened for a few moments: and in the
musty rotting silence of the house, believed that I could hear the
murmur of their young voices. I put my lips to the hearse-like
panel of the door, as a kiss for my dear, and came quietly down
again, thinking that one of these days I would confess to the visit.
And it really did me good; for, though nobody but Charley
and I knew any thing about it, I somehow felt as if it had diminished the separation between Ada and me, and had brought us
together again for those moments. I went back, not quite accustomed yet to change, but all the better for that hovering about
my darling.
My Guardian had come home, and was standing thoughtfully
by the dark window.  When I went in, his face cleared and he
came to his seat; but he caught the light upon my face, as I took
mine.
"Little woman," said he.  "You have been crying."
"Why, yes, Guardian," said I, "I am afraid I have been, a
little.  Ada has been in such distress, and is so very sorry,
Guardian."
I put my arm on the back of his chair; and I saw in his glance




BLEAK HOUSE.                         773
that my words, and my look at her empty place, had prepared
him.
" Is she married, my dear?"
I told him all about it, and how her first entreaties had referred
to his forgiveness.
" She has no need of it," said he.  "Heaven bless her, and
her husband!"  But just as my first impulse had been to pity
her, so was his. " Poor girl, poor girl! Poor Rick! Poor Ada!'
Neither of us spoke after that; until he said, with a sigh,
"Well, well, my dear! Bleak House is thinning fast."
"But its mistress remains, Guardian."  Though I was timid
about saying it, I ventured because of the sorrowful tone in which
lie had spoken.  " She will do all she can to make it happy,"
said I.
" She will succeed, my love!"
The letter had made no difference between us, except that the
seat by his side had come to be mine; it ihade none now. He
turned his old bright fatherly look upon me, laid his hand on my
hand in his old way, and said again, " She will succeed, my dear.
Nevertheless, Bleak House is thinning fast, O little woman!"
I vas sorry presently that this was all we said about that.  I
was rather disappointed.  I feared I might not quite have been
all I had meant to be, since the letter and the answer.




CHAPTER LII.
OBSTINACY.
BUT one other day had intervened, when, early in the morning
as we were going to breakfast, Mr. Woodcourt came in haste with
the astounding news that a terrible murder had been committed,
bfr which Mr. George had been apprehended and was in custody.
When he told us that a large reward was offered by Sir Leicester
Dedlock for the murderer's apprehension, I did not in my first
consternation understand why; but a few more words explained
to me that the murdered person was Sir Leicester's lawyer, and
immediately my mother's dread of him rushed into my remem
brance.
This unforeseen and violent removal of one whom she had long
watched and distrusted, and who had long watched and distrusted
her; one for whom she could have had few intervals of kindness,
always dreading in him a dangerous and secret enemy; appeared
so awful, that my first thoughts were o'f her. How appalling to
hear of such a death, and be able to feel no pity! How dreadful
to remember perhaps, that she had sometimes even wished the
old man away, who was so swiftly hurried out of life!
Such crowding reflections, increasing the distress and fear I
always felt when the name was mentioned, made me so agitated
that I could scarcely hold my place at the table. 1 was quite
unable to follow the conversation, until I had had a little time to
recover.  But when I came to myself, and saw how shocked my
Guardian was; and found that they were earnestly speaking of
the suspected man, and recalling every favorable impression we
had formed of him, out of the good we had known of him; my
interest and my fears were so strongly aroused in his behalf that
I was quite set up again.
(774)




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        775
"Guardian, you don't think it possible that he is justly accused?"
" My dear, I can't think so.  This man whom we have seen
so open-hearted and compassionate; who, with the might' of a
giant, has the gentleness of a child; wno looks as brave a fellow
as ever lived, and is so simple and quiet with it;. this man justly
accused of such a crime?  I can't believe it.  It's not that I
don't or I won't.  I can't!"
"And I can't," said Mr. Woodcourt.  "Still, whatever we believe or know of him, we had better not forget that some appearances are against him.  He bore an animosity toward the deceased gentleman. He has openly mentioned it in many places.
He is said to have expressed himself violently toward him, and
he certainly did about him, to my knowledge. He admits that
he was alone, on the scene of the murder, within a few minutes
of its commission.  I sincerely believe him to be as innocent of
any participation in it, as 1 am; but these are all reasons for suspicion falling upon him."
"True," said my Guardian; and he added, turning to me,
"it would be doing him a very bad service, my dear, to shut our
eyes to the truth in any of these respects."
I felt, of course, that we must admit, not only to ourselves but
to others, the full force of the circumstances against him.  Yet
I knew withal (I could not help saying) that their weight would
not induce us to desert him in his need.
"Heaven forbid!" returned my Guardian.  "We will stand
by him, as he himself stood by the two poor creatures who are
gone."  He meant Mr. Gridley and the boy, to both of whom
Mr. George had given shelter.
Mr. Woodcourt then told us that the trooper's man had been
with him before day,' after wandering about the streets all night
like a distracted creature.  That one of the trooper's first anxieties was that we should not suppose him guilty. That he had
charged his messenger to represent his perfect innocence, with
every solemn assurance he could send us.  That Mr. Woodcourt
had only quieted the man by undertaking to come to our house
very early in the morning, with these representations.  He
added that lie was now upon his way to see the prisoner him
self.




776                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
My Guardian said, directly, he would go too.  Now, besides
that 1 liked the retired soldier very much, and that he liked me,
I had that secret interest in what had happened, which was
only known to my Guardian.  I felt as if it came close and near
to me.  It seemed to become personally important to myself
that the truth should be discovered, and that no innocent people
should be suspected; for suspicion, once run wild, might run
wilder.
In a word, I felt as if it were my duty and obligation to go
with them.  My Guardian did not seek to dissuade me, and I
went.
It was a large prison, with many courts and passages so like
one another, and so uniformly paved, that I seemed to gain a new
comprehension, as I passed along, of the fondness that solitary prisoners, shut up among the same staring walls from year to year,
have had-as I have read-for a weed, or a stray blade of grass.
In an arched room by himself, like a cellar up-stairs: with walls
wo glaringly white, that they made the massive iron window-bars
and iron-bound door even more profoundly black than they were:
we found the trooper standing in a corner. He had been sitting
on a bench there, and had risen when he heard the locks and
bolts turn.
When he saw us, he came forward a step with his usual heavy
tread, and there stopped and made a slight bow. But as I still
advanced putting out my hand to him, he understood us in a
moment.
" This is a load off my mind, I do assure you, miss and gentlemen," said he, saluting us with great heartiness and drawing a
long breath.  "And now I don't so much care how it ends."
He scarcely seemed to be the prisoner.  What with his coolness and his soldierly bearing, he looked far more like the prison
guard.
"This is even a rougher place than my gallery to receive a
lady in," said Mr. George, " but I know Miss Summerson will
make the best of it."  As he handed me to the bench on which
he had been sitting, I sat down; which seemed to give him great
satisfaction.
"I thank you, miss," said he.
" Now, George," observed my Guardian, "as we require no




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         777
new assurances on your part, so I believe we need give you none
on ours."
" Not at all, sir. I thank you with all my heart. If I was
not innocent of this crime, I couldn't look at you and keep my
secret to myself, under the condescension of the present visit.  I
feel the present visit very much.  I am not one of the eloquent
sort, but I feel it, Miss Summerson and gentlemen. deeply."
He laid his hand for a moment on his broad chest, and bent his
head to us.  Although he squared himself again directly, he
expressed a great amount of natural emotion by these simple
means.
"First," said my Guardian, "can we do any thing for your
personal comfort, George?"
"For which, sir?" he inquired, clearing his throat.
"For your personal comfort.  Is there any thing you want,
that would lessen the hardship of this confinement?"',' Well, sir," replied Mr. George, after a little cogitation, "I
am equally obliged to you; but tobacco being against the rules,
I can't say that there is."
"You will think of many little things perhaps, by-and-by.
Whenever yo do, George, let us.know."
"Thank you, sir.  Howsoever," observed Mr. George, with one
of his sunburnt smiles, " a man who has been knocking about
the world in a vagabond kind of a way as long as I have, gets on
well enough in a place like the present, so far as that goes."
" Next, as to your case," observed my Guardian.
" Exactly so, sir," returned Mr. George, folding his arms upon
his breast with perfect self-possession and a little curiosity.
"How does it stand now?"
" Why, sir, it is under remand at present.  Bucket gives me to
understand that he will probably apply for a series of remands
from time to time, until the case is more complete. How it is to
be made more complete, I don't myself see; but I dare say
Bucket will manage it somehow."
"Why, Heaven save us, man!" exclaimed my Guardian, sur
prised into his old oddity and vehemence, " you talk of yourself
as if you were somebody else!"
"No offense, sir," said Mr. George.  "I am very sensible of
your kindnress.  But I don't see how an innocent man is to make




"78                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
up his mind to this kind of thing without knocking his head
against the walls, unless he takes it in that point of view."
"That is true enough, to a certain extent," returned my
Guardian, softened.  "But my good fellow, even an innocent
man must take ordinary precautions to defend himself."
4 Certainly, sir.  And I have done so.  I have stated to the
magistrates,'Gentlemen, I am  as innocent of this charge as
yourselves; what has been stated against me in the way of
facts, is perfectly true; I know no more about it.' I intend to
continue stating that, sir.  What more can I do?  It's the
truth."
"But the mere truth won't do," rejoined my Guardian.
" Won't it, indeed, sir?  Rather a bad look-out for me!" Mr.
George good-humoredly observed.
"You must have a lawyer," pursued my Guardian.  "We
must engage a good one for you."
" I ask your pardon, sir," said Mr. George, with a step backward.  " I am equally obliged.  But I must decidedly beg to be
excused from any thing of that sort."
"You won't have a lawyer?"
" No, sir."  Mr. George shook his head in the most emphatic
manner.  "I thank you all the same, sir, but-no lawyer!"
"Why not?"
" I don't take kindly to the breed," said Mr. George. "Gridley
didn't.  And-if you'll excuse my saying so much-I should
hardly have thought you did yourself, sir."' That's Equity," my Guardian explained, a little at a loss;
"that's Equity, George."
"Is it indeed, sir?" returned the trooper, in his off-hand mannor.  " I am not acquainted with those shades of names myself,
but in a general way I object to the breed."
Unfolding his arms, and changing his position, he stood with
one massive hand upon the table, and the other on his hip, as
complete a picture of a man who was not to be moved from a
fixed purpose as ever I saw.  It was in vain that we all three
talked to him, and endeavored to persuade him; he listened with
that gentleness which went so well with his bluff bearing, but
was evidently no more shaken by our representations than his
place of confinement was.




BLEAK HOUSE.                         779
"Pray think, once more, Mr. George," said I.  "Have you no
wish, in reference to your case?"
"I certainly could wish it to be tried, miss," he returned, " by
court-martial; but that is out of the question, as I am well aware.
If you will be so good as to favor me with your attention for a
couple of minutes, miss, not more, I'll endeavor to explain myself as clearly as I can."
He looked at us all three in turn, shook his head a little as if
he were adjusting it in the stock and collar of a tight uniform,
and after a moment's reflection went on.
"You see. miss, I have been hand-cuffed and taken into custody,
and brought here.  I am a marked and disgraced man, and here
I am.  My shooting-gallery is rummaged, high and low, by
Bucket; such property as I have-'tis small-is turned this way
and that, till it don't know itself; and (as aforesaid) here I am  I
don't particular complain of that.  Though I am in these present
quarters through no immediately preceding fault of mine, I can
very well understand that if I hadn't gone into the vagabond way
in my youth, this wouldn't have happened.  It has happened.
Then comes the question, h.ow to meet it."
He rubbed his swarthy forehead for a moment, with a goodhumored look, and said apologetically, "I am such a short-winded
talker that I must think a bit."  Having thought a bit, he looked
up again, and resumed.
"How to meet it.  Now, the unfortunate deceased was himself a lawyer, and had a pretty tight hold of me. I don't wish
to rake up his ashes, but he had, what I should call if he was
living, a Devil of a tight hold of me.  I don't like his trade the
better for that. If I had kept clear of his trade, I should have
kept outside this place. But that's not what I mean. Now,
suppose I had killed him. Suppose I really had discharged into
his body any one of those pistols recently fired off, that Bucket
has found at my place, and, dear me! might have found there
any day since it has been my place.  What should I have done
as soon as I was hard and fhst here?  Got a lawyer."
He stopped on hearing some one at the locks and bolts, and did
not resume until the door had been opened and was shut again.
For what purpose opened I will mention presently.
"I should have got a lawyer," and he would have said (as I




780                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
have often read in the newspapers), "my client says nothing, my
client reserves his defense-my client this, that, and t'other.
Well!'tis not the custom of the breed to go straight, according
to my opinion, or to think that other men do. Say, I am innocent, and I get a lawyer.  He would be as likely to believe me
guilty as not; perhaps more. What would he do, whether or no?
Act as if I was;-shut my mouth up, tell me not to commit myself; keep circumstances back, chop the evidence small, quibble,
and get me off perhaps! But, Miss Summerson, do I care for
getting off in that way; or would I rather be hanged in my own
way-if you'll excuse my mentioning any thing so disagreeable
to a lady?"
He had warmed into his subject now, and was under no further
necessity to wait a bit.
"1 would rather be hanged in my own way.  And I mean to
be! I don't intend to say," looking round upon'us, with his powerful arms akimbo and his dark eyebrows raised, "that I am
more partial to being hanged than another man. What I say is,
I must come off clear and full, or not at all. Therefore, when I
hear stated against me what is true, I say it's true; and when
they tell me,' whatever you say will be used,' I tell them I don't
mind that; I mean it to be used.  If they can't make me innocent out of the whole truth, they are not likely to do it out of any
thing less, or any thing else. And if they are, it's worth nothing
to me."
Taking a pace or two over the stone floor, he came back to the
table, and finished what he had to say.
" I thank you, miss, and gentlemen both, many times for your
attention, and many times more for your interest. That's the
plain state of the matter, as it points itself out to a mere trooper
with a blunt broad-sword kind of a mind.  I have never done
well in life, beyond my duty as a soldier; and if the worst comes
after all, I shall reap pretty much as I have sown. When I got
over the first crash of being seized as a murderer-it don't take
a rover, who has knocked about so much as myself, so very long
to recover from a crash-I worked my way round to what you
find me now.  As such, I shall remain.  No relations will he
disgraced by me, or made unhappy for me, and-and that's all
I've got to say."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         781
The door had been opened to admit another soldier-looking
man of less prepossessing appearance at first sight, and a weathertanned, bright-eyed wholesome woman with a basket, who, fiom
her entrance, had been exceedingly attentive to all Mr. George
had said.  Mr. George had received them with a familiar nod
and a friendly look, but without any more particular greeting in
the midst of his address.  He now shook them cordially by the
hand, and said, "Miss Summerson and gentlemen, this is an old
comrade of mine, Joseph Bagnet.  And this is his wife, Mrs.
Bagnet."
Mr. Bagnet made us a stiff, military bow, and Mrs. Bagnet
dropped us a courtesy.
"Real good friends of mine they are," said Mr. George.  "It
was at their house I was taken."
" With a second-hand wiolinceller," Mr. Bagnet put in, twitching his head angrily. " Of a good tone. For a friend. That
money was no object to."
" Mat," said Mr. George, " you have heard pretty well all I
have been saying to this lady and these two gentlemen. I know
it meets your approval?"
Mr. Bagnet, after considering, referred the point to his wife.
"Old girl," said he.  "Tell him.  Whether or not.  It meets
my approval."
" Why, George," exclaimed Mrs. Bagnet, who had been unpacking her basket, in which there was a piece of cold pickled
pork, alittle tea and sugar, and a brown loaf, "you ought to
know it don't. You ought to know it's enough to drive a person
wild to hear you.  You won't be got off this way, and you won't
be got off that way-what do you mean by such picking and
choosing? It's stuff and nonsense, George."
" Don't be severe upon me in my misfortunes, Mrs. Bagnet,"
said the trooper, lightly.
" Oh! Bother your misfortunes!" cried Mrs. Bagnet, "if they
don't make you more reasonable than'that comes to.  I never
was so ashamed in nly life to hear a man talk folly, as I have
been to hear you talk this day to the present company. Lawyers?  Why, what but too many cooks should hinder you from
having a dozen lawyers, if the gentleman recommended them to
you?"




782                 BLEAK HOUSE.
"This is a very sensible woman," said my Guardian.  "I
hope you will persuade him, Mrs. Bagnet."
"Persuade him, sir?" she returned.  "Lord bless you, no.
You don't know George.  Now, there!" Mrs. Bagnet left her
basket to point him out with both her bare brown hands.' There
he stands! As self-willed and as determined aman, in the wrong
way, as ever put a human creature under Heaven, out of patience! You could as soon take up and:shoulder an eight-andforty pounder by your own strength, as turn that man, when he
has got a thing into his head, and fixed it there. Why, don't I
know him!" cried Mrs. Bagnet.  "Don't I know you, George!
You don't mean to set up for a new character with me, after all
these years, I hope?"
Her friendly indignation had an exemplary effect upon her
husband, who shook his head at the trooper several times, as a
silent recommendation to him to yield. Betweenwhiles, Mrs.
Bagnet looked at me; and I understood from the play of her
eyes, that she wished me to do something, though I did not cornprehend what.
"But I have given up talking to you, old fellow, years and
years," said Mrs. Bagnet, as she blew a little dust off the pickled
pork, looking at me again; "and when ladies and gentlemen
know you as well as I do, they'll give up talking to you too. If
you are not too headstrong to accept of a bit of dinner, here it is."
" I accept it, with many thanks," returned the trooper.
"Do you though, indeed?" said Mrs. Bagnet, continuing to
grumble on good-humoredly.  "I'm  sure I'm surprised at that.
I wonder you don't starve in your own way also.  It would only
be like you.  Perhaps you'll set your mind upon that, next."
Here she again looked at me; and I now perceived, fiom her
glances at the door and at me, by turns, thatshe wished us to
retire, and to await her following us, outside the prison. Communicating. this by similar means to my Guardian and Mr. Woodcourt, I rose.
" We hope you will think better of it, Mr. George," said I;
" and we shall come to see you again, trusting to find you more
reasonable."
"More, grateful, Miss Summerson, yon can't find me," he returned.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       783
"But more persuadable we can, I hope," said I.  "And let
me entreat you to consider that the clearing up of this mystery,
and the discovery of the real perpetrator of this deed, may be of
the last importance to others besides yourself:"
He heard me respectfully, but without much heeding these
words, which I spoke, a little turned from him, already on my
way to the door; he was observing (this they afterward told me)
my height and figure,.which seemed to catch his attention all at
once.
"'Tis curious," said he. "And yet I thought so at the time!"
My Guardian asked him what he meant.
" Why, sir," he answered, " when my ill-fortune took me to
the dead man's staircase on the night of his murder, I saw a
shape so like Miss Summerson's go by me in the dark, that I had
half a mind to speak to it."
For an instant, I felt such a shudder as I never felt before or
since, and hope I shall never feel again.
" It came down stairs as I went up," said the trooper, "and
crossed the moonlighted window with a loose black mantle on;
I noticed a deep fringe to it. However, it has nothing to do
with the present subject, excepting that Miss Summerson looked
so like it at the moment, that it came into my head."
I can not separate'and define the feelings that arose in me
after this: it is enough that the vague duty and obligation I had
felt upon me from the first of following the investigation, was,
without my distinctly daring to ask myself any question, increased;
and that I was indignantly sure of there being no possibility of a
reason for my being afraid.
We three went out of the prison, and walked up and down at
some short distance from the gate, which was in a retired place.
We had not waited long, when Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet came out
too, and quickly joined us.
There was a tear in each of Mrs. Bagnet's eyes, and her face
was flushed and hurried.  "I didn't let George see what I
thought about it, you know, miss," was her first remark when she
came up; "but he's in a bad way, poor old fellow!"
" Not with care and prudence, and good help," said my
Guardian.'A gentleman like you ought to know best, sir," returned
49




781                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
Mrs. Bagnet, hurriedly drying her eyes on the hem of her gray
cloak; " but I am uneasy for him.  He has been so careless, and
said so much that he never meant.  The gentlemen of the juries
might not understand him  as Lignum and me do.  And then
such a number of circurnstances have happened bad for him, and
such a number of people will be brought forward to speak against
him, and Bucket is so deep."
"With a second-hand wiolinceller.  And said he played the
fife. When a boy."  Mr. Bagnet added with great solemnity.
"Now, I tell you, miss," said Mrs. Bagnet: "and when I
say miss, I mean all! Just come into the corner of the wall,
and I'll tell you!"
Mrs. Bagnet hurried us into a more secluded place, and was at
first too breathless to proceed; occasioning Mr. Bagnet to say,
"Old girl! Tell'em!"
"Why'then, miss," the old girl proceeded, untying the strings
of her bonnet for more air, " you could as soon move Dover Castle as move George on this. point, unless you had got a new
power to move him with.  And I have got it!"
" You are a jewel of a woman," said my Guardian.  "Go
on!"
Now, I tell you, miss," she proceeded, clapping her hands in
her hurry and agitation a dozen times in every sentence, " that
what he says concerninig no relations is all bosh.  They don't
know of him, but he does know of them. He has said more to me
at odd times than to any body else, and it warn't for nothing that
he once spoke to my Woolwich about whitening and wrinkling
mother's heads. For fifty pounds he had seen his mother that
day.  She's alive, and must be brought here straight!"
Instantly Mrs. Bagnet put some pins into her mouth, and began pinning up her skirts all round, a little higher than the level
of her gray cloak; which she accomplished with surprising dispatch and dexterity.
"Lignum," said Mrs. Bagnet, "you take care of the children,
old man, and give me the umbrella! I'm away to Lincolnshire,
to bring that old lady here."
" But, bless the woman!" cried my. Guardian with his hand
in his pocket, " how is she going?  What money has she got?"
Mrs. Bagnet made another application to her skirts,. and




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       785
brought forth a leathern purse in which she hastily counted over
a few shillings, and which she then shut up with perfect satisfaction.
"Never you mind for me, miss.  I'm a soldier's wife, and accustomed to traveling in my own way.  Lignum, old boy," kissing him, "one for yourself; three for the children.  Now, I'm
away into Lincolnshire after George's mother!"
And she actually set off while we three stood looking at one
another lost in amazement. She actually trudged away in her
gray cloak at a sturdy pace, and turned the corner, and was
gone.
" Mr. Bagnet," said my Guardian.  "Do you mean to: let her
go in that way?"
"Can't help it," he returned.  "Made her way home once.
From another quarter of the world. With the same gray cloak.
And same umbrella.  Whatever the old girl says, do. Do it 
Whenever the old girl says, I'll do it. She does it."
"Then she is as honest and genuine as she looks," rejoined
my Guardian, " and it is impossible to say more for her."
"She's Color-Sergeant of the Nonpareil battalion," said Mr.
Bagnet, looking at us over his shoulder, as he went his way also.
" And there's not such another.  But I never own to it before her.
Discipline must be maintained."




CHAPTER LIII.
THE TRACK.
MiR. BUCKET and his fat forefinger are much in consultation
together under existing circumstances.   When Mr. Bucket has
a matter of this pressing interest under his consideration, the
fat forefinger seems to rise to the dignity of a familiar demon. He
puts it to his ears, and it whispers information; he puts it to his
lips, and it enjoins him to secrecy; he rubs it over his nose, and
it sharpens his scent; he shakes it before a guilty man, and it
charms him to his destruction. The Augurs of the Detective
Temple invariably predict, that when Mr. Bucket and that
finger are much in conference, a terrible avenger will be heard
of before long.
Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human nature,
on the whole a benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe
upon  the follies of mankind, Mr. Bucket pervades a vast
number of houses, and strolls about an infinity of streets; to
outward appearance rather languishing for want of an object.
He is in the friendliest condition toward his species, and will
drink with most of them.  He is free with his money, affable in
his manners, innocent in his conversation-but, through the
placid stream  of his life, there glides an under-current of forefing er.
Time and place can not bind Mr. Bucket.  Like man in the ab
stract he is here to-day and gone to-morrow-but, very unlike manl
indeed, he is here again th6 next day.  This evening he will be
casually looking into the iron extinguishers at the door of
Sir Leicester Dedlock's house in town; and to-morrow morning
he will be walking on the leads at Chesney Wold, where erst the
(786)




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        787
old man walked whose ghost is propitiated with a hundred
guineas.  Drawers, desks, pockets all things belonging to him,
Mr. Bucket examines. A few hours afterward, he and the Roman
will be alone together, comparing forefingers.
It is likely that these occupations are irreconcileable with home
enjoyment, but it is certain that Mr. Bucket at present does not
go home.  Though in general he highly appreciates the society
of Mrs. Bucket-a lady of a natural detective genius, which if it
had been improved by professional exercise, might have done
great things, but which has paused at the level of a clever amateur-he holds himself aloof from that dear solace.  Mrs. Bucket
is dependent on their lodger (fortunately an amiable lady in
whom  she takes an interest) for companionship and colversation.
A great crowd assembles in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields on the day of
the funeral.  Sir Leicester Dedlock attends the ceremony in per
son; strictly speaking, there are only three other human follow
ers, that is to say, Lord Doodle, William Buffy, and the debilitated cousin (thrown in as a make-weight), but the amount of
inconsolable carriages is immense. The Peerage contributes more
four-wheeled afflietior than has ever been seen in that neighborhood.  Such is the assemblage of armorial bearings on coach
panels, that the Heralds' College might be supposed to have
lost its father and mother at a blow. The Duke of Foodle sends
a splendid pile of dust and ashes, with silver wheel-boxes, patent
axles, all the last improvements, and three bereaved worms, six
feet high, holding on behind, in a bunch of woe. All the state
coachmen in London seem plunged into mourning; and if that
dead old man of the rusty garb be not beyond a taste in horse-flesh
(which appears impossible), it must be highly gratified this day.
Quiet among the undertakers and the equipages, and the calves
of so many legs all steeped in grief, Mr. Bucket sits concealed in
one of the inconsolable carriages, and at his ease surveys the
crowd through the lattice blinds. He has a keen eye for a crowd
-as for what not?-and looking here and there-now from this
side of the carriage, now from the other, now up at the housewindows, now along the people's heads, nothing escapes him.'And there you are, my partner, h?" says Mr. Bucket to




788                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
himself, aposirophizing Mrs. Bucket, stationed, by his favor, on
thie steps of the deceased's house. "And so you are. And so
you are I And very well indeed you are looking, Mrs. Bucket!"
The procession has not started yet, but is waiting for the cause
of its assemblage to be brought out. Mr. Bucket, in the foremost
emblazoned carriage, uses his two fat forefingers to hold the lattice a hair's breadth open while he looks.
And it says a great deal for his attachment, as a husband,
that he is still occupied with Mrs. B. " There you are, my partner, eh?" he murmuringly repeats.  "And our lodger with you.'ni taking notice of you, Mrs. Bucket; I hope you're all right in
your health, my dear!"
Not. another word does Mr. Bucket say; but sits with most
attentive eyes, until the sacked depository of noble secrets is
brought down. Where are all those secrets now? Does he keep
them yet?  Did they fly with him  on that sudden journey?and until the procession moves, and Mr. Bucket's view is changed.
After which, he composes himself for an easy ride; and takes
note of the fittings of the carriage, in case he should ever find
fsuch knowledge useful.
Contrast enough between Mr.,Tulkinghorn shut up in his dark
carriage, and Mr. Bucket shut up in his. Between the immeasurable track of space beyond the little wound that has thrown
the one into the fixed sleep which jolts so heavily over the stones
of the streets, and tjie narrow track of blood which keeps the
other in the watchful state expressed in every hair of his head!
But it is all one to both; neither is troubled about that.
Mr. Bucket sits out the procession, in his own easy manner,
and glides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled
with himself arrives.  He makes for Sir Leicester Dedlock's,
which is at present a sort of home to him, where he comes and
goes as he likes at all hours, where he is always welcome and
made much of, where he knows the whole establishment, and
walks in an atmosphere of mysterious greatness.
No knocking or ringing for Mr. Bucket.  He has caused him
self to be provided with a key, and can pass in at his pleasure.
As he is crossing the hall, Mercury informs him, "Here's another
letter for you, Mr Bucket, come by post," and gives it him.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        789
"Another one, eh?" says Mr. Bucket.
If Mercury should chance to be possessed by any lingering
curiosity as to Mr. Bucket's letters, that wary person is not the
man to gratify it. Mr. Bucket looks at him, as if his face were
a vista of some. miles in length, and he were leisurely contenmplating the same
"Do you happen to carry a box?" says Mr. Bucket.
Unfortunately Mercury is no snuff-taker.
" Could you fetch me a pinch from  any wheres?" says Mr.
Bucket.  " Thankee.  It don't matter what it is; I'm not particular as to the kind. Thankee!"
Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed fiom
some body down stairs for the purpose, and having made a considerable show of tasting it,. first with one side of his nose, and
then with the other. Mr. Bucket. with much deliberation, pronounces it of the right sort, and goes on, letter in hand.
Now, although Mr. Bucket walks up-stairs to the little library
within the larger one, with the face of a man who receives some
scores of letters every day, it happens that much correspondence
is not incidental to his life.  He is no great scribe; rather hand
ling his pen, like the pocket-staff he carries about with him, always convenient to his grasp; and discourages correspondence
with himself in others, as being too artless and direct a way of
doing delicate business. Further, he often sees damaging letters
produced in evidence, and has occasion to reflect that it was a
green thing to write them.  For these reasons he has very
little to do with letters, either as sender or receiver.  And yet
he has received a round half dozen, within the last twenty-four
hours.
"And this," says Mr. Bucket, spreading it out on the table,
" is in the same hand, and consists of the same two words."
What two words?
He turns the key in the door, ungirdles his black p( cket-book
(book of fate to many). lays another letter by it, and reads, boldly written in each, " LADY DEDLOCK."
"Yes, yes," says Mr. Bucket.  "But I could have made the
money without this anonymous information."
Having put the letters in his book of Fate, and girdled it up




790                BLEAK  HOUSE.
again, he unlocks the door just in time to admit his dinner, which
is brought upon a goodly tray, with a decanter of sherry. Mr.
Bucket frequently observes, in friendly circles where there is no
restraint, that he lilies a toothful of your fine old brown East
Inder sherry better than any thing you can offer him.  Consequently he fills and empties his glass, with a smack of his lips;
and is proceeding with his refreshment, when an idea enters his
mind.
Mr. Bucket softly opens the door of communication between
that room and the next, and looks in. The library is deserted,
and the fire is sinking low.  Mr. Bucket's eye, after taking a
pigeon-flight round the room, alights upon a table where letters
are usually put as they arrive.  Several letters for Sir Leicester
are upon it.  Mr. Bucket draws near, and examines the directions.  "No," he says, "there's none in that hand.  It's only
me as is written to. I can break it to Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet, to-morrow."
With that, he returns to finish his dinner with a good appetite;
and, after a light nap, is summoned into the drawing-room. Sir
Leicester has received him there these several evenings past, to
know whether he has any thing to report. The debilitated cousin
(much exhausted by the funeral), and Volumnia, are in attendance.
Mr. Bucket makes three distinctly different bows to these three
people. A bow of homage to Sir Leicester, a bow of gallantry to
Volumnia, and a bow of recognition to the debilitated cousin; to
whom it airily says, " You are a swell about town, and you know
me, and I know you." Having distributed these little specimens
of his tact, Mr. Bucket rubs his hands.
" Have you any thing new to communicate, officer?" inquires
Sir Leicester.  " Do you wish to hold any conversation with me
in private?"
"Why-not to-night, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet."
"Because my time," pursues Sir Leicester, " is wholly at your
disposal, with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty
of the law."
Mr Bucket coughs, and glances at Volunnia, rouged and neck
laced, as though he would respectfully observe, " I do assure you




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        791
you're a pretty creetur. I've seen hundreds worse-looking at your
time of life, I have indeed."
The fair Volumlnia not quite unconscious perhaps of the humanizing influence of her charms, pauses in the writing of cocked-hat
notes, and meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace. Mr. Bucket
prices that decoration in his mind, and thinks it as likely as not
that Volumnia is writing poetry.
" If I have not," pursues Sir Leicester, "in the most emphatic
manner, abjured you, officer, to exercise your utmost skill in this
atrocious case, I particularly desire to take the present oppor
tunity of rectifying any omission I may have made. Let no ex
pense be a consideration. I am prepared to defiay all charges
You can incur none, in pursuit of the object you have undertaken,
that I shall hesitate for a moment to bear."
Mr. Bucket makes Sir Leicester's bow again, as a response to
this liberality.
"My mind," Sir Leicester adds, with generous warmth, " has
not, as may be easily supposed, recovered its tone since the late
diabolical occurrence.  It is not likely ever to recover its tone.
But it is full of indignation to-night, after undergoing the ordeal
of consigning to the tomb the remains of a faithful, a zealous, a
devoted adherent."
Sir Leicester's voice trembles. and his gray hairs stirs upon his
head. Tears are in his eyes; the best part of his nature is aroused.
" I declare," he says, " I solemnly declare that until this crime
is discovered and, in the course of justice, punished, I almost feel
as if there were a stain upon my name.  A gentleman who has
devoted a large portion of his life to me, a gentleman who has
devoted the last day of his life to me, a gentleman who has constantly sat at my table and slept under my roof; goes from my
house to his own, and is struck down within an hour of his leaving my house. I can not say but that he may have been followed
from my house, watched at my house, even first marked because
of his association with my house-which may have suggested his
possessing greater wealth, and being altogether of greater importance than his own retiring demeanor would have indicated. If I
can not with my means, and my influence, and my position, bring
all tne perpetrators of such a crime to light, I fail in the assertion




~792                 BLEAK  HOUsE.
of my respect for that gentleman's memory, and of my fidelity
toward one who was ever faithful to me."
While he makes this protestation with great emotion and earnesmtess, looking round the room as if he were addressing an assembly, Mr. Bucket glances at him with an observant gravity in
which there might be, but for the audacity of the thought, a touch
of compassion.
"The ceremony of to-day," continues Sir Leicester, "strikingly
illustrative of the respect in which my deceased friend;" he lays
a stress upon the word; for death levels all distinctions; "was
held by the flower of the land, has, I say, aggravated the shock
I have received from this most horrible and audacious crime.
If it were my brother who had committed it, I would not spare
him."
Mr. Bucket looks very grave.  Volumnia remarks of the deceased that he was the trustiest and dearest person 
"You must feel it as a deprivation to you, miss," replies Mr.
Bucket, soothingly " no doubt. He was calculated to be a deprivation, I'm sure he was."
Volumnia gives Mr. Bucket to understand, in reply, that her
sensitive mind'is fully made up never to get the better of it as
long as she lives; that her nerves are unstrung forever; and that
she has not the least expectation of smiling again. Meanwhile
she folds up a cocked-hat for that redoubtable old general at
Bath, descriptive of her melancholy condition.
" It gives a start to a delicate female," says Mr. Bucket, sympathetically, " but it'll wear off."
Volumnia wishes of all things to know what is doing? Whether
they are going to convict, or whatever it is, that dreadful soldier?
Whether he had any accomplices, or whatever the thing is called,
in the law?  And a great deal more to the like artless purpose.
"Why you see, miss," returns Mr. Bucket, bringing the finger
into persuasive action-and such is his natural gallantry, that he
had almost said, my dear; "it ain't easy to answer those questions at the present moment. Not at the present moment. I've
kept myself on this case, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," whom
Mr. Bucket t kes into the conversation in right of his importance,




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        793
morning, noon, and night.  But for a glass or two of sherry, I
G )'t think I could have had my mind so much upon the stretch
as it has been.  I could answer your questions, miss, Dut duty
forbids it.  Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, will very soon be
made acquainted with all that has been traced.  And I hope
that he may find it;" Mr. Bucket again looks grave; " to his
satisfaction."
The debilitated cousin only hopes some fler'll be executedzample.  Thinks more interest's wanted-get man hanged presentime-than get man place ten thousand a year.  Hasn't a
doubt-zample-far better hang wrong fler than no fler.' You know life, you know, sir," says Mr. Bucket, with a complimentary twinkle of his eye and crook of his finger, " and you
can confirm what I've mentioned to this lady.  Ytou don't want
to be told, that, from information I have received, I have gone
to work.  You're up to what a lady can't be expected to be up
to.  Lord! especially in your elevated station of society, miss,"
says Mr. Bucket, quite reddening at another narrow escape from
my dear.
"The officer, Volumnia," observes Sir Leicester, "is faithful
to his duty, and perfectly right."
Mr. Bucket murmurs, " Glad to have the honor of your approbation, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet."
"In fact, Volumnia," proceeds Sir Leicester,' it is not holding
up a good model for imitation, to ask the officer any such questions as you hive put to him.  He is the best judge. of his own
responsibility; he acts upon his responsibility.  And it does not.
become us, who assist in making the laws, to impede or interfere
with those who carry them into execution. Or," says Sir Leicester, somewhat sternly, for Volumnia was going to cut in before he
had rounded his sentence; "or who vindicate their outraged
majesty."
Volumnia, with all humility, explains that she has not merely
the plea of curiosity to urge (in common with the giddy youth of
her sex in general), but that she is perfectly dying with regret
and interest for the darling man whose loss they all deplore.
"Very well, Volumnia," returns Sir Leicester. " Then you can
not be too Jiscreet."




794                   BLEAK HOUSE.
Mr. Bucket takes the opportunity of a pause to be heard again.
"' Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I have no objections to telling this lady, with your leave and among ourselves, that I look
upon the case as pretty well complete.  It is a beautiful casea beautiful case-and what little is wanting to complete it, 1
expect to be able to supply in a few hours."
"I am very glad indeed to hear it," says Sir Leicester. " Highly creditable to you."
" Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket, very
seriously, " I hope it may at one and the same time do me credit,
and prove satisfactory to all. When I depict it as a beautiful case,
you see, miss," Mr. Bucket goes on, glancing gravely at Sir Leicester, " I mean from my point of view. As considered from other
points of view, such cases will always involve more or less unpleasantness.  Very strange thifigs comes to our knowledge in
families, miss; bless your heart, what you would think to be
phenomonons, quite!"
Volumnia, with her innocent little scream, supposes so.
"Ay, and even in gen-teel families, in high families, in great
families," says Mr. Bucket, again gravely eying Sir Leicester
aside.  "I have had the honor of being employed in high famlles before; and you have no idea-come, I'll go so far as to say
not even you have any idea, sir," this to the debilitated cousin,
" what games goes on!"
The cousin, who has been casting sofa-pillows on his head. in
a prostration of boredom, yawns, " Vayli"-:being the used-up for
"very likely."
Sir Leicester, deeming it time to dismiss the officer, here majestically interposes with the words, " Very good.  Thank you!"
and also with a wave of his hand, implying not only that there
is an end of the discourse, but that if high families fall into low
habits they must take the consequences.  "You will not forget,
officer," he adds, with condescension, " that I am at your disposal
when you please."
Mr. Bucket (still grave) inquires if to-morrow morning, now,
would suit, in case he should be as for'ad as he expects to be?
Sir Leicester replies, " All times are alike to me."  Mr. Bucket




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        795
makes his three bows, and is withdrawing, when a forgotten point
occurs to him.
"Might I ask, by-the-by," he says, in a low voice, cautiously
returning, " who posted the Reward-bill on the staircase?"
" I ordered it to be put up there," replies Sir Leicester.
"Would it be considered a liberty; Sir Leicester Dedlock, Bar,
onet, if I was to ask you why?"
"Not at all. I chose it as a conspicuous part of the house. I
think it can not be too prominently kept before the whole establishment.  I wish my people to be impressed with the enormity
of the crime, the determination to punish it, and the hopelessness
of escape. At the same time, officer, if you in your better knowledge of the subject see any objection-"
Mr. Bucket sees none now; the bill having been put up, had
better not be taken down.  Repeating his three bows he withdraws: closing the door on Volumnia's little scream, which is a
preliminary to her remarking that that charmingly horrible person is a perfect Blue Chamber.
In his fondness for society, and his adaptability to all grades,
Mr. Bucket is presently standing before the hall-fire-bright and
warm on the early winter night-admiring Mercury.
"Why, you're six foot two, I suppose?" says Mr. Bucket.
" Three," says Mercury.
" Are you so much?  But then, you see, you're broad in proportion, and don't look it.  You're not one of the weak-legged
ones, you ain't.  Was you ever modeled now?"  Mr. Bucket
asks, conveying the expression of an artist into the turn of his
eye and head.
Mercury never was modeled.
" Then you ought to be, you know," says Mr. Bucket; "and
a friend of mine that you'll hear of one day as a Royal Academy Sculptor, would stand something handsome to make a drawing of your proportions for the marble.  My Lady's out ain't
she?"
"Out to dinner,"
"Goes out pretty well every day, don't she?"
" Yes."
"  ot to be wondered at!" says Mr. Bucket.  " Such a fine




796                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
won-:ti as her, so handsome and so graceful and so elegant, is
like a fiesh lemon on a dinner-table, ornamental wherever she
goes.  Was your father in the same way of life as yourself?"
Answer in the negative.' Mine was," says Mr. Bucket.  " My father was first a page,
then a fbotman, then a butler, then a steward, then an innkeeper.  Lived universally respected, and died lamented.  Said with
his last breath that he considered service the most honorable part
of his career, and so it was.  I've a brother in service, and a
brother-in-law.  My Lady a good temper?"
Mercury replies, " As good as you can expect."
"Ah!" says Mr. Bucket, " a little spoilt-?  A little capricious?
Lord! What can you anticipate when they're so handsome as that?
And we like'erm all the better for it, don't we?"
Mercury, with his hands in the pockets of his flaming orangecolored small clothes, stretches his symmetrical silk legs with the.air of a man of gallantry, and can't deny it.  Come the roll of
wheels and a violent ringing at the bell.'. Talk of the angels,"
Bays Mr. Bucket.  "Here she is I"
The doors are thrown open, and she passes through the hall,
Still very pale, she is dres,;ed- in slight mourning, and wears two
beautiful bracelets.  Either their beauty, or the beauty of her
arms, is particularly attractive to Mr. Bucket. He looks at them
with an eager eye, and rattles something in his pocket-halfpence
perhaps.
Noticing him at his distance, she turns an inquiring look on
the other Mercury who has brought her home.
"Mr. Bucket, my Lady."
Mr. Bucket makes a leg, and comes forward, passing his familiar demon over the region of his mouth.
"Are you waiting to see Sir Leicester?"
"No, my Lady, I've seen him!"
"Have you any thing to say to me?"
"Not just at present, my Lady."
"Have you made any new discoveries?"
"A few, my Lady."
This is merely in passing. She scarcely makes a stop, and
sweeps up-stairs alone.  Mr. Bucket, moving toward the stair



BLEAK  HOUSE.                         797
case-foot, watches her as she goes up the steps the old nan came
down to his grave; past murderous groups of statuary, repeated
with their shadowy weapons on the wall; past the printed bill,
which she looks at going by; out of view..
"'She's a lovely woman, too, she really is," says Mr. Bucket.
coming back to Mercury.  "Don't look quite healthy, though."
Is not quite healthy, Mercury informs him.  Suffers much
from headaches.
Really? That's a pity! Walking, Mr. Bucket would recommend for that. Well, she tries walking, Mercury rejoins. Walks
sometimes for two hours when she has them  bad.  By night,
too.
" Are you sure you're quite so much as six foot three?" asks
Mr. Bucket, "begging your pardon for interrupting you a moment?"
Not a doubt about it.
" You're so well put together that I shouldn't have thought it.
But the household troops, though considered fine men, are built
so straggling-Walks by night, does she?  When it's moonlight,
though?"
O yes. When it's moonlight! Of course. 0, of course! Con
versational and acquiescent on both sides.
"I suppose you ain't in the habit of walking yourself?" says
Mr. Bucket.  "Not much time for it I should say?"
Besides which Mercury don't.like it. Prefers carriage exercise.
"To be sure," says Mr. Bucket.  "That makes.a difference.
Now I think of it," says Mr. Bucket, warming his hands, and
looking pleasantly at the blaze, " she went out walking, the very
night of this business."
"To be sure she did! I let her into the garden over the way."
"And left her there. Certainly you did. I saw you doing it."
"I didn't see you," says Mercury.
"I was rather in a hurry," returns Mr. Bucket, "for I was
going to visit a aunt of mine that lives at Chelsea-next door
but two to the old original Bun House-ninety year old the old
lady is, a singlewoman and got a little property. Yes, I chanced
to be passing at the time.  Let's see.  What time might it be?
It wasn't ten."




798                 BLEAK  HOUSE
"Half-past nine."' You're right. So it was. And if I don't deceive myself, my
Lady was muffled in a loose black mantle, with a deep fringe t(
it?"
"Of course she was.'
Of course she was.  Mr. Bucket must return to a little worb
he has to get on with up-stairs; but he must shake hands with
Mercury in acknowledgment of his agreeable conversation, and
will he-this is all he asks-will he, when he has a leisure halfhour, think of bestowing it on that Royal Academy sculptor, for
the advantage of both parties?




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CHAPTER LIV.
SPRINGING A MINE.
REFRESHED bysleep, Mr. Bucket rises betimes in the morning
and prepares for a field-day. Smartened up by the aid of a clean
shirt and a wet hair-brush, with which instrument on occasions
of ceremony he lubricates such thin locks as remain to him after
his life of severe study.  Mr. Bucket lays in a breakfast of two
mutton chops as a foundation to work upon, together with tea,
eggs, toast, and marmalade on a corresponding scale.  Having
much enjoyed these strengthening matters, and having held subtle
conference with his familiar finger, he confidentially instructs
Mercury, "just to mention quietly to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, that whenever he's ready for me, I'm ready for him."  A gracious message being returned that Sir Leicester will expedite his
dressing and join Mr. Bucket in the library within ten minutes,
Mr. Bucket repairs to that apartment, and stands before the fire
with his finger on his chin looking at the blazing coals.
Thoughtful Mr. Bucket is, as a man may be, with weighty
work to do, but composed, sure, confident.  From the expression
of his face he might be a famous whist-player for a large stakesay a hundred guineas certain-with the game in his hand, but
with a high ieputation involved in his playing his hand out to
the last card in a masterly way.  Not in the least anxious or disturbed is Mr. Bucket when Sir Leicester appears, but he eyes the
baronet aside as he comes along to his easy chair, with that observant gravity of yesterday, in which there might have been
yesterday, but for the audacity of the idea, a touch of compassion.
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting, officer, but I am rather
later than my usual hour this morning.  I am not well.  The
agitation, and the indignation from which I have recently sul:
50                                            (799)




800                   BLEAK  HOUSE.fired, have been too much for me.  I am subject to —gout."  Sir
Leicester was going to say indisposition, and would have said it
to any body else, but Mr. Bucket palpably knows all about it;
" and recent circumstances have brought it on."
As he takes his seat with some difficulty, and with an air of
pain, Mr. Bucket draws a little nearer, standing with one of his
large hands on the library table.
" I am not aware, officer," Sir Leicester observes, raising his
eyes to his face, " whether you wish us to be alone, but that is
as you please.  If you do, well.  If not, Miss Dedlock would be
interested-"
"Why, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket,
with his head persuasively on one side, and his forefinger pendant
at one ear like an ear-ring, " we can't be too private just at present.
You will presently see that we can't be too private.  A lady,
under any circumstances, and especially il Miss Dedlock's elevated
station of society, can't but be agreeable to me; but speaking
without a view to myself, I will take the liberty of assuring you
that I know we can't be too private."
"That is enough."
"So much. so, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," Mr. Bucket
pursues,  " that I was on the point of asking your permission to
turn the key in the door."
"By all means."  Mr. Bucket skillfully and softly takes that
precaution; stooping on his knee for a moment, from mere force
of habit, so to adjust the key in the lock as that no one shall peep
in from the outer side.
" Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I mentioned yesterday evening, that I wanted but a very little to complete this case. I have
now completed it, and collected proof against the person who did
this crime."
"Against the soldier?"
" No, Sir Leicester Dedlock; not the soldier"
Sir Leicester looks astounded, and inquires, "Is the man in
custody?"
Mr. Bucket tells him, after a pause, "It was a woman."
Sir Leicester leans back in his chair, and breathlessly ejaculates, "Good God!"
" Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," Mr. Bucket begins,




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        801
standing over him with one hand on the library-table, and the
forefinger of the other in impressive use," it's my duty to prepare
you for a train of circumstances that may, and I go so far as to
say that will, give you a shock. But, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, you are a gentleman, and I know what a gentleman is, and
what a gentleman is capable of. A gentleman can bear a shock
when it must come, boldly and steadily. A gentleman can make
up his mind to stand up against almost any blow.  Why, take
yourself, Sir Leicester Dedlock. If there's a blow to be inflicted
on you, you naturally think of your family. You ask yourself how
would all them ancestors of yours, away to Julius Caesar, not to
go beyond him, have borne that blow; you remember scores of'em that would have borne it well; and you bear it well on their
accounts, and to maintain the family credit. That's the way you
argue, and that's the way you act, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet."
Sir Leicester, leaning back in his chair, and grasping the elbows,
sits looking at him with a stony face.
"Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock," proceeds Mr. Bucket, "thus
preparing you, let me beg of you not to trouble your mind for a
moment as to any thing having come to my knowledge.  I know
so much about so many characters, high and low, that a piece
of infamy, more or less, don't signify a straw. I don't suppose
there's a move on the board that would surprise me; and as to
this or that move having taken place, why, my knowing it is no
odds at all; any possible move whatever, provided it's in a wrong
direction, being a probable move according to my experience.
Therefore what I say to you, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, is,
don't you go and let yourself be put out of the way because of my
knowing any thing of your family affairs."
" I thank you for your preparation," returns Sir Leicester, after
a silence in that moving hand, foot, and feature; "which I hope
is not necessary, though I give it merit for being well intended.
Be so good as to go on. Also,"-Sir Leicester seems to shrink
in -the shadow of his figure-" also, to take a seat, if you have no
objection."
"None at all."  Mr. Bucket brings a chair.  "Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, with this short preface, I come to the
point.  Lady Dedlock-"




802                   BLEAK  HOUSE.
Sir Leicester raises himself in his seat, and stares at him
fiercely.  Mr. Bucket brings the finger into play as an emollient.
"Lady Dedlock, you see, she's universally admired.  That's
what her Ladyship is; she's universally admired," says Mr.
Bucket.
I would greatly prefer, officer," Sir Leicester returns, stiffly,
"(my Lady's name being entirely omitted from this discussion."
So would I, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, but it's impossible."
" Impossible?"
Mr. Bucket shakes his relentless head.
"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it's altogether impossible.
What I have got to say is about her Ladyship.  She is the pivot
it all turns on."
" Offider," retorts Sir Leicester, with a fiery eye, and a quivering lip, "you know your duty.  Do your duty; but be careful
not to overstep it. I would not suffer it. I would not endure it
You bring my Lady's name into this communication upon your
responsibility-upon your responsibility. My Lady's name is not
a name for common persons to trifle with!"
" Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I say what I must say, and
no more."
" I hope it may prove so.  Very well.  Go on.  Go on,
sir!"
Glancing at the angry eyes which now avoid him, and at the
angry figure trembling from head to foot, yet striving to be still,
Mr. Bucket feels his way with his forefinger, and in a low voice
proceeds.
"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it's my duty to tell you that
the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn entertained mistrusts and suspicions
of Lady Dedlock."
"If he had dared to breathe them to me, sir-which he never
did-I would have killed him  myself!" exclaims Sir Leicester,
striking his hand upon the table. But in the very heat and fury
of the act he stops, fixed by the knowing eyes of Mr. Bucket, whose
forefinger is slowly going, and who, with mingled confidence and
patience, shakes his head.
" Sir Leicester Dedlock, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn was
deep ind close, and what he fully had in his mind in the very




BLEAK HOUSE.                         808
beginning    I can't quite take upon myself to say. But I know
from his lips, that he long ago suspected Lady Dedlock of haviJg
discovered through the sight of some handwriting in this very
house, and when you yourself, Sir Leicester Dedlock, were present-the existence, in great part, of a certain person, who had
been her lover before you courted her, and who ought to have
been her husband;" Mr. Bucket stops and reflects, "ought to
have been her husband; not a doubt of it.  I know from his lips
that when that person soon afterward died, he suspected Lady
Dedlock of visiting his wretched lodging, and his wretcheder
grave, alone and in secret.  I know from iny own inquiries, and
through my eyes and ears, that Lady Dedlock did make such
visit in the dress of her own maid; for the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn employed me to reckon up her Ladyship-if you'll excuse
my making use of the term we commcnly employ-and I reck
oned her up, so tar, completely.  I. onfioonted the maid, in the
chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields with a witness who had been
Lady Dedlcck's guide, and there couldn't be the shadow of a
doubt that she had worn the younr  woman's dress, unklnown to
her.  Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I (lid endeavor to pave the
way a little toward these unpleasant disclosures yesterday, by saying that very strange things happened even in high families sometimes.  All this has happened in your own family, and through
your own Lady.  It's my belief that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn followed up these inquiries to the hour of his death, and that
he and Lady Dedlock even had bad blood between them  upon
the matter that very night  Now, only you put that to Lady
D'edlock, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and ask her Ladyship
whether, even after he had left here, she didn't go down to his
chambers with the intention of saying something further to him,
dressed in a loose black mantle with a deep fringe to it."
Sir Leicester sits like a statue, gazing at the cruel finger that
is feeling the tenderest recesses of his heart.
"You put that to her Ladyship, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,
from me, Inspector Bucket of the Detective.  And if her Ladyship makes any difficulty about admitting of it, you tell her that
it's no use; that Inspector Bucket knows it, and knows that she
passed the soldier as you called him (though he's not in the arrn
no), and knows that she knows shl  passed him, on the stair




804                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
ase.  Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, why do I relate all
this?"
Sir Leicester, who has covered his face with his hands, uttering a single groan, requests him to pause for a moment.  By-andby, lie takes his hands away, and so preserves his dignity and outward calmness, though there is no more color in his face than in
his white hair, that Mr. Bucket is a little awed by him. Something frozen and fixed is upon his manner, over and above its
usual spell of haughtiness; and Mr. Bucket soon detects an unusual slowness in his speech, with now and then a curious trouble inl beginning, which occasions him to utter inarticulate sounds.
With such sounds he now breaks silence; soon, however, controlling himself to say that he does not comprehend why a gentleman so faithful and zealous as the late Mr. Tulkinghorn should
have communicated to him nothing of this'painful, this distressillg, this unlooked-for, this overwhelming, this incredible intelligenlce.
- "Again, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket,
"put it to her Ladyship to clear that up   Put it to her Lady
ship, if you think right, fiomn Inspector Bucket of the Detectiv,.
Then you'll find, or I'm much mistaken, that the deceased M[r.
Tulkinghorn had the intention of communicating the whole to
you as soon as he considered it ripe, and further, that he had
given her Ladyship so to understand.  Why, he might have been
going to reveal it on the very morning when I examined the
body!  You don't know what I'm going to say and do five minutes from this present time, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet; and
supposing I was to be picked off now, you might wonder why I
hadn't done it, don't you see?"
True.  Sir Leicester, avoiding, with some trouble, those obtrusive sounds, says, " True." At this juncture, a considerable noise
of voices is heard in the hall.  Mr. Bucket, after listening, goes
to the library-door, softly unlocks and opens it, and listens again.
Then he draws in his head, and whispers, hurriedly, but composedly, "Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, this unfortunate family
afliair has taken air, as I expected it mnight; the deceased Mr.
Tillkinghorn being took away so sudden.  The chance to hush't up, is to let in these people now in a wrangle with your footmen. Would you mind sifting quiet-on the family account —.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        805
while I reckon'em up? and would you just throw in a word
when I seem to ask you for it?"
Sir Leicester indistinctly answers, " Officer.  The best you
can, the best you can!' and Mr. Bucket, with a nod and a sagacious crook. of the forefinger, slips down into the hall, where the
voices quickly die away.  He is not long in returning -a few
paces ahead of Mercury and a brother deity, also powdered, and
in peach blossom  smalls, who bear between them  a chair
in which is an incapable old man.  Another man and two
women came behind.  Directing the pitching of the chair, in an
able and easy manner, Mr. Bucket dismisses the Mercuries and
locks the door again. Sir Leicester looks on at this invasion of
the sacred precincts with an icy stare.
"Now, perhaps you may know me, ladies and gentlemen,"
says Mr. Bucket, in a confidential voice.  "I am  Inspector
Bucket of the Detective, and this," producing the tip of his convenient little staff'fiorn his breast-pocket, "is my authority.  Now
you wanted to see Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.  You do see
him, and mind you it ain't every one as is admitted to that honoi.
Your name, old gentleman, is Smallweed; that's what your name
is, I know it well."
" Well, and you never heard any harm of it!" cr:ice Mr. Smallweed in a shrill loud voice
" You don't happen to know why they killed the celebrated
pig, do you?" retorts Mr. Bucket, with a steadfast look, but
without loss of temper.
" No!"
" Why, they killed him, says Mr. Bucket, " on account of his
having so much cheek.  Don't you get into the same position, because it isn't worthy of you.  You ain't in the habit of conversing
with a deaf person are you?"
"Yes," snarls Mr. Smallweed, " my wife's deaf."
"That accounts for your pitching your voice so high.  But as
she ain't here, pitch it an octave, or two lower, will you,
and I'll not only be obliged to you, but it'll do you mlore credit,"
savs Mr. Bucket.  "This other gentleman is in the preaching
line. I think?"
"Name of Chadband," Mr. Smallweed puts in, speaking
henceforth in a much lower key.




806                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
"Once had a friend and brother sergeant of the same name,"
says Mr. Bucket, offering his hand, " and consequently feel a.
liking for it. Mrs. Chadband, no doubt?"
"And Mrs. Snagsby," Mr. Smallweed introduces.
"Husband a law  stationer, and a friend of my own," says
Mr. Bucket.  "Love him like a brother.  Now, what's up?"
"Do you mean what business have we come upon?" Mr.
Smallweed asks, a little dashed by the suddenness of this turn.
"Ah! You know what I mean.  Let us hear all what it's
about in presence of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Come."
Mr. Smallweed, beckoning Mr. Chadband, takes a momnent's
counsel with him  in a whisper.  Mr. Chadband, expressing a
considerable amount of oil through the pores of his forehead and
the palms of his hands, says aloud, " Yes. You first!" and retires to his former place.
"I was the client' and friend of Mr. Tulkinghorn," pipes
Grandfather Smallweed then; "I did business with him.  I was
useful to him, and he was useful to me. Krook dead and gone
was  my brother-in-law.  He was own brother to a brimstone
magpie-leastways Mrs. Smallweed.  I came in  to Krook's
property.  I examined all his papers and all his effects.  They
was all-dug out under my ey'es. There was a bundle of letters
belonging to a dead and gone lodger, as was hid away in the
side of Lady Jane's bed-his cat's bed.  He hid-all manner of
things away, everywheres.  Mr. Tulkinghorn wanted'em  and
got'ein, but I looked'em over first. I'm a man of business, and
I took a squint at'em.  They was letters from  the lodger's
sweetheart, and she signed Honoria. Dear me, that's a common
name, Honoria, is it. There's no lady in this house, that signs
Honoria, is there?  0 no, L don't think so! 0 no, I don't think
so! And not in the same hand, perhaps?  No, I don't think
so!"
Here Mr. Smallweed, seized with a fit of coughing in the
midst of his triumph, breaks off to ejaculate "0 dear me! 0
Lord! I'm shaken all to pieces!"
"Now  when you're ready," says Mr. Bucket coolly, after
awaiting his recovery, "to come toany thing that concerns Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, here the gentleman sits, you know."
"Haven't I come to it, Mr. Bucket?" cries Grandfikther




BLEAK HOUSE.                          807
Smiallweed.  "Isn't the gentleman concerned yet?  Not with
Captain Hawdon and his ever affectionate Honoria, and their
child into the bargain?   Come then, I want to know  where
those letters are. That concerns me, if it don't concern Sir
Leicester Dedlock.  I will know where they are.  I won't have'em disappear so quietly.  1 handed'em over to my friend and
solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn; not to any body else."
" Why, he paid you for them, you know, and handsome too,"
says Mr. Bucket, quietly putting his hands into his pockets.
"I don't care for that.  I want to know who's got'em.  And
I tell you what we want-what we all here want, Mr. Bucket.
We walnt more pains-taking and search-making into this murder.
We know where the interest and the motive was, and you have
not done enough.  If George the vagabond dragoon had any hand
in it, he was only an accomplice and was set on.  You knew
what I mean as well as ans y man.": Now  I tell you what," says Mr. Bucket, instantaneously
altering his manner, cominig close to him, and cornmunicating an
extraordinary fascillation to the forefinger, "I am dammed if I
am going to have my case spoilt, or interfered with, or anticipated by so nmuch as half a second of time, by any'human being ia
creation.  You want more painstaking  and search-making?
You do?  Do you see this hand, and do you think that I don't
know the right time to stretch it out and put it on the arm that
fired that shot?"
Such is the dread power of the man, and so terribly evident
it is that he makes'no boast, that Mr. Smallweed begins to
apologize.  But Mr. Bucket, dismissing his sudden anger, checks
him.
The advice I give you, is, don't you trouble your head about
the murder.  That's my affair.  You keep half an eye on the
newspapers, and I shouldn't wonder if you was to read something
about it before long if you look sharp.  I know my business, and
that's all I've got to say to you on that subject.  Now about
those letters.  You want to. know who's got'em.  I don't mind
telling you.  I have got'em.  Is that the packet?"
Mr. Smallweed looks with greedy eyes at the little bundle
Mr. Bucket produces from  a mysterious part of his coat, and
identifies it as the same.




808                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
"What have you got to say next?" asks Mr. Bucket.' Now
don't open your mouth too wide, because you don't look hand-.
some when you do it."
"I want five hundred pound."
" No you don't; you mean fifty," says Mr. Bucket, humorously
It appears, however, that Mr. Smallweed means five hundred
"That is, I am deputed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to
consider (without admitting or promising any thing) this bit of
business,".says Mr. Bucket; Sir Leicester mechanically lowers
his head; "and you ask me to consider a proposal of five hundred pound.  Why, it's an unreasonable proposal! Two, fifty,
would be bad enough, but better than that.  Hadn't you better
say two, fifty-?"
Mr. Sniallweed is quite clear that he had better not.
" Then," says Mr. Bucket, "let's hear Mr. Chadband.  Lord!
Many a time I've heard my old fellow-sergeant of that name,
and a moderate man he was in all respects, as ever I came
across 1"
Thus invited, Mr. Chadband steps forth, and after a little sleek
smiling, and a little oil-grinding with the palms of his hand, delivers himself as follows:'My fiiends, we are now-Rachel my wife, and I-in the
mansions of the rich and great.  Why are we now in the mansions of the rich and great?  Is it because we are invited?
Because we are bidden to feast with them, because we are bidden
to rejoice with them, because we are bidden to play the lute with
them, because we are bidden to dance with them?  No. Then
why are we here, my friends?  Air we in possession of a sinful
secret, and doe we require corn. and wine, and oil-or, what is
much the same thing, money-for the keeping thereof?  Probably so, my fiiends."
"You're a man of business, you are," returns Mr. Bucket, very
attentive; "and consequently you're going on to mention what
the nature of your secret is.  You are right.  You couldn't do
better."
"Let us then. my brother, in a spirit of love," says Mr. Chadband, with a cunning eye,' proceed untoe it.  Rachel, my wife,
advance!"
Mrs. Chadband, more than ready, so advances as to jostle her




BLEAK HOUSE.                         809
husband into the back-ground, and confronts Mr. Bucket with a
hard, frowning smile.
" Since you want to know what we know," says she, " I'll tell
you.  I helped to bring up Miss Hawdon, her Ladyship's daughter. I was in the service of her Ladyship's sister, who was very
sensitive to the disgrace her Ladyship brought upon her, and gave
out, even to her Ladyship, that the child was dead-she was
very nearly so, when she was born. But she's alive, and I know
her."  With these words. and a laugh, laying a bitter stress on
the word " Ladyship," Mrs. Chadband folds her arms, and looks
impenetrably and obdurately at Mr. Bucket.
"I suppose now," returns that officer, "you will be expecting
a twenty-pound note, or a present of about that figure?"
Mrs. Chadband merely laughs, and contemptuously tells him
he can " offer" twenty pence.
" My friend the law-stationer's good lady, over there," says
Mr. Bucket, luring Mrs. Snagsby forward with the finger. " What
may your' game be, ma'am?"
Mrs. Snagsbyis at first prevented by tears and lamentations
from stating the nature of her game, but by degrees it confusedly
comes to light that she is a woman overwhelmed with injuries
and wrongs, whom Mr. Snagsby has habitually deceived, abandonled, and sought to keep in darkness, and whose chief comfort,
under her afflictions, has been the sympathy of the late Mr.
Tulkinghorn; who showed so much commiseration for her on
one occasion of his calling in Cook's Court in the absence of her
perjured husband, that she has of late literally carried to him
all her woes.  Every body, it appears, the present company excepted, has plotted against Mrs. Snagsby's peace.  There is Mr.
Guppy, clerk to Kenge and Carboy,,who was at first as open as
the sun at noon, but who suddenly shut up as close as midnight,
under the influence-no doubt-of Mr. Snagsby's salooning and
tampering.  There is Mr. Weevle, friend of Mr. Guppy, who
lived mysteriously up a court, owing to the like coherent causes.
There was Krook, deceased, there was Nimrod, deceased, and
there was Jo, deceased, and they were " all in it." In what,
Mrs. Snagsby doesn't with any particularity express, but she
knows that Jo was Mr. Snagsby's son, " as well as if a trumpet




810                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
had spoken it," and she followed Mr. Snagsby when he went on
his last visit to the boy, and if he were not his son why did he
go?  The one occupation of her life has been, for some time
back, to follow Mr. Snagsby to and fro, and up and down, and to
piece suspicious circumstances together-and every circumstance
that has happened has been most suspicious —and in this way
she has pursued her object of detecting and confounding her false
husband, night and day.  Thus did it come to pass that she
brought the Chadbands and Mr. Tulkinghorn together, and conferred with Mr. Tulkinghorn on the change in Mr. Guppy, and
helped to turn up the circumstances in which the present company are interested, casually by the wayside; being still ever on
the great high road that is to terminate in Mr. Snagsby's full
exposure, and a matrimonial separation. All this Mrs. Snagsby,
as an injured woman, and the friend of Mrs. Chadband, and the
follower of Mr. Chadband, and the mourner of the late Mr.
Tulkinghorn, is here to certify under the seal of confidence, with
every possible confusion, and involvement, possible and impossible; having no pecuniary motive whatever, no scheme or project
but the one mentioned; and bringing here, and taking every
where, her own dense atmosphere of dust, arising from the ceaseless working of the mill of jealousy.
While this exordium is in hand-and it takes some timeMr. Bucket, who has seen through the transparency of Mrs.
Snagsby's vinegar at a glance, confers with his familiar demon,
and bestows his shrewd attention on the Chadbands and Mrs.
Snallweed.  Sir Leicester Dedlock remains immovable, with
tle same icy surface upon him, except that he once or twice
looks toward Mr. Bucket as relying on that officer alone of all
mankind.
"Very good," says Mr. Bucket.  "Now I understand you, you
know, and being deputed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to
look into this matter;" again Sir Leicester mechanically bows in
confirmation of the statement; "can give it my fair and full
attention;  Now I won't allude to conspiring to extort money, or
any thing of that sort, because we are men and women of the
world here, and our object is to make things pleasant.  But I
tell you what I do wonder at; I am surprised that you should




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        811
think of making a noise below in the hall. It was so opposed to
your own interests.  That's what I look at."
"We wanted to get in," pleads Mr. Smallweed.
" Why, of course, you wanted to get in," Mr. Bucket assents,
with cheerfulness; " but for a old gentleman at your time of
life-what I call venerable, mind you!-with his wits sharpened, as I have no doubt they are, by the loss of the use of his
limbs, which occasions all his animation to mount up into his
head-not to consider that if he don't keep such a business as
the present as close as possible, it can't be worth a single mag
to him. is so curious! You see your temper got the better of
you; that's where you lost ground," says Mr. Bucket, in an
argumentative and friendly way.
"I only said I wouldn't go, without they came up to Sir
Leicester Dedlock," returns Mr. Smallweed.
" That's it! That's when your temper got the better of you.
Now you keep it under another time, and you'll make money by
it.  Shall I ring for.them to carry you down?"
" When are we to hear more of this?" Mrs. Chadband sternly
demands.
" Bless your heart for a true woman! Always curious, your
delightful sex is!" replies Mr. Bucket, with arch gallantry.  "I
shall have the pleasure of giving you a call to-morrow or next
day-not forgetting Mr. Smallweed and his proposal of two,
fifty."
" Five hundred!" exclaims Mr. Smallweed.
"All right  Nominally five hundred;" Mr. Bucket has his
hand on the bell-rope.  "Shall I wish you good-day for the present, on the part of myself and the gentleman of the house?" he
asks, in an insinuating tone.
Nobody objecting to his doing so, he does it, and the party retire as they came up. Mr. Bucket follows them to the door, and
returning says, with an air of serious business:' Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it's for you to consider whe
ther or not to buy this up. I should recommend, on the whole,
its being bought up myself, and I think it may be bought pretty
cheap.  You see, that little pickled cucumber of a. Mrs. Snagsby
has been used by all sides of the speculation, and has done a




812                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
deal more harm in bringing odds and ends together than if she
had meant it.  Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, he held all these
horses in his hand, and could have driven'em his own way, I
haven't a doubt; but he was fetched off the box head-foremost,
and now they have got their legs over the traces, and all are
dragging and pulling their own ways.  So it is, and such is life.
The cat's away, and the mice they play; tie frost breaks up,
and the water runs.  Now  with regard to the party to be
apprehended."
Sir Leicester seems to wake, though his eyes have been wide
open; and he looks intently at Mr. Bucket, as Mr. Bucket refers
to his watch.
"The party to be apprehended is now in this house," proceeds
Mr. Bucket, putting it up with a steady hand, and with rising
spirits, "and I'm about to take her into custody in your presence.
Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, don't you say a word, nor yet
stir. There'll be no noise, and no disturbance at all. I'll come
back in the course of the evening, if agreeable to you, and endeavor to meet your wishes respecting the unfortunate family
matter, and the noblest way of keeping it quiet. Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, don't you be nervous on account of the
apprehension at present coming off. You shall see the whole
case clear from first to last."
Mr. Bucket rings, goes to the door, briefly whispers Mercury,
shuts the door, apd stands behind it with his arms folded. After
a suspense of a minute or two, the door slowly opens, and a
French woman enters.  Mademoiselle Hortense.
The moment she is in the room, Mr. Bucket claps the door to,
and puts his back against it. The suddenness of the noise occasions her to turn; and then, for the first time, she sees Sir Leicester Dedlock in his chair.
"I ask your pardon," she mutters, hurriedly.  " They told me
there was no one here."
Her step toward the door brings her front to front with Mr
Bucket. A spasm shoots across her face, and she turns deadly pale.
"This is my lodger, Sir Leicester Dedlock," says Mr. Bucket,
nodding at her with his folded arms.  "This foreign young woman has been my lodger for some weeks back."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         813
"What do Sir Leicester care for that, do you think, my angel?"
returns Mademoiselle, in a peculiar strain.
" Why, my angel," returns Mr. Bucket, "we shall see."
Mademoiselle Hortense eyes him with a scowl upon her tight
face, which gradually changes into a smile of scorn.  "You are
mysterieuse.  Are you drunk?"
"Tolerable sober, my angel," returns Mr. Bucket.
"I come frequently at this so detestable house with your wife.
Your wife have left me, since some minutes. They tell me down
stairs that your wife is here. I come here, and your wife is not
here.  What is the intention of this fool's play?" Mademoiselle
demands, with her arms composedly crossed, but with something
in her dark cheek beating like a clock.
Mr. Bucket merely shakes the finger at her.
Ah! my God! you are an unhappy idiot!" cries Mademoiselle, with a toss of her head, and a laugh. " Leave me to pass
down stairs, great pig." With a stamp of her foot and a menace.
" Now, Mademoiselle," says Mr. Bucket, in a cold, determined
way, "you go and sit down upon that sofy."
" I will not sit down upon nothing," she replies, with a shower
of nods.
"Now, Mademoiselle," repeats Mr. Bucket, making no demonstration, except with the finger; "you sit down upon that
sofy."
"Why?"
" Because I take you into custody on a charge of murder, and
you don't need to be told it. Now, I want to be polite to one
of your sex and a foreigner, if I can.  If I can't, I must be rough,
and there's rougher ones outside. What I am to be, depends on
you.  So I recommend you, as a friend, afore another half a
blessed moment has passed over your head, to go and sit down
upon that sofy."
Mademoiselle complies, and says in a concentrated voice, while
that something in her cheek beats fast and hard, "You are a
l)evil."
"Now, you see," Mr. Bucket proceeds approvingly, "you're
comfortable, and conducting yourself as I should expect a foreign




814                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
young woman of your good sense to do.  So I'll give you a piece
of advice, and it's this, Don't talk too much. You're not expected to say any thing here, and you can't keep too quiet a tongue
in your head.  In short, the less you parlay, the better, you
know."  Mr. Bucket is very complacent over this peculiar explanation.
Mademoiselle, with that tigerish expansion of the mouth, and
her black eyes darting fire upon him, sits upright on the sofa
in a rigid state, with her hands clenched-and her feet too,
one might suppose-muttering, "0  you Bucket, you are a
Devil!"' Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," says Mr. Bucket, and
from this time forth the finger never rests, "this young woman,
my lodger, was her Ladyship's maid at the time I have men
tioned to you, and this young woman, besides being extraordinary
vehement and passionate against her Ladyship after being discharged-"
"Lie!" cries Mademoiselle, "I discharge myself."
"' Now, why don't you take my advice!" returns Mr. Bucket,
in an impressive, and almost in an imploring tone. " I'  surprised at the indiscreetness you commit. You'll say something
that'll be used against you, you know.  You're sure to come to,
it.  Never you mind what I say, till it's given in evidence.  It's
not addressed to you."
"Discharge too I" cries Mademoiselle, furiously, "by her Ladyship! Eh, my faith, a pretty Ladyship! Why, I r-r-r-uin my
character by remaining with a Ladyship sD infame "'
"Upon my soul, I wonder at you!" says Mr Bucket.  "I
thought the French were a polite nation, I did, really.  Yet to
hear a female going on like that, before Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet!"
"He is a poor abased!" cries Mademoiselle.  "I spit upon
his house, upon his name, upon his imbecility," all of which she
makes the carpet represent.  "Oh, that he is a great man! 0
yes, superb! 0 heaven! Bah.!"
"Well, Sir Leicester Dedlock," proceeds Mr. Bucket,' this intemperate foreigner also angrily took it in her head that she had
established a claim upon Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, by attend



BLEAK  HOUSE.                       815
ing on the occasion I told you of, at his chambers; though she
was liberally paid for her time and trouble."
"Lie!" cries Mademoiselle.  "I ref-use his money alltogez(" If you will parlay,'you know," says Mr. Bucket, parenthetically, "you must take the consequences.)  Now, whether she
bepame my lodger, Sir Leicester Dedlock, with any deliberate
intention there of doing this deed and blinding me, I give no
opinion on; but she lived in my house in that capacity at the
time that she was hovering about the chambers of the deceased
Mr. Tulkinghorn, with a view to a wrangle, and likewise persecuting and half frightening the life out of an unfortunate stationer."
"Lie!" cried Mademoiselle.  "All lies!"
"The murder was committed, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,
and you know exactly under what circumstances.  Now, I beg
you to follow me close with your attention for a minute or two.
I was sent for, and the case was intrusted to me.  I examined
the place, and the body, and the papers, and every thing. From
information I received (from a clerk in the same house) I took
George into custody, as having been seen hanging about there
on the night, and at very nigh the time, of the murder; also as
having been overheard in high words with the deceased on former
occasions —even threatening him, as the witness made out. If
you ask me, Sir Leicester Dedlock, whether from the first I believed George to be the murderer, I tell you candidly No; but
he might be notwithstanding, and there was enough against him
to make it my duty to take him and get him kept under remand.
Now, observe!"
As Mr. Bucket bends forward in some excitement-for himand inaugurates what he is going to say with one ghostly beat
of his forefinger in the air, Mademoiselle Hortense fixes her black
eyes upon him with a dark frown, and sets her dry lips closely
and firmly together.
"I went home, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, at night, and
found this young woman having supper with my wife, Mrs.
Bucket.  She had made a considerable show of being fond of
Mrs. Bucket from her first offering herself as our lodger, but that
51




816                 BLEAK HOUSE.
night she made more than ever-in fact, overdid it.  Likewise
she overdid her respect and all that for the lamented memory of
the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn. By the living Lord, it flashed
upon me as I sat opposite to her at the table and saw her with
a knife in her hand, that she had done it."
Mademoiselle is hardly audible in straining through her teeth
and lips the words " You are a Devil."
"Now, where," pursues Mr. Bucket, "had she been on the
night of the murder? she had been to the theayter. (She really
was there, I have since found, both before the deed and after it.)
I knew I had an artful customer to deal with, and that proof
would be very difficult; and I laid a trap for her, such a trap
as I never laid yet, and such a venter as I never made yet. I
worked it out in my mind while I was talking to her at supper.
When I went up-stairs to bed, our house being small, and this
young woman's ears sharp, I stuffed the sheet into Mrs. Bucket's
mouth that she shouldn't say a word of surprise, and told her all
about it. My dear, don't give your mind to that again, or I
shall link your feet together at the ankles."  Mr. Bucket, breaking off, has made a noiseless descent upon Mademoiselle, and laid
his heavy hand upon her shoulder.
"What is the matter with you now?" she asks him.
"Don't you think any more," returns Mr. Bucket. with admonitory finger, " of throwing yourself out of window. That's
what's the matter with me.  Come! Just take my arm.  You
needn't get up; I'll sit down by you. Now take my arm, will
you.  I'm  a married man, you know; you're acquainted with
my wife.  Just take my arm."
Vainly endeavoring to moisten those dry lips, with a painful
sound, she struggles with herself, and complies.
" Now we're all right.  Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, this
case could never have been the case it is but for Mrs. Bucket,
who is a woman in fifty thousand-in a hundred and fifty thousand! To throw this young woman off her guard, I have never
set foot in our house since, though I've communicated with Mrs.
Bucket in the baker's loaves and in the milk as often as required.
My whispered, words to Mrs. Bucket when she had the secret in
keeping were,'My dear, can you throw her off continually with




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         817
natural accounts of George, and this, and that, and t'other? (all
you do without rest, and keep watch upon her night and day 
Can you undertake to say,' She shall do nothing without my
knowledge, she shall be my prisoner without suspecting it.
She shall no more escape from me than from death, and her life
shall be my life, and her soul my soul, till I have got her? Mrs.
Bucket says to me, as well as she could speak, on account of the
sheet,'Bucket, I can!' And she has acted up to it glorious!'
"Lies!" Mademoiselle interposes.  " He's my angel!"
"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, how (lid my calculations come
out under these circumstances? When I calculated that this impetuous young woman would overdo it in new directions, was I
wrong or right?  I was right. What does she try to do? Don't
let it give you a turn?  To. throw the murder on her Ladyship."
Sir Leicester rises from his chair, and staggers down again.
"And she got encouragement in it from  hearing that I was
always here, which was done a' purpose. Now, open that pocketbook of mine, Sir Leicester Dedlock, if'  may take the liberty of
throwing it toward you, and look at the letters sent to me, each
with two words, LADY DEDLOCK. Open the one directed to yourself, which I stopped this very morning, and read the three words,
LADY DEDLOCK, MURDERESS, in it. These letters have been falling about like a shower of lady-birds.  What do you say now to
Mrs. Bucket from her spy-place having seen them all written?
What do you say to Mrs. Bucket having within this half-hour
secured the corresponding ink and paper, fellow half:sheets, and
what not?  What do you say to Mrs. Bucket having watched
the posting of'em every one, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet?"
Mr. Bucket asks, triumphant in his admiration of his lady's
genius.
Two things are especially observable as Mr. Bucket proceeds
to a conclusion. First, that he seems imperceptibly to establish
a dreadful right of property in Mademoiselle. Secondly, that the
very atmosphere she breathes seems to narrow and contract about,
her, as if a close net, or a pall, were being drawn nearer and yet
nearer around her breathless figure.' There is no doubt that her Ladyship was on the spot at the
eventful period," says Mr. Bucket; " and my foreign friend here




318                  BLEAK HOUSE.
saw her, I believe, from  the upper part of the staircase.  Her
Ladyship and George and my foreign friend were all pretty close
on one another's heels.  But that don't signify any more, so I'll
not go into it. I found the wadding of the pistol with which the
deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn was shot. It was a bit of the printed
description of your house at Chesney Wold. Not much in that,
you'll say, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. No. But when my
foreign friend here is so put off her guard as to think it a safe
time to tear up the rest of that leaf, and Mrs. Bucket puts the
pieces together, and finds the wadding wanting, it begins to look
like queer street."
" These are very long lies," Mademoiselle interposes.  "You
prose a great deal. Is it that you have almost all finished, or
are you speaking always?"
"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," proceeds Mr. Bucket, who
delights in the full title, and does violence to himself when he
dispenses with any fragment of it, "the last point in the case
which I am now going to'mention, shows the necessity of patience
in our business, and never doing a thing in a hurry. I watched
this young woman yesterday, without her knowledge, when she
was looking at the funeral, in company with my wife, who
planned to take her there, and I had so much to convict her, and
I saw such an expression in her face, and my mind so rose against
her malice toward her Ladyship, and the time was altogether such
a time for bringing down what you may call retribution upon her,
that if I had been a younger hand with less experience, I should
have taken her certain. Equally, last night, when her Ladyship,
as is so universally admired, I am sure, came home, lookingwhy, Lord! a man might almost say like Venus rising from the
ocean, it was so unpleasant and inconsistent to think of her being
charged with a murder of which she is innocent, that I felt quite
to'want to put an end to the job.  What should I have lost?
Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I should have lost the weapon.
My prisoner here proposed to Mrs. Bucket, after the departure of
the funeral, that they should go, per buss, a little ways into the
country, and take tea at a very decent house of entertainment.
Now, near that house of entertainment there's a piece of water.
At tea my prisoner got up to fetch her pocket-handkicher fronm




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         810
the bedroom where the bonnets was; she was rather a long time
gone, and came back a little out of wind.  As soon as she carnt
home this was reported to me by Mrs. Bucket along with her
suspicions   I had the piece of water dragged by moonlight, in
presence of a couple of our men, and the pocket-pistol was brought
up before it had been there half-a-dozen hours.  Now, my dear.
put your arm a little further through mine, and hold it steady,
and I shan't hurt you!"
In a trice Mr. Bucket snaps a handcuff on her wrist. " That's
one," says Mr. Bucket.  "Now the other, darling; two, and all
told!"
He rises; she rises too.  "Where," she asks him, darkening
her large eyes until their drooping lids almost conceal them-and
yet they stare, " where is your false, your treacherous and cursed
wife?"
" She's gone forrard to the Police Office," returns Mr. Bucket
"You'll see her there, my dear."
"I should like to kiss her!" exclaims Mademoiselle. Hortense.
panting tigress-like.
"You'd bite her, I suspect," says Mr. Bucket.
"I would!" making her eyes very large.  "I would love ti
tear her limb from limb."
"Bless you, darling," says Mr: Bucket, with the greatest corn
posure; "I'm fully prepared to hear that.  Your sex have such
an animosity against one another when you do differ. You don't
mind me half so much, do you?"
" No.  Though you are a Devil still."
"Angel and devil by turns, eh?" cries Mr. Bucket.  " But I
am  in my regular employment, any how.  Let me put your
shawl tidy.  I've been lady's maid to a good many before
now. Any thing wanting to the bonnet?  There's a cab at the
door."
Mademoiselle Hortense, casting an inquiring eye at the glass,
shakes herself perfectly neat in one shake, and looks, to do her
justice, uncommonly genteel.
"Listen then, my angel," says she, after several sarcastic nods.
"You are very spiritual.  Can't you res-tore him back to life?"
Mr. Bucket answers, " Not exactly."




82C                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
" That is droll.  Listen yet one time. You are very spiritual.
Can you make a honorable lady of Her?"
"Don't be so malicious," says Mr. Bucket.
"Or a haughty gentleman of Hin?" cries Mademoiselle, referring to Sir Leicester with ineffable disdain. "Eh! 0 my God,
regard him! The poor infant! Ha! ha! ha!"
"Come, come, why this is worse parlaying than the other,"
says Mr. Bucket.  " Come along!"
"You can not do these things?  Then you can do as you
please with me.  It is but the death, it is all the same.  Let us
go, my angel. Adieu you old man, gray. I pity you, and I despise you!"
With these last words, she snaps her teeth together, as if her
mouth closed with a spring. It is impossible to describe how Mr.
Bucket gets her out, but he accomplishes that feat in a manner
peculiar to himself; enfolding and pervading her like a cloud,
and hovering away with her as if he were a homely Jupiter, and
she the object of his affections.
Sir Leicester, left alone, remains in the same attitude as though
he were still listening and his attention were still occupied. At
length he goes round the empty room, and finding it deserted,
rises unsteadily to his feet, pushes back his chair, and makes a
few steps, supporting himself by the table. Then he stops, and
with more of those inarticulate sounds, lifts up his eyes and seems
to stare at something.
Heaven knows what he sees.  The green, green woods of
Chesney Wold, the noble house, the pictures of his forefathers,
strangers defacing them, officers of police coarsely handling his
most precious heir-looms, thousands of fingers pointing at him,
thousands of faces sneering at him.  But if such shadows flit
before him  to his bewilderment and dread, there is one other
shadow which he can name with something like distinctness even
yet, and to which alone he addresses his tearing of his white hair
and his extended arms.
It is she, in association with whom, saving that she has been
for years the main fibre of the root of his dignity and pride, he
has never had a selfish thought. It is she whom he has loved,
admired, honored, and set up for the world to respect.  It is she




BLEAK HOUSE.                        821
who at the core of all the constrained formalities and conventionalities of his life, has been a stock of living tenderness and love,
susceptible as nothing else is of being struck with the agony he
feels.  He sees her, not himself, and can not bear to look upon
her cast down from the high place she has graced so well.
And even to the point of his sinking on the ground, oblivious
of his suffering, he can yet pronounce her name with something
like distinctness in the midst of those numerous sounds, and in a
tone of mourning and compassion rather than reproach.




CHAPTER LV.
MOTHER AND SON.
INSPECTOR BUCKET, of the Detective, has not yet struck his
great blow; as just now chronicled; but is yet refreshing himself
with sleep preparatory to his field-day, when through the night
and along the freezing wintry roads, a chaise and pair comes out
of Lincolnshire, making its way toward London.
Railroads soon shall traverse all this country, and with a rattle
and a glare the engine and train shall shoot like a meteor over
the wide night-landscape, turning the moon paler; but as yet
such things are non-existent in these parts, though not wholly
unexpected.  Preparations are afoot, measurements are made,
ground is staked out. Bridges are begun, and their not yet united
piers desolately look at one another over roads and streams like
brick and mortar couples with an obstacle to their union; fragments of embankments are thrown up and left as abrupt precipices with torrents of rusty carts and barrows traveling over
them; tripods of tall poles appear on hill-tops where there are
remains of tunnels; every thing looks chaotic and abandoned in
fell hopelessness. Over the freezing roads and through the night
the post-chaise makes its way without a railroad on its mind.
Mrs. Rouncewell, so many years housekeeper at Chesney
Wold, sits within it; and by her side sits Mrs. Bagnet, with her
gray cloak and umbrella.  The old girl would prefer the bar in
front, as being exposed to the weather and a primitive sort of
perch, more in accordance with her usual course of traveling;
but Mrs. Rouncewell is too thoughtful of her comfort to admit of
her proposing it.  The old lady can not make enough of the old
girl.  She sits, in her stately manner, holding her hand, and
regardless of its roughness, puts it often to her lips.  "You're a
mother, my dear soul," says she many times, " and you found out
my George's mother, my noble boy!"
(822)




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        823
"Why, George," returns Mrs. Bagnet, " was always free with
me, ma'am, and when he said at our house to my V'oolwich, that
of all the things my Woolwich could have to think of when he
grew to be a man, the comfortablest would be that he had never
brought a sorrowful line into his mother's face, or turned a hair
of her head gray, then I felt sure fiomr his way that something
fiesh had brought his own mother into his mind.  I had often
known him say to me that he had behaved bad to her."
" Never, my dear!" returns Mrs. Rouncewell, bursting into
tears.  "My blessing on him, never   He was always fond of
me, and loving to me, was mny Georgy! But he had a bold
spirit, and he ran a little wild, and went for a soldier.  And I
am sure he waited at first in letting us know all about himself
till he should rise to be an officer; and when he didn't rise, I
know he considered himself beneath us, and wouldn't be a disgrace to us.  For he had a lion heart, had my George, always
from a baby!"
The old lady's hands stray about her,. as of yore, while she
recalls all in a tremble.  What a likely lad, what a fine lad,
what a gay, good-humnored, clever lad he was; how they all took
to him down at Chesney Wold-how Sir Leicester took to him,
when he was a young gentleman; how the dogs took to him;
how even the people, who had been angry with him, forgave
him the moment he was gone, poor boy.  And now to see him
after all, and in a prison too?  And the broad stomacher heaves,
and the quaint upright old-fashioned figure bends under its load
of affectionate distress.
Mrs. Bagnet, witn the instinctive skill of a good warm heart,
leaves the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while-not
without passing the back of her hand across her motherly eyesand presently chirps up in her own cheery manner.
"So I says to George when I goes to call him  in to tea (he
pretended to be smoking his pipe outside),' What ails you this
afternoon, George, for gracious sake?  1 have seen all sorts, and
1 have seen you pretty often in season and out of season, abroad
and at home, and I never see you so melancholy penitent.''Why,
Mrs. Bagnet,' says George,'it's because I am  melancholy and
penitent both, this afternoon, that you see me so.''What have
you done, old fellow?' I says.'Why, Mrs. Bagnet,' says George,




8-4                 BTLEAK HOUSE.
slJakiig his hind.' what I have done has been done this many a
lolng year, and is best not tried to be undone now.  If I ever get
to Heaven, it won't be for being a good son to a widowed mother;
I say no more,' Now ma'arn, when George says to me that it's
best not tried to be undone now, I have my thoughts as I have
often had before, and I draw it out of George how he comes to
have such things heavy on him  that afternoon.  Then George
tells me that he has seen by chance, at the lawyer's office, a fine
old lady, that has brought his mother plain before him; and he
runs on about that old lady till he quite forgets himself, and
paints her picture to me as she used to be, years upon years ago.
So I says to George when he has done, who is this old lady he has
seen? and George tells me it's Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper for
more than half a century to the Dedlock family down at Chesney
Wold in Lincolnshire.  George has frequently told me before that
he's a Lincolnshire man, and I says to my old Lignum that night,'Lignum, that's his mother, for five-and-forty pounds!'
All this Mrs. Bagnet now relates for the twentieth time at
least within the last four hours, trilling it out, like a kind of bird;
with a pretty high note, that it may be audible to the old lady
above the hum of the wheels.
"Bless you, and thank you," says Mrs. Rouncewell.  "Bless
you, and thank you, my worthy soul!"
" Dear heart!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, in the most natural manner.
"No thanks to me, I am sure.  Thanks to yourself, ma'am, for
being so ready to pay'em! And mind once more, ma'am, what
you had best do on finding George to be your own son, is, to make
him-for your sake-have every sort of help to put himself in the
right, and clear himself of a charge of which he is as innocent as
you or me. It won't do to have truth and justice on his side, he
must have law and lawyers," exclaims the old girl, apparently
persuaded that they form quite a separate establishment, and have
dissolved partnership with truth and justice for ever and a day.
" He shall have," says Mrs. Rouncewell, " every help that can
be got fbr him in the world, my dear.  I will spend all I have,
and thankfully, to procure it. Sir Leicester will do his best, the
whole family will do their best; I-I know something, my dear,
and will. make my own appeal as his mother parted from him all
these years, and finding himr in a jail at last."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        825
The extreme disquietude of the old housekeepers manner in
saying this, her broken lamentations, and her wringing of her
hands, make a powerful impression on Mrs. Bagnet, and would
astonish her but that she refers them all to her sorrow for her
son's condition.  And yet Mrs. Bagnet wonders, too, why Mrs.
Rouincewell should murmur in a kind of distraction, "My Lady,
iny Lady, my Lady!" over and over again.
The frosty night wears away, and the dawn breaks, and the
post-chaise comes rolling on through the early mist, like the chost
of a chaise departed.  It has plenty of spectral company in ghosts
of trees and hedges, slowly vanishing, and giving place to the
realities of day. London reached, the travelers alight; the old
housekeeper in great tribulation and confusion; Mrs. Bagnet, quite
flesh and collected as she could be of her next point, with no new
equipage and outfit over the Cape of Good Hope, the Island of
Ascension, Hong Kong, or any other military station.
But when they set out for the prison where the trooper is confined, the old lady has managed to draw about her, with the
lavender-colored shawl, much of the staid calmness of deportment which is its usual accompaniment.  A wonderfully grave,
precise, and handsome piece of old china she looks, though her
heart beats fast, and her stomacher is ruffled, more than ever the
remembrance of this wayward son has ruffled it these many
years.
Approaching the cell, they find the door opening and a warder
in the act of coming out.  The old girl promptly makes a sign
of entreaty to him to say nothing; and assenting, with a nod, he
suffers them to enter as he shuts the door.
So George, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to
be alone, does not raise his eyes, but remains absorbed. The old
housekeeper looks at him, and those wandering hands of hers are
quite enough for Mrs. Bagnet's confirmation, even if she could see
the mother and the son together, knowing what she knows, and
doubt their relationship.
Not a rustle of the housekeeper's dress, not a gesture, not a
word betrays her. She stands looking at him as he writes on all
unconscious, and only her fluttering hands give utterance to her
emotions.  But they are very eloquent; very, very eloquent
Mrs, Bagnet understands them. They speak of gratitude, of'joy,




826                 3BLEAK  HOUSE.
of grief, of hope, of inextinguishable affection, cher;shed with no
such return since this stalwart man was a stripling; of a better
son loved less, and this son loved so fondly and so proudly; and
they speak of it all in such touching language that Mrs. Bagnet's
eyes brim up with tears, and they run glistening down her sunI %-.ned face.
"George Rouncewel! 0 my dear child, turn and look at me!"
The trooper starts up, clasps his mother round the neck, and
falls down on his knees before her. Whether in a late repentance, whether in the first association that comes back upon him,
he puts his hands together as a child does when it says its prayers,
and raising them  toward her breast bows down his head and
cries.
" My George, my dearest son, always my favorite, and my
favorite still, where have you been these cruel years and years?
grown such a man too, grown such a fine strong man.  Grown
so like what I knew he must be if it pleased God he was alive!"
She can ask and he can answer nothing connected for a time;
and all that time the old girl, turned away, leans one arm against
the whitened wall, leans her honest forehead upon it, and dries
her eyes with her serviceable gray cloak, and quite enjoys herself like the best of old girls as she is.
"Mother," says the trooper when they are more composed:
" forgive me first of all, fot I know my need of it."
Forgive him! she does it with all her heart and soul.  She
always has done it. She tells him how she hs had it written in
her will these many years that he was her beloved son George.
She has never believed any ill of him, never.  If she had died
without this happiness-and she is an old woman now, and can't
look to live very long-she would have blessed him with her last
breath, if she had had her senses, as her beloved son George.
"Mother, I have been an undutiful trouble to you, and I have
my reward; but of late years I have had a kind of glimmering
of a purpose in me.  When I left home I didn't care much,
mother-I am afraid not a great deal-fbr leaving, and went
away and'listed, harum-scarum,,making believe to think that' I
cared for nobody, no not I, and that nobody cared for me.' "
The trooper has dried his eyes, and put away his handkerchief, but there is an extraordinary contrast between his habitual




MRS. BAGNM1' RTTTR-\   F'-RnT UlE'   V-IVP








BLEAK HOUSE.                       827
manner of expressing himself and carrying himself, and the softened tone in which he speaks, interrupted occasionally by a halfstifled sob.
"So I wrote a line home, mother, as you too well know, to say
I had'listed under another name, and I went abroad. Abroad,
at one time, I thought I'd write home next year, when I might
be better off, and when that year was out again, perhaps I didn't
think much about it. So on, from year to year, through a service
of ten years, till I began to get older, and to ask myself why
should I ever write?"' I don't find any fault, child-but not to ease my mind,
George?  Not a word to your loving mother, who was growing
older, too?"
This almost overturns the trooper again, but he sets himself up
with a great rough-sounding clearance of his throaty
" Heaven forgive me, mother, but I thought there would be
small consolation then in hearing any thing about me. There
was you, respected and esteemed. There was my brother, as I
read in chance north-country papers now and then, rising to be
prosperous and famous. There was I, a dragoon, roving, unsettled, not self-made, like him, but self-unmade-all my earlier
advantages thrown away, all my little learning unlearnt, nothing
picked up but what unfitted me for most things that I cared to
think of. What business had I to make myself known! After
letting all that time go by me, what good could come of it? The
worst Was past with you, mother. I knew by that time (being a
man) how you had mourned for me, and wept for.me, and prayed
for me; and the pain was over, or softened down, and I was better in your mind dead than living."
The old lady sorrowfully shakes her head, and taking one of his
powerful hands between her own, lays it lovingly upon her shoulder.
"I don't say that it was so, mother, but that I made it out to
be so. I said just now, what good could come of it? Well, my
dear mother, some good might come of it to myself-but there
was the meanness of it. You would have sought me out; you
would have purchased my discharge; you would have taken me
down to Chesney Wold; you would have brought me and my
brother and my brother's family together; you would all have
considered anxiously how to do something for me, and set ine up




828                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
as a respectable civilian. But how could any of you feel so sure
of me, when I couldn't so much as feel sure of myself?  How
could you help regarding as an incumbrance and a discredit to
you, an idle dragooning chap, who was an incumbrance and a
discredit to himself, excepting under discipline?  How could I
look my brother's children in the face, and pretend to set'em an
example-I, that vagabond boy, who had run away from home
and been the grief and unhappiness of my mother's life?  No,
George. Such were my words, mother, when I passed this in review before me:' You have made your bed. Now lie upon it.'"
Mrs. Rouncewell, drawing up her stately form, shakes her head
at the old girl with a swelling pride upon her, as much as to say,
" I told you so!" The old girl relieves her feelings and testifies
her strong interest in the conversation, by giving the trooper a
great poke between the shoulders with her umbrella; this action
she afterward repeats, at intervals, in a species of affectionate
lunacy; never failing, after the administration of each of these remonstrances, to resort to the whitened wall and the gray cloak again.
" This was the way I brought myself to think, mother, that my
best amends was to lie upon that'bed I had made and die upon
it.  And I should have done it, but for my old comrade's wife
here, who I see has been too many for me. But I thank her for
it, mother.  I thank you for it, Mrs. Bagnet, with all my heart
and might."
To which Mrs. Bagnet responds with two pokes.
And now the old lady impresses upon her son George, her own
dear recovered boy, her joy and pride, the light of her eyes, the
happy close of her life, and by every fond name she can think of,
that he must be governed by the best advice obtainable by money
and influence; that he must yield up his case to the greatest
lawyers that can be got; that he must act in this serious plight
as he shall be advised to act, and must not be self-willed, however right, but must promise to think only of his poor old mother's
anxiety and suffering until he is released, or he will break her
heart.
"Mother, it's little enough to consent to," returns the trooper,
stopping her with a kiss-; "tell me what I shall do, and I'll make
a late beginning, and do it. Mrs. Bagnet, you'll take care of my
mother, I know."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         s29
A very hard poke from the old girl.
"If you'll bring her acquainted with Mr. Jarndyce and Miss
Summnerson, she will find them of her way of thinking, and they
will give her the best advice and assistance."
"And, George," says the old lady, " we'll send with all haste
for your brother.  He is a sound, sensible man, as they tell me, out
inl the world beyond Chesney Wold, my dear, though I don't
know much of it myself, and will be of great service."
"Mother," returns the trooper, " is it too soon to ask a favor?"
"Surely not, my dear."
"Then grant me this one great favor," says the trooper, kissing
her hand.  "Don't let my brother know.
" Not know what, my dear?"
" Not know of me.  In fact, mother, I can't bear it; I can't
make up my mind to it.  He has proved himself so different from
me, and has done so much to raise himself while I've been soldiering, that I haven't the least of a face to see him in this place and
under this charge.  How could a man like him be expected to
have any pleasure in such a discovery?  It's impossible.  No,
keep my secret fiom him, mother; do me a greater kindness
than I deserve, and keep my secret from  my brother, of all
men."
"But not always, dear George?"
"Why, mother, perhaps not for good and all-though I may
come to ask that too-but keep it now, I do entreat you.  If it's
ever broke to him that his rip of a brother has turned up, I could
wish," says the trooper, shaking his head very doubtfully, "to
break it myself, and be governed, as to advancing or retreating,
by the way in which he seems to take it."
As he evidently has a rooted feeling on this point, and as the
depth of it is recognized in Mrs. Bagnet's face, his mother yields
her implicit assent to what he asks.  For this he thanks her
kindly.
" In all other respects, my dear mother, I'll be as tractable and
obedient as you can wish; on this alone, I stand out firm. So
now I am ready even for the lawyers. I have been drawing out,"
he glances at his writing on the table, " an exact account of
what I knew of the deceased, and how I came to be involved in
this unfortunate affair.  It's entered up, plain and regular, like




830                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
an orderly-book; not a word in it but what's wanted for the
facts.  I did intend to read it, straight on end, whensoever I was
called upon to say any thing in my defense.  I hope I may be
let to do it still, but I have no longer a will of my own in this
case, and whatever is said or done, I give my promise not to have
any."
Matters being brought to this so far satisfactory pass, and
time being on the wane, Mrs. Bagnet proposes a departure.
Again and again the old lady hangs upon her son's neck, and
again and again the trooper holds her to his broad chest with his
great tears rolling down his face.
"Where are you going to take my mother, Mrs. Bagnet?"
"I am going to the town house, my son, the family house.  I
have some business there, that must be looked to directly," Mrs.
Rouncewell answers.
"Will you see my mother safe there in a coach, Mrs. Bagnet?
But of course I know you will. Why should I ask it!"
Why, indeed, Mrs. Bagnet expresses with the umbrella.
"Take her, my old friend, and take my gratitude along with
you.  Kisses to Quebec and Malta, love to my god-son, a hearty
shake of the hand to Lignum,.and this for yourself, and I wish it
was ten thousand pound in gold, my dear!"  So saying, the
trooper puts his lips to the old girl's tanned forehead, and the
door shuts upon him in his cell.
"No entreaties on the part of the good old housekeeper will
induce Mrs. Bagnet to retain the coach to take her home.
Jumping out cheerfully at the door of the Dedlock mansion, and
handing Mrs. Rouncewell up the steps, the old girl shakes hands
and trudges off, arriving soon afterward in the bosom of the
Bagnet family, and falling to washing the greens, as if she had
never been away.
My Lady is in that room in which she held her last conference
with the murdered man, and is sitting where she sat that night,
and is looking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth, studying her so leisurely, when a tap comes at the door. Who is that?
Mrs. Rouncewell.  What has brought Mrs. Rouncewell to town
so unexpectedly?
" Trouble, my Lady.  Sad trouble. Oh, my Lady, may I beg
a word with you."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       831
VWhat new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old woman
tremble so. Far happier than her Lady, as her Lady has often
thought her, why does she falter in this manner, and look at her
with such strange mistrust?
" What is the matter? Sit down and take your breath."
0, my Lady, my Lady. I have found my son-my youngest,
who went away for a soldier so long ago. And he is in prison."
"For debt?"
"0, no, my Lady; I would have paid any debt, and joyfully."
"For what is he in prison then?"
"Charged with a murder, my Lady, of which he is as innocent as-as I am-accused of the Murder of Mr. Tulkinghorn."
What does she mean by this look and this imploring gesture?
Why does she come so close and kneel? What is the letter that
she holds?
"Lady Dedlock, my dear Lady, my good Lady, my kind Lady!
You must have a heart to feel for me, you must have a heart to
forgive me. I was in this family before you were born. I am
devoted to it.  But think of my dear son wrongfully accused."
" I do not accuse him."
" No, my Lady, no.  But others do, and he is in prison and in
danger. 0, Lady Dedlock, if you can say but a word to help to
clear him, say it!"
What delusion can this be? What power does she suppose is
in the person she petitions to avert this unjust suspicion, if it be
unjust? Her Lady's handsome eyes regard her with astonishment, almost with fear.
"My Lady, I came away last night from Chesney Wold to find
my son in my old age, and the step upon the Ghost's Walk was
so constant and so solemn that I never heard the like in all these
years.  Night after night, as it has fallen dark, the sound has
echoed through your rooms, but last night it was awfullest. And
as it fell dark last night, my Lady, T got this letter."
What letter is it?"
" Hush! hush!"  The housekeeper looks round and answers
in an agitated whisper: " My Lady, I have not breathed a word
of it, I don't believe what's written in it, I know it can't be true.
I am sure and certain that it is not true.  But my son is in
danger, and you must have a heart to pity me. If you know of
52




832                 BLEAK HOUSE.
any thing that is not known to others, if you have any suspicion,
if you have any clew at all, and any reason for keeping it in your
own breast, 0, my dear Lady, think of me and conquer that
reason, and let it be known! This is the most I consider possible. I know you are not a hard lady, but you go your own way
always without help, and you are not familiar with your friends,
and all who admire you-and all do —as a beautiful and elegant
lady know you to dwell far away from themselves, who can't
be approached close.  You, my Lady, may have some proud or
angry reasons for disdaining to utter something that you know;
if so, pray, 0 pray think of a faithful servant, whose whole life
has been passed in this family which she dearly loves, and relent,
and help to clear my son! My Lady, my good Lady," the old
housekeeper pleads with genuine simplicity, " I am so humble in
my place, and you are by nature so high and distant, that you
may not think what I feel for my child; but I feel so much that
I have come here to make so bold as to beg and pray you on my
knees not to be scornful of us, if you can do us any right or justice
at this fearful time!"
Lady Dedlock raises her without one word, until she takes the
letter from her hand.
"Am I to read this?"
"When I am gone, my Lady, if you please; and then remermbering the most that I consider possible."
" I know of nothing I can do; I know of nothing that I reserve
that can affect your son. I have never accused him."
"My Lady, you may pity him the more, under a false accusa
tion, after reading the letter."
The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand.
In truth she is not a hard lady naturally, and the time has been
when the sight of the venerable fig ire sueing to her with such
strong earnestness would have moved her to great compassion.
But so long accustomed to suppress emotion, and keep down
reality, so long schooled for her own purposes, in that destructive
school which shuts out the natural feelings of the heart, like flies
in amber, and spreads one uniform and dreary gloss over the good
and bad, the feeling and the unfeeling, the sensible and the senseless, she has subdued her wonder until now.
She opens the letter.  Spread out upon the table is a printed




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       833
account of the discovery of the body, as it lay face downward on
the floor, shot through the heart; and underneath is written her
own name, with the word Murderess attached.
It falls out of her hand. How long it may have lain upon the
ground, how long she may have been unconscious, she knows
not, but it lies where it fell, and a servant stands before her announcing the young man of the name of Guppy. The words have
probably been repeated several times, for they are ringing in her
head before she understands them.
" Let him come in!"
He comes in. Holding the letter in her hand, which she has
taken from the floor, she tries to collect her thoughts.  In the
eyes of Mr. Guppy she is the same Lady Dedlock, holding the
same prepared, proud, chilling state.
"Your Ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visit
from one who has never been very welcome to your Ladyship;
which he don't complain of; for he is bound to confess that there
never has been any particular reason on the face of things, why
he should be; but I hope when I mention my motives to your
Ladyship, you will not find fault with me," says Mr. Guppy.
"Please to do so."
" Thank your Ladyship.  I should first explain to your Ladyship," Mir. Guppy sits on the edge of a chair, and puts his hat on
the carpet at his feet, " that Miss Summerson, whose image, as I
formerly mentioned to your Ladyship, was at one period of my
iife imprinted on my art, until erased by circumstances over which
I had no control, communicated to me, after I had the pleasure
of waiting on your Ladyship last, that she particularly wished me
to take no steps whatever in any matter at all relating to her.
Alnd Miss Summerson's wishes being a law (except as connected
with circumstances over which I had no control), I consequently
never expected to have the distinguished honor of waiting on
your Ladyship again."
And yet he is here now, Lady Dedlock moodily reminds him.
"And yet I am here now," Mr. G uppy admits.  "My object
being to communicate to your Ladyship, under the seal of confidence, why I am here."
He can not do so, she tells him, too plainly or too briefly.
" Nor can I," Mr. Guppy returns, with a sense of injury upon




834                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
him, "too particularly request your Ladyship to take particular
notice that it's no personal affair of mine that brings me here. I
have no interested views of my own to serve in coming here. If
it was not for my promise to Miss Summerson, and my keeping
of it sacred-I, in point of fact, shouldn't have darkened these
doors again, but should have seen'em farther first."
Mr. Guppy considers this a favorable moment for stroking up
his hair with both hands.
" Your Ladyship will remember, when I mention it, that the
last time I was here, I run against a party very eminent in our
profession, and whose loss we all deplore. That party certainly
did from that time apply himself to cutting in against me in a
way that I call sharp practice, and did make it, at every turn
and point, extremely difficult for me to besure that I hadn't
inadvertently led up to something contrary to Miss Summerson's
wishes.  Self-praise is no recommendation; but I may say of
myself that I am not so bad a maln of business neither."
Lady Dedlock looks at him in stern inquiry. Mr. Guppy inmediately withdraws his eyes from her face, and looks any where
else.' Indeed, it has been made so hard," he goes on, " to have any
idea what that party was up to in combination with others, that
until the loss which we all deplore I was graveled-an expression which your Ladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be
so good as to consider tantamount to knocked over. Small, likewise, a name by which I refer to another party, a friend of mine
that your Ladyship is not acquainted with, got to be so close and
double-faced that at times it wasn't easy to keep one's hands off
his ears.  However, what with the exertion of my humble abilities, and what with the help of a mutual friend by the name of
Mr. Tom Weevle (who is of a high aristocratic turn, and has
your Ladyship's portrait always hanging up in his room), I have
now reasons for an apprehension, as to which I come to put your
Ladyship upon your guard.  First, will your Ladyship allow me
to ask you whether you have had any strange visitors this morning?  I don't mean fashionable visitors, but such visitors, for
instance, as Miss Barbary's old servant, or as a person without
the use of his lower extremities, carried up-stairs similarly to a
jug?




BLEAK HOUSE.                       835
"No!"
"Then I assure your Ladyship that such visitors have been
here, and have been received here. Because I saw them at the
door, and waited at the corner of the square till they came out,
and took half-an-hour's turn afterward to avoid them."
"What have I to do with that, or what have you? I do not
understand you. What do you mean?"
"Your Ladyship, I came to put you on your guard. There
may be no occasion for it. Very well. Then I have only done my
best to keep my promise to Miss Summerson. I strongly suspect
(fiom what Small has dropped, and from what we have twisted out
of him) that those letters I was to have brought to your Ladyship
were not destroyed when I supposed they were.  That if there
was any thing to be blown upon, it is now blown upon. That
the visitors I have alluded to have been here this morning to
make money of it. And that the money is made, or making."
Mr. Guppy picks up his hat and rises.
" Your Ladyship, I don't want to say a word more, and I don't
want to hear a word more. I have acted up to Miss Summerson's wishes in letting things alone, and in undoing what I had
begun to do, as far as possible; that's sufficient for me. In case
I should be taking a liberty in putting your Ladyship on your
guard when there's no necessity for it, you'll endeavor, I should
hope, to outlive my presumption, and I'll endeavor to outlive your
disapprobation. I now beg to take farewell of your Ladyship, and
to assure you that there's no danger of your ever being waited on
by me again."
She scarcely acknowledges these parting words by any look or
sign; but when he has been gone a little while, she rings the
bell.
" Where is Sir Leicester?"
Mercury reports that he is at present shut up in the library,
alone.
"Has Sir Leicester had any visitors this morning?"
Several, on business. Mercury proceeds to a description of
themr, which has been anticipated by Mr. Guppy. Enough; he
may go
All is broken down. Her name is in these many mouths, her
husband knows h.is wrongs, her shame will be published-may




836                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
be spreading while she thinks about it and, in addition to the
thunderclap so long foreseen by her, so unforeseen by him, she is
denounced by an invisible accuser as the murderess of her enemy.
Her enemy he was, and she has often, often, wished him dead.
Her enemy he is, even in his grave. This dreadful accusation
comes upon her, like a new torture at his lifeless hand. And
when she recalls how she was secretly at his door that night,
and how she may be represented to have sent her favorite girl
away before, merely to release herself from observation, she shud.
ders as if the hangman's hands were at her neck.
She has thrown herself upon the floor, and lies with her hair
all widely scattered, and her face buried in the cushions of a
couch.  She rises up, hurries to and fro, flings herself down
again, and rocks and moans. The horror that is upon her is unutterable.  If she really were the murderess, it could hardly be,
for the moment, more intense.
For, as her murderous perspective, before the doing of the deed
presents the subtle precautions for its commission, would have
been closed up by a gigantic dilation of the hateful figure, preventing her from seeing any consequences beyond it; and as
those consequences would have rushed in, in an uniinagined
flood, the moment the figure was laid low-which always happens when a murder is done-so now she sees that when he
used to be on the watch before her, and she used to think, " if a
mortal stroke would but fall upon this man and take him from
my way!" it was but wishing that all he held against her in his
haned might be flung to the winds, and chance-sown in many
places.  So, too, with the wicked relief she felt in his death
What was his death but the keystone of a gloomy arch removed,
and now the arch begins to fall in a thousand fragments, crushing and mangling piecemeal!
Tstus a terrible impression steals upon and overshadows her,
that from this pursuer, living or dead-obdurate and imperturbable before her in his well-remembered guise, or not more obdurate and imperturbable in his coffin-bed-there is no escape but
in dvath.  Hunted she flies.  The complication of her shame,
her dread, remorse, and misery overwhelms her at its blight, and
even her strength of reliance is overturned and whirled before it
like a leaf befre a mighty wind.




BLEAK HOUSE.                        837
She hurriedly addresses these lines to her husband, seals, and
leaves them on her table:
"If I am sought for, or accused of his murder, believe that I
am wholly innocent.  Believe no other good of me, for I am
innocent of nothing else that you have heard, or will hear laid
to my charge. He prepared me, on that fatal night, for his disclosure of my guilt to you. After he had left me, I went out, on
pretense of walking in the garden where I sometimes walk, but
really to follow him, and make one last petition that he would
not protract the dreadful suspense on which I have been racked
you do not know how long, but would mercifully strike next
morning.
" I found his house dark and silent. I rang twice at his door,
but there was no reply, and I came home. I have no home left.
I will encumber you no more. May you in your first resentment
be enabled to forget the unworthy woman on whom you wasted
a most generous devotion, who avoids you only with a deeper
shame than that with which she hurries from herself, and who
writes this last adieu!"
She vails and dresses quickly-leaves all her jewels and her
money-listens-goes down-stairs at a moment when the hall is
empty, opens and shuts the great door; flutters away in the
shrill frostv wind.




CHAPTER LVI.
PURSUIT.
IMPRESSIVE, as behoves its high breeding, the Dedlock town
house stares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur,
and gives no outward sign of any thing going on wrong within.
Carriages rattle, doors are battered at, the world exchanges calls;
ancient charmers with skeleton throats, and peachy cheeks that
have a rather ghastly bloom upon them seen by daylight, when
indeed these fascinating creatures look like Death and the Lady
fused together, dazzle the eyes of men. Forth from the frigid
Mews come easily swinging carriages guided by short-legged
coachmen in flaxen wigs, deep sunk into downy hammercloths;
and up behind mount luscious Mercuries bearing sticks of state,
and wearing cocked hats broadwise: a spectacle for the Angels.
The Dedlock town house changes not externally, and hours
pass before its exalted dullness is disturbed within. But Volumnia
the fair, being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom,
and finding that disorder attacking her spirits with some violence,
ventures at length to repair to the library for change of scene.
Her gentle tapping at the door producing no response, she opens
it and peeps in; seeing no one there, takes possession.
The sprightly Dedlock is reputed in that grass-grown city of
the ancients, Bath, to be stimulated by an urgent curiosity,
which compels her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions
to sidle about with a golden glass at her eye, peering into objects
of every description.  Certain it is that she avails herself of the
present opportunity of hovering over her kinsman's letters and
papers like a bird; taking a short peck at this document, and a
blink with her head on one side at that document, and hopping
about from table to table with her glass at her eye in an inquisi
tive and restless manner. In the course of these researches she
(838)




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         839
stumbles over something, and turning her glass in that direction
sees her kinsman lying on the ground like a felled tree.
Volumnia's pet little scream acquires a considerable augmentation of reality from this surprise, and the house is quickly in
commotion.  Servants tear up and down stairs, bells are violentfy
rung, doctors are sent for, and Lady Dedlock is sought in all
d rections, but not found. Nobody has seen or heard her since
she last rang her bell.  Her letter to Sir Leicester is discovered
on her table, but it is doubtful yet whether he has not received
another missive from  another world requiring to be personally
answered-and all the living languages, and all the dead, are as
one to him.
They lay him down upon his bed, and chafe, and rub, and fan,
and put ice to his head, and try every means of restoration.
Howbeit, the day has ebbed away, and it is night in his room
before his, stertorous breathing lulls, or his fixed eyes show any
consciousness of the candle that is occasionally passed before
them.  But when this change begins, it goes on, and by-and-by
he nods, or moves his eyes, or even his hand, in token that he
hears and comprehends.
He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman,
somewhat infirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well filled
face.  He lies upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks,
the decrepit shadow of himself:  His voice was rich and mellow,
and he had so long been thoroughly persuaded of the weight and
import to mankind of any word he said, that his words really
had come to sound as if there were something in them.  But
now he can only whisper, and what he whispers sounds what it
is-mere jumble and jargon.
His favorite and faithful housekeeper stands by his bedside.
It is the first party he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure
from  it.  After vainly trying to make himself understood in
speech, he makes signs for a pencil.  So inexpressively that they
can not at first understand him; it is his old housekeeper who
makes out what he wants, and brings him a slate.
After pausing for some time, he slowly scrawls upon it, in a
hand that is not his, " Chesney Wold?"
No, she tells him, he is in London.  He was taken ill in the
library this morning.  Right thankful sle is that she happened




840                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
to come to London, and is able to attend upon him.  "It is not
an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Leicester.  You will be
much better to-morrow, Sir Leicester.  All the gentlemen say
so."  This with the tears coming down her fair old face.'After making a survey of the room and looking with particular
attention all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes.
"My Lady."
"My Lady went out, Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill
and don't know of your illness yet."
He points again, in great agitation, at the two words.  They
all try to quiet him, but he points again with increased agitation.
On their looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he
takes the slate once more, and writes " My Lady.  For God's
sake, where?" and makes an imploring moan.
It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him
Lady Dedlock's letter, the contents of which no one knows or can
surmise,  She opens it for him, and puts it out for his perusal.
Having read it twice by a great effort, he turns it down so that
it shall not be seen, and lies moaning. He passes into a kind of
relapse, or into a swoon, and it is an hour before he opens his
eyes, reclining on his faithful and attached servant's arm. The
doctors know that he is best with her, and when not actively
engaged about him stand aloof.
The slate comes into requisition again; but the word he wants
to write he can not remember. His anxiety, his eagerness, and
affliction, at this pass, are pitiable to behold. It seems as if he
must go mad, in the necessity he feels for haste, and the inability
under which he labors of expressing to do what, or to fetch whom.
He has written the letter B, and there stopped. Of a sudden, in
the height of his misery, he puts Mr. before it. The old housekeeper suggests Bucket.  Thank Heaven! That's his meaning.
Mr. Bucket is found to be down-stairs by appointment.  Shall
he come up?
There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Leicester's burning
wish to see him, or the desire he signifies to have the roo0.leared
of every soul but the housekeeper.  It is speedily done; and Mr.
Bucket appears.  Of all men upon earth, Sir Leicester seems,
fallen firom his high estate, to place his sole trust and reliance
upon this man.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        841
"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'm sorry to see you like this.
I hope you'll cheer up. I'm sure you will, on account of the
family credit."
Sir Leicester puts his letter in his hand, and looks intently in
his face, while he reads it. A new intelligence comes into Mr
Bucket's eye as he reads on; with one hook of his finger, while
that eye is still glancing over the words, he indicates,' Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I understand you."
Sir Leicester writes upon the slate.'' Fall, forgiveness.
Find-"  Mr. Bucket stops his hand.
"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. I'll find her.  But my search
after her must be begun out of hand.  Not a minute must be
lost."
With the quickness of thought, he follows Sir Leicester Dedlock's look toward a little box upon a table.
" Bring it here, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet?  Certainly.
Open it with one of these here keys? Certainly. The littlest
key?  To be sure.  Take the notes out?  So I will.  Count'em?  That's soon done. Twenty and thirty's fifty, and twentyseven and fifty's one twenty, and forty's one sixty.  Take'em
for expenses?  That I'll do, and render an account, of course
Don't spare money? No, I won't."
The velocity and certainty of Mr. Bucket's interpretation on
all these heads is little short of miraculous.  Mrs. Rouncewell,
who holds the light, is giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and
hands, as he starts up, furnished for his journey.
" You're George's mother, old lady; that's about what you
are, I believe?" says Mr. Bucket, aside, with his hat already on
and buttoning his coat.
"Yes, sir, I am his distressed mother."
"So I thought, according to what he mentioned to me just
now.  Well, then, I'll tell you something.  You needn't be distressed no more.  Your son's all right.  Now don't you begin
a-crying, because what you've got to do is to take care of Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and you won't do that by crying.
As to your son, he's all right, I tell you, and he sends his loving
duty, and hoping you're the same. He's discharged honorable;
that's about what he is; with no more imputation on his character than there is on yours, and yours is a tidy one, I'll bet a




842                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
pound.  You may trust me, for I took your son.  He conduted
himself in a game way, too, on that occasion, and he's a fiilomade man, and you're a fine-made old lady, and you're a mother
and son, the pair of you, as might be showed for models in a
caravan. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, what you've trusted
to me I'll go through with. Don't you he afraid of my turning
out of my way right or left, or taking a sleep, or a wash, or a
shave, till I have found what I go in search of. By.every thing
as is kind and forgiving on your part, Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet, I will, and I wish you better, and these family affairs
smoothed over, as many other family affairs equally has been,
and equally will be, to the end of time."'With this peroration, Mr. Bucket, buttoned up, goes quietly
out, looking steadily before him, as if he were already piercing
the night in quest of the fugitive.
His first step is to take himself to Lady Dedlock's rooms, and
look all over them for any trifling indication that may help him.
The rooms are in darkness now; and to see Mr. Bucket with a
wax-light in his hand, holding it above his head, and taking a
sharp mental inventory of the many delicate objects so curiously
at variance with himself would be to see a sight-which nobody
does see, as he is particular to lock himself in. "A spicy boudoir
this," says Mr. Bucket, who feels in a manner furbished up in
his French by the blow of the morning. " Must have cost a sight
of money. Rum articles to cut away from, these; she must have
been hard put to it!"
Opeuing and shutting table-drawers, and looking into caskets
and jewel-cases, he sees the reflection of himself in various mirrors, and moralizes thereon.
"One might suppose I was a-moving in the fashionable circles,
and getting myself up for Almack's," says Mr. Bucket.  "I begin to think I must be a swell in the Guards, without knowing
it."
Then looking about, he has opened a dainty little chest in an
inner drawer.  His great hand turning over some gloves which
it can scarcely feel, they are so light and soft within it, comes
upon a white handkerchief.
"Hum! Let's have a look at you," says Mr. Bucket, putting
down the light.  What should you be kept'bv yourself for?




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         843
what's your motive? are you her Ladyship's property, or somebody else's?  You've got a mark upon you, somewheres or alother, I suppose?"
He finds it as he speaks, " Esther Summerson."
" Oh!" says Mr. Bucket, pausing with his finger at his ear.
"Come, I'll take you."
He completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he
has carried them on, leaves every thing else precisely as he found
it, glides away after some five minutes in all, and passes into the
street.  With a glance upward at the dimly lighted windows of
Sir Leicester's room, he sets off: full sailing, to the nearest coachstand, picks out the horse for his money, and directs to be driven
to the Shooting Gallery.  MAr. Bucket does not claim  to be a
scientific judge of horses, but he lays out a little money on the
principal events in that line, and generally sums up his knowledge of the subject in the remark that when he sees a horse as
can go, he knows him.
His knowledge is not at fault in the present instance. Cluttering over the stones at a dangerous pace, yet thoughtfully bringing his keen eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he
passes in the midnight streets, and even on the lights in upper
windows where people are going or gone to bed, and on all the
turnings that he rattles by, and alike on the heavy sky, and on
the earth where the snow lies there-for something may present
itself to assist him any where-he dashes to his destination at
such a speed that when he stops, the horse half smothers him in
a cloud of steam.
" Unbar him half a moment to freshen him  up, and I'll be,
back."
He runs up the long wooden entry, and finds the trooper smoking his pipe.
"I thought I should, George, after what you have gone through,
my lad.  I haven't a word to spare.  Now, honor, all to save a
woman.  Miss Summerson that was here when Gridley diedthat was the name, I know-all right!-where does she live?"
The trooper has just come from there, and gives him the address near Oxfild-street.
"You won't repent it, George.  Good-night!"
He is off again with an impression of having seen Phil sitting




844                  BLEAK - HOUSE.
oy the frosty fire staring at him  open-mouthed; and gallops
away again, and gets out in a cloud of steam again.
Mr. Jarndyce, the only person up in the house, is just going
to bed, rises fiomn his book on hearing the rapid ringing at the
bell, and conies down to the door in his dressing-gown.
"Don't be alarmed, sir."  In a moment, his visitor is confidential with him in the hall, has shut the door, and stands with
his hand upon the lock.  "I've had the pleasure of seeing you
before. Inspector Bucket. Look at that handkerchief, sir. Miss
Esther Summerson's. Found it myself put away in a drawer of
Lady Dedlock's-quarter of an hour ago.  Not a moment to lose.
Matter of life or death.  You know Lady Dedlock?"
"Yes."
" There has been a discovery there, to-day.  Family aflairs
had come out.  Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has had a fitapoplexy or paralysis-and couldn't be brought to, and precious
time has been lost. Lady Dedlock disappeared this afternoon,
and left a letter for him that looks bad.  Turn your eyes over it.
Here it is!"
Mr. Jarndyce having read it, asks him what he thinks?
"I don't know.  It looks like suicide anyways; there's moro
and more danger every minute of its drawing to that.  I'd give
a hundred pound an hour to have got the start of the present
time.  Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I am employed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to follow her and find her.  To save her, and take
her his forgiveness.  I have money and fill power, but I want
something else.  I want Miss Summerson."
Mr. Jarndyce, in a troubled voice, repeats, " Miss Summerson?"
" Now, Mr. Jarndyce;" Mr. Bucket has read his face with the
greatest attention all along, " I speak to you as a gentleman of a
humane heart, and under such pressing circumstances as don't
often happen. If ever delay was dangerous, it's dangerous now,
and if ever you couldn't. afterward forgive yourself for causing it,
this is the time worth, as I tell you, a hundred- pound apiece.
Eight or ten hours at least have been lost, since Lady Dedlock
disappeared. I am charged to find her. I am Inspector Bucket.
Besides all the rest that's heavy on her, she has upon her, as she
believes, suspicion of murder.  If I follow her alone, she being
in ignorance of what Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has corn



BLEAK  HOUSE.                         845
municated to me, may be driven to desperation.  But if I follow
her in company with a young lady answering to the descriplion
of a young lady that she has a kindness for, I ask 1no question,
and I say no more, than that she will give me credit for being
friendly. Let me come up with her and be able to have the hold
upon her of putting that young lady for'ard, and I'll save her,
and prevail with her, if she is alive.  Let me come up with her
alone-a harder matter-and I'll do my best; but I don't answer for what the best may be.  Time flies; it's getting on for
one o'clock.  When one strikes, there's another hour gone, and
it's worth a thousand pound now instead of a hundred."
This is all true, and the pressing nature of the case can not be
questioned.  Mr. Jarndyce begs him to remain there, while he
speaks to Miss Summerson. Mr. Bucket says he will, but acting
on his usual principle, does no such thing-following up-stairs
instead, and keeping his man in sight.  So he remains, dodging
and lurking about in the gloom of the staircase while they confer.
In a very little time, Mr. Jarndyce comes down, and tells him
that Miss Summerson will join him directly, and place herself
under his protection, to accompany him where he.pleases. Mr.
Bucket, satisfied, expresses high approval, and awaits her coming, at the door.
There he mounts a high tower in his mind, and looks out, far
and wide.  Many solitary figures, he perceives, are creeping
through the streets; many solitary figures out on heaths, and
roads, and lying under haystacks.  But the figure that he seeks
is not among them. Other solitaries he perceives, in nooks of
bridges, looking over; and in shadowed places down by the river's
level; and a dark, dark, shapeless object drifting with the tide,
more solitary than all, clings with a drowning hold on his attention.
Where is she? Living or dead, where is she? If as he folds the
handkerchief, and carefully puts it up, it were able, with an enchanted power to bring before him the place where she found it,
and the night landscape near the cottage where it covered the
litt} child, would he descry her there? On the waste where the
brick-kilns are burning with a pale blue flare; where the straw
roof, of the wretched huts, in which the bricks are made, are being scattered by the wind; where the clay and water are hard
frozen, and the mill in which the gaunt blind horse goes round




846                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
all day, lobks like an instrument of human torture.; traversing
this deserted, blighted spot, there is a lonely figure with the sad
world to itself, pelted by the snow and driven by the wind, and
cast out: it would seem, from all companionship. It is the figure
of a woman too; but it is miserably dressed, and no such clothes
ever came through the hall and out at the great door of the Dedloek nansion.




~1 

.  
Qy
I

&








CHAPTER LVII.
ESTHER S NARRATIVE.
I HAD gone to oed and fallen asleep, when my Guardian
knocked at the door of my rooim and begged me to get up directly.
On my hurrying to speak to him and learn what had happened,
he told.me, after a word or two of preparatipn, that there had
been a discovery at Sir Leicester Dedlock's. That my mother
had fled: that a person was now at our door who was empowered
to convey to her the fullest assurances of aflectionate protection
and forgivenes  if he could possibly find her, and that I was
sought for to accompany him, in hope that my entreaties might
prevail upon her if his failed.  Something to this general purpose, I made out; but I was thrown into such a tumult of alarm,
and hurry, and distress, that in spite of every effort  could make
to subdue my agitation, I did not seem, to myself, fully to recover my right mind until hours had passed.
But I dressed and wrapped up expeditiously without waking
Charley or any one, and went down to Mr. Bucket, who was the
person intrusted with the secret.  In taking me to him my Guardian told me this, and also explained how it was that he had
come to think of me.  Mr. Bucket, in a low voice, by the light
of my Guardian's candle, read to me, in the hall, a letter that
my mother had left upon her table, and I suppose within ten
minutes of my having been aroused, I was sitting beside him,
rolling swiftly through the streets.
His manner was very keen, and intent, and yet considerate,
when he explained to me that a great deal might depend on my
being able to answer without confusion a few questions that he
wished to ask me.  These were, chiefly, whether I had had much
communication with my mother (to whom he referred as Ladv
Dedlock), when and where I had spoken with her last, and how
53                                           (847)




848                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
she had become possessed of my handkerchief.  When I had satisfied him on these points, he asked me particularly to ccnsidertaking time to think-whether, within my knowledge, there was
any one, no matter where, in whom she might be at all likely to
confide, under circumstances of the last necessity.  I could think
of no one but my Guardian.  But, by-and-by, I mentioned Mr.
Boythorn.  He came into my nind as connected with his old
chivalrous manner of mentioning my mother's name, and with
what my Guardian had informed me of his engagement to her
sister and his unconscious connection with her unhappy story.
My companion had stopped the driver while we held this conversation, that we might the better hear each other. He now
told him to go on again, and said to me, after considering within
himself for a few moments, that he had made up his mind how
to proceed. He was quite willing to tell me what his plan was;
but I did not feel clear enough to understand it.
We had not driven very far from our lodgings, when we stopped in a by-street, at a public-looking place lighted up with gas.
Mr. Bucket took me in and sat me in an arm-chair, by a bright
fire. It was now past one, as I saw by the clock against the
wall.  Two police officers, looking in their perfectly neat uniform
not at all like people who were up all night, were quietly writing
at a desk, and the place seemed very quiet altogether, except for
some beating and calling out at distant doors underground, to
which nobody paid any attention.
A third man in uniform, whom Mr. Bucket called and to whom
he whispered his instructions, went out, and then the two others
advised together, while one wrote from Mr. Bucket's subdued dictation. It was a description of my mother that they were busy
with; for Mr. Bucket brought it to me when it was done, and
read it in a whisper.  It was very accurate indeed.
The second officer who had attended to it closely, then copied
it out, and called in another man in uniform (there were several
in an outer room) who took it'ip and went away with it. All
this was done with the greatest dispatch and without the waste
of a moment, yet nobody was at all hurried, or made any kind of
show.  As soon as the paper was sent out upon its travels, the
two officers resumed their fbrmer quiet work of writing with
great neatness and care.  Mr. Bucket thoughtfully caine and




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        849
warmed the soles of his boots, first one and then the other at the
fire.
"Are you well wrapped up, Miss Sammerson?" he asked me,
as his eyes met mine.  " It's a desperate sharp night for a young
lady to be out in."
I told him I cared for no weather, and was warmly clothed.
"It may be a long job," he observed; "but so that it ends
well, never mind, miss."
" I pray to heaven it may end well," said 1.
He nodded comfortingly.  "You see, whatever you do, don't
you go and fret yourself. You keep yourself cool and equal for
any thing that may happen; and it'll be the better for you, the
better for me, the better for Lady Dedlock, and the better for
Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet."
He was really very kind and gentle; and as he stood before
the fire warming his boots and rubbing his face with his fbrefinger, I felt a confidence in his sagacity which re-assured me.
It was not yet a quarter to two when I heard horses' feet and
wheels outside.  " Now, Miss Summerson," said he, " we are off,
if you please!"
He gave me his arm and the two officers courteously bowed
me out, and we found at the door a phaeton or barouche, with a
postillion and post-horses.  Mr. Bucket handed me in, and took
his own seat on the box.  The man in uniform, whom he had
sent to fetch this equipage, then handed him up a dark lantern
at his request; and when he had given a few directions to the
driver we rattled away.
I was far from sure that I was not in a dream, for we rattled
with great rapidity, through such a labyrinth of streets that I soon
lost all idea of where we were, except that we had crossed and
re-crossed the river, and still seemed to be traversing a low-lying,
water-side dense neighborhood of narrow thoroughfares, checkered
by docks and basins, high piles of warehouses, swing-bridges, and
masts of ships. At length we stopped at the corner of a little
slimy turning, which the wind from the river-rushing up it, did
not purify, and I saw my companion by the light of his lantern,
in conference with several men who looked like a mixture of
police and sailors.  Against the mouldering wall by which they
stood, there was a bill, on which I could discern the words,




850                 BLEAK HOUSE.
"FOUND DROWNED':" and this, and an inscription about Drags,
possessed me with the awful suspicion shadowed forth in our
visit to that place.
I had nobody to remind myself that I was not there, by the indulgence of any feeling of mine, to increase the difficulties of the
search, or to lessen its hopes, or enhance its delays, and I remained quiet; but what I suffered in that dreadful spot I never
can forget. And still it was like the horror of a dream. A man,
yet dark and muddy, in long swollen sodden boots and a hat like
them, was called out'of a boat. and whispered with Mr. Bucket,
who went away with him  down some slippery steps-as if to
look at something secret he had to show.  They came back,
wiping their hands upon their coats, after turning over something
wet-but thank God it was not what I feared!
After some further conference, Mr. Bucket (whom every body
seemed to know and defer to) went in with all the others at a
door, and left me in the carriage, while the driver walked up and
down by his horses, to warm himself. The tide was coming in,
as I judged from the sound it made, and I could hear it break at
the end of the alley with a little rush toward me. It never did
so; and I still thought it did so, hundreds of times, in what can
have been at the most a quarter of an hour, and probably was
less; but the thought shuddered and rushed through me that it
would cast my mother at the horses' feet.
Mr. Bucket came out again, exhorting the others to be vigilant, darkened his lantern, and once more took his seat. "Don't
you be alarmed, Miss Summerson, on account of our coming
here," he said, turning to me. " I only want to have every thing
in train, and to know that it is in train by looking after it myself.  Get on, my lad!"
We appeared to retrace the way we had come.  Not that I
had taken note of any particular objects in my perturbed state
of mind, but judging from the general character of the streets.
We called at another office or station for a minute, and crossed
the river again. During the whole of this time, and during the
whole search, my companion, wrapped up on the box, never relaxed in his vigilance a single moment; but when we crossed
the bridge he seemed, if possible, to be more on the alert than before.  He stood up to look over the parapet; he alighted, and




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BLEAK  HOUSE.                       851
went back afier a shadowy female figure that flitted past us, and
he gazed into the profound black pit of water with a face that
made my heart die within me.  The river had a fearful look, so
overcast and secret, creeping away so fast between the low flat
lines of shore, so heavy with indistinct and awful shapes, both of
substance and shadow, so deathlike and mysterious.  I have
seen it many times since then, by sunlight and by moonlight, but
never free fiom the impressions of that journey. In my memory
the lights upon the bridge are always burning dim, the cutting
wind is eddying round the homeless woman whom we pass, the
monotonous wheels are whirling on, and in the light of the carriage lamps reflected back, looks palely in upon me a face rising
out of the dreaded water.
Clattering and clattering through the empty streets, we came
at length from the pavement on to dark smooth roads, and began
to leave the houses behind us. After a while, I recognized the
familiar way to St. Albans.  At Barnet fresh horses were ready
for us, and we changed and went on. It was very cold indeed,
and the open country was white with snow, though none was
falling then.
"An old acquaintance of yours, this road, Miss Summerson?"
said Mr. Bucket. cheerfully.
" Yes," I returned. " Have you gathered any intelligence?"
" None that can be quite depended on as yet," he answered,
"but it's early times as yet."
He had gone into every late or early public-house where there
was a light (they were not a few at that time, the road being
then much frequented by drovers), and had got down to talk
to the turnpike-keepers.  I had heard him ordering drink, and
chinking money, and making himself agreeable and merry every
where; but whenever he took his seat upon the box again, his
face resumed its watchful steady look, and he always said to the
driver in the same business tone, "Get on, my lad!"
With all these stoppages, it was between five and.six o'clock,
and we were yet a few miles short of St. Albans, when he came
out of one of those houses and handed me in a cup of tea.
"Drink it, Miss Summerson, it'll do you good. You're beginning to get more yourself now, an't you?"
I thanked him, and said I hoped so.




852                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
"You was what you may call stunned at first, you see," he
returned; " and Lord! no wonder. Don't speak loud, my dear.
It's all right. She's on ahead."
I don't know what joyful exclamation I made, or was going to
make, but he put up his finger and I stopped myself.
"Passed through here on foot, this evening, about eight or
nine. I heard of her first at the archway toll, over at Highgate,
but couldn't make quite sure.  Traced her all along, on and olF.
Picked her up at one place, and dropped her at another; but
she's before us now, safe. Take hold of this cup and saucer,
hostler.  Now, if you wasn't brought up to the butler trade,
look out and see if you can catch half-a-crown in y(!u t'other
hand.  One, two, three, and there you are,! Now, my lad, try
a gallop!"
We were soon in St. Albans, and alighted a little before day,
when I was just beginning to arrange and comprehend the occurreinces of the night, and really to believe that they were not a
dream.  Leaving the carriage at the posting-house, and ordering
fresh horses to be ready, my companion gave me his arm and we
went toward home.
" As this is your regular abode here, Miss Summerson, you
sbe," he observed, " I should like to know whether you've been
asked for by any stranger answering the description, or whether
Mr. Jarndyce has?  I don't much expect it, but it might
be."
As we ascended the hill, he looked about him with a sharp
eye; the day was now breaking, and reminded me that I had
come down it one night, as I had reason for remembering, with
my little servant and poor Joe-whom he called Toughey.
I wondered how he knew that.
"When you passed a man upon the road, just yonder, you
know," said Mr. Bucket.
Yes, I remembered that too, very well.
"That was me." said Mr. Bucket.
Seeing my surprise he went on.
"I drove down in a gig that afternoon, to look after that boy.
You might have heard my wheels when you came out to look
atter him yourself, for I was aware of you and your maid going
up, when I was walking the horse down.  Making an inquiry or




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        853
two about him in the town, I soon heard what company he wa.s
in, and was coming among the brick-fields to look for iiim, when
I observed you bringing him home here."
"Had he committed any crime?" I asked.
" None was charged against him," said Mr. Bucket, coolly lifting off his hat, "but I suppose he warn't over-particular.  No.
what I wanted him for was in connection with keeping this very
matter of Lady Dedlock quiet.  He had been making his tongue
more free than welcome, as to a small accidental service he had
been paid for by the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn, and it wouldn't
do at any sort of price to have him playing those games.  So
having warned him out of London, I made an afternoon to warn
him to keep out of it now he was away, and go farther from it,
and maintain a bright look-out that I didn't catch him coming
back again."
" Poor creature," said I.
" Poor enough," assented Mr. Bucket, " and trouble enough,
and well enough away from London, or any where else.  I was
regularly thrown upon my back when I found him taken ulJ by
your establishment, I do assure you."
I asked him  why?  " Why, my dear?" said Mr. Bu ket.
"Naturally there was no end to his tongue then.  He migl t as
well have been born within twenty yards of it, and a remaant
over. "
Although I remember this conversation now, my head was in
confusion at the time, and my power of attention hardly did more
than enable me to understand that he entered into these particulars to divert and entertain me. With the same kind intention,
manifestly, he often spoke to me of indifferent things, while his
face was busy with the one object that we had in view. He still
pursued this subject as we turned in at the garden gate.
"Ah!" said Mr. Bucket., "Here we are, and a nice retired
place it is. Puts a man in mind of the country-house in the
Woodpecker tapping, that was known by the smoke which so
gracefully curled.  They're early with the kitchen fire, and that
denotes good servants. But what you've always got to be careful
of with servants is, who comes to see'em; you never know what
they're up to, if you don't know that.  And another thing, my
dear. Whenever you find a young man behind the kitchen-door,




854                 BLEAK HOUSE.
you give. that young man in charge on suspicion of being secreted
in a dwelling-house with an unlawful purpose."
We were now in front of the house; he looked attentively and
closely at the gravel for footprinlts, before he raised his eyes to
the windows.
"Do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in the
same room, when he's on a visit here, Miss Summerson?" he
inquired, glancing at Mr. Skimpole's usual chamber.
"You know Mr. Skimpole!" said I.
"What do you call him again?" returned Mr. Bucket, bending
down his ear.  "Skimpole, is it?"  I've often wondered what
his name might be. Skimpole. Not John, I should say, nor yet
Jacob?"
" Harold," I told him.
" Harold. Yes. He's a queer bird is Harold," said Mr. Bucket,
eying me with great expression.
"He's a singular character," said I.
"No idea of money," observed Mr. Bucket.  "He takes it,
though "
I involuntarily returned for answer, that I perceived Mr. Bucket
knew him.
"Why, now I'll tell you, Miss Summerson," he rejoined.
"Your mind will be all the better for not running on one point
too continually, and I'll tell you for a change.  It was him  as
pointed out to me where Toughey was.  I made up my mind,
that night, to come to the door and ask for Toughey, if that was
all; but, willing to try a move or so first, if any such was on the
board, I just pitched up a morsel of gravel at that window, where
I saw a shadow.  As soon as Harold opens it and I have had a
look at him, thinks I, you're about the man for me. So I smoothed him down a bit, about not wanting to disturb the family, after
they was gone to bed, and about its being a thing to be regretted
that charitable young ladies should harbor vagrants; and then,
when I pretty well understood his rigs, I said, I should consider
a fypunnote w3ll bestowed if I could relieve the premises of
Toughey without causing any noise or trouble.'There,' says he,
lifting up his eyebrows in the gayest way,' it's nc use mentionirg a fypunnote to me, my friend, because I'm a mere child in
such matters, and have no idea of money.' Of course I under



BLEAK  HOUSE.                        855
stood what his taking it so easy meant, and being now quite sure
he was the man for me, I wrapped the note round a little stone
and threw it up to him. Well! He laughs and leans, and looks
as innocent as you like, and says,' But I don't know the value
of these things.  What am I to do with this?'-'Spend it, sir,'
says 1.' But I shall be taken in,' he says,'they won't give me
the right change, I shall lose it, it's no use to me.' Lord, you
never saw such a face as he carried it with! Of course he told
me where to find Toughey, and I found him."
I regarded this as very treacherous on the part of Mr. Skimpole toward my Guardian, and as passing the usual bounds of
his looseness of principles.
"Bounds, my dear?" returned Mr. Bucket. "Bounds? Now,
Miss Summerson, I'll give you a piece of advice that your husband will find useful when you are happily married, and have
got a family about you.  Whenever a person says to you that
they are innocent as can be in all concerning money, look well
after your own money, fbr they are dead certain to collar it, if
they can.  Whenever a person proclaims to you, In worldly
matters I'm a child,' you consider that that person's just a-crying
off from being held accountable, and that you have got that person's number, and it's Number One.  Now I am not a poetical
man myself, except in a vocal way, when it goes round a company, but I'm a practical one, and that's my practical experience.
So's this rule.  Fast and loose in one thing, Fast and loose in
every thing. I never knew it fail. No more will you. Nor no
one.  With which caution to the unwary, my dear, I take the
liberty of pulling this here bell, and so go back to our business i"
I believe it had not been for a moment out of his mind, any
more than it had been out of my mind, or out of his face.  The
whole household were amazed to see me, without any notice, at
that time in the morning, and so accompanied; and their surprise was not diminished by my inquiries.  No one, however,
had been there.  It could not be doubted that this was the
truth.
"Then, Miss Summerson," said my companion, "we can't be
too soon at the cottage where them brickmakers are to be found.
Most inquiries there I leave to you, if you'll be so good as to make




856                 BLEAK HOUSE.'em.  The naturalest is the best way, and the natiualest is your
own wtay."
We set off again immediately. On arriving at the cottage, we
found it shut up, and apparently deserted; but one of the neighbors who knew me, and who came out when I was tryin gto make
some one hear, informed me that the two women and their husbands now lived together in another house, made of loose rough
bricks, which stood on the margin of the piece of ground where
the kilns were, and where the long rows of bricks were drying.
We lost no time in repairing to this place, which was within a
few hundred yards, and as the door stood ajar I pushed it open.
There were only three of them sitting at breakfast;- the child
lying asleep on a bed in the corner.  It was Jenny, the mother
of the dead child, who was absent. The other woman rose on
seeing me; and the men, though they were, as usual, sulky and
silent, each gave me a morose nod of recognition. A look passed
between them when Mr. Bucket followed me in, and I was surprised to see that they evidently knew him.
I had asked leave to enter, of course. Liz (the only name by
which I knew her) rose to give me her own chair, but I sat down
on a stool near the fire, and Mr. Bucket took a corner of the bedstead.  Now that I had to speak, and was among people with
whom I was not familiar, I became conscious of being hurried
and giddy. It was very difficult to begin, and I could not help
bursting into tears.
"Liz," said I, "I have come a long way in the night and
through the snow, to inquire after a lady-"
Who has been here, you know," Mr. Bucket struck in, addressing the whole group, with a composed propitiatory face,
"that's the lady the young lady means. The lady that was here
last night, you know."
"And who told you as there was any body here?" inquired
Jenny's husband, who had made a surly stop in his eating, to
lislen, and now measured him with his eye.' A person of the name of Michael Jackson, in a blue welveteen
waistcoat with a double row of mother-of-pearl buttons," Mr.
Bucket immediately answered.
" He had as good mind his own business, whoever he is,"
growled the man.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        857
"TL.'s out of employment, I believe," said Mr. Buckt, apologetically Ibr Michael Jackson, " and so gets talking, you see."
The woman had not resumed her chair, but stood faltering*
with her hand upon its broken back. looking at me. I thought
she would have spoken to me privately if she had dared. She
was still in this attitude of uncertainty when her husband, who
was eating with a lump of bread and fat in one hand, and his
clasp-knife-iin the other, struck the handle of his knife violently
upon the table, and told her with an oath to mind her business
at any rate, and sit down.
" I should like to have seen Jenny very much," said I, " for I
am  sure she would have told me all she could about this lady,
whom I am very anxious indeed-you can not think how anxious
-to overtake.  Will Jenny be here soon?  Where is she?'
The woman had a great desire to answer, but the man, with
another oath, openly kicked at her with his heavy boot. He left
it to Jenny's husband to say what he chose, and after a dogged
silence the latter turned his shaggy head toward me.
" I'm not partial to gentlefolks coming into my place, as you've
heard me say afbre now, I think, miss. I let their places be, and
it's curious they can't let my place be. There'd be a pretty shine
made if I was to go a wisitin themz, I think. Howsever, I don't
so much complain of you as of some others, and I'm agreeable to
make you a civil answer, though I give notice that I'm not a-going
to be drawed like a badger. Will Jenny be here soon?. No, she
won't.  Where is she?  She's gone up to Lunnun."
"Did she go last night?" I asked.
"Did she go last night?  Ah! she went last night," he answered, with a sulky jerk of his head.
" But was she here when the lady came.? And what did the
lady say to her? And where is the lady gone? I beg and pray
you to be so kind as to tell me," said I, " for I am in great distress to know."
" If my master would let me speak, and not a word of harm-"
the woman timidly began.
"Your master," said her husband, muttering an imprecation
with slow emphasis, " will break your neck if you meddle with
wot don't concern you."
After another silence, the husband of the absent woman, turn



858                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
ing to me again, answered me with his usual grumbling unwill
ingness.
"Wos Jenny here when the lady come?  Yes, she wos here
when the lady come. Wot did the lady say to her?  Well, 1'11
tell you wot the lady said to her. She said,' You remember me
as come one time to talk to you about the young lady as had been
a wisiting of you? You remember me as give you somethink
handsome for a hankecher wot she had left?' Ah, she remembered; so we all did. Well, then, was that young lady up at
the house now?  No, she warn't up at the house now. Well.
then, lookee here. The lady was upon a journey all alone, strange
as we might think it, and could she rest herself where you're asetten for an hour or so. Yes she could, and so she did. Then
she went-it might be at twenty minutes past eleven, and it
might be at twenty minutes past twelve; we arn't got no watches
here to know the time by-nor yet clocks. When did she go?
I don't know when she go'd.  She went one way, and Jenny
went another; one went right to Lunnun, and t'other went right
from it.  That's all about it.  Ask this man.  He heerd it all,
and see it all. He knows."
The other man repeated, " That's all about it."
" Was the lady crying?" I inquired.
"Devil a bit," returned the first man.  "Her shoes was the
worse, and her clothes was the worse, but she warn't-not as I
see."
The woman sat with her arms crossed, and her eyes upon the
ground. Her husband had turned his seat a little, so as to face
her, and kept his hammer-like hand upon the table, as if it were
in readiness to execute his threat if she disobeyed him.
" I hope you will not object to my asking your wife," said I,
"how the lady looked?"
" Come then!" he gruffly cried to her, "You hear wot she
says. Cut it short, and tell her."
/" Bad," replied the woman.  "Pale and exhausted. Very
bad."
"Did she speak much?"
"Not much, but her voice was'hoarse,"
She answered, looking all the while at her husband for leave.
"Was she faint?" said I.  "Did she eat or drink here?"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       859
"Go on!" said the husband, in answer to her look.  "Tell
her, and cut it short."
"She had a little water, Miss, and Jenny fetched her some
bread and tea. But she hardly touched it."
"And when she went from here-" I was proceeding, when
Jenny's husband impatiently took me up.
" When she went from here, she went right away Nor'ard by
the high road. Ask on the road, if you doubt me, and see if it
warn't so. Now, there's the end. That's all about it."
"1 glanced at my companion, and finding that he had already
risen and was ready to depart, thanked them for what they had
told me, and took my leave.  The woman looked full at Mr.
Bucket as he went out, and he looked full at her.
" Now, Miss Summerson," he said to me as we walked quickly
away. " They've got her ladyship's watch among'em. That's
a positive fact."
" You saw it?" I exclaimed.
" Just as good as saw it," he returned.  "For why should he
talk about his'twenty minutes past,' and about his having no
watch to tell the time by? Twenty minutes! He don't usually
cut his time so fine as that. If he comes wharf hours, it's as
much as he does.  Now, you see, either her ladyship gave him
that watch, or he took it. I think she gave it him.  Now,
what should she give it him for?  What should she give it him
for?"
He repeated this question to himself several times, as we hurried on; appearing to balance between a variety of answers that
arose in his mind.
"If time could be spared," said Mr. Bucket-" which is the
only thing that can't be spared in this case-I might get it out
of that woman; but it's too doubtful a chance to trust to under
present circumstances, for they are up to keeping a close eye upon
her; and, besides, any fool knows that a poor creature like her,
beaten and kicked and scarred and bruised from head to foot,
will stand by the husband that ill uses her, through thick and
thin. There's something kept back. It's a pity but what we
had seen the other woman."
I regretted it exceedingly, for she was very grateful, and I!blt
sure would nave.resisted no entreaty of mine.




860                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
"It's possible, Miss Summerson," said Mr. Bucket, ponderlng
on it, " that her ladyship sent her up to London with some words
for you, and it's possible that her husband got the watch to let
her go.  It don't come out altogether so plain as to please me,
but it's on the cards.  Now I don't take kindly to laying out the
money of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, on these Roughs, and I
don't see my way to the usefulness of it at present.  No! So
far, our road, Miss Sumrnerson, is on for'ard-straight aheadand keeping every thing quiet I"
We called at home once more, that I might send a hasty note
to my guardian, and then we hurried back to where we had left
the carriage.  The horses were brought as soon as we were seen
coming, and we were on the road again in a few minutes.
It had set in snowing at daybreak, and it now snowed hard.
The air was so thick with the darkness of the day and the density
of the fall, that we could see but a very little way in any direction.  Although it was extremely cold, the snow was but partially frozen, and it churned-with a sound as if it were a beach
of small shells-under the hoofs of the horses, with mire and
water.  They sometimes slipped and floundered for a mile together, and we were obliged to come to a stand-still to rest them.
One horse fell three times in this first stage, and trembled so,
and was so shaken, that the driver had to dismount from his
saddle and lead him at last.
I could eat nothing, and could not sleep; and I grew so nervous under these delays and the slow pace at which we traveled,
that I had an unreasonable desire upon me to get out and walk.
Yielding to my companion's better sense, however, I remained
where I was. All this tirme, kept fresh by a certain enjoyment
of the work in which he was engaged, he was up and down at
every house we came to; addressing people whom he had never
beheld before as old acquaintances; running in to warm himself
at every fire he saw; talking and drinking and shaking hands at
every bar and tap; friendly with every wagoner, wheelwright,
blacksmith, and toll-taker; yet never seeming to lose time, and
always mounting to the box again with his watchful, steady face,
and his business-lilke " Get on, my lad!".Vhen we were changing horses the next time, he came from
the stable yard, with the wet snow  encrusted upon him, and




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        861
dropping off him-plashing and crashing through it to his wet
knees, as he had been doing frequently since we left Saint Albans
-and spoke to me at the carriage side.
"Keep up your spirits.  It's certainly true that she came on
here, Miss Summerson.  There's not a doubt of the dress by this
time, and the dress has been seen here.
"Still on foot?" said I.
"Still on foot.  I think the gentleman you mentioned must be
the point she's aiming at; and yet I don't like his living down
in her own part of the country neither."
"I know so little," said I.  "There may be some one else
ecarer here, of whom I never heard."
" That's true. But whatever you do, don't you fall a-crying,
my dear, and don't you annoy yourself more than you can help.
Get on, my lad!"
The sleet fell all that day unceasingly, a thick mist came over
early, and it never rose or lightened for a moment. Such roads
I had never seen. I sometimes feared we had missed the way,
and got into the plowed grounds, or the marshes.  If I ever
thought of the time I had been out, it presented itself as an indefinite period, of great duration; and I seemed in a strange way
never to have been free from the anxiety under which I then
labored.
As we advanced, I began to feel misgivings that my companion lost confidence.  He was the same as before with all the
roadside people, but he looked graver when he sat by himself on
the box.  I saw his finger uneasily going across and across his
mouth, during the whole of our long weary stage. I overheard
that he began to ask the drivers of coaches and other vehicles
coming toward us, what passengers they had seen in other coaches
and vehicles that were in advance.  Their replies did not encourage him.  He always gave me a re-assuring beck of his finger,
and lift of his eyelid as he got upon the box again, but he seemed
perplexed now, when he said, " Get on, my lad!"
At last, when we were changing, he told me that he had lost
the track of the dress so long that he began to be surprised.  It
was nothing, he said, to lose such a track for one while, and to
take it up fbr another while, and so on; but it had disappeared
here in an unaccountabJe manner, and we had not comne upon it




862                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
since. This corroborated the apprehensions I had formed, when
he began to look at direction-posts, and to leave the carriage at
cross roads for a quarter of an hour at a time, while he explored
them. But I was not to be down-hearted he told me, for it was
likely as not that the next stage might set us right again.
But the next stage ended as that one ended; we had no new
clue. There was a spacious inn here, solitary, but a comfortable
substantial building, and as we drove in under a large gateway,
before we knew it, where a landlady and her pretty daughters
came to the carriage door, entreating me to alight and warm myself while the horses were making ready, I thought it would be
uncharitable to refuse.  They took me up-stairs to a cheerful
room and left me there.
It was at the corner of the house, I remember, looking two
ways.  On the one side, to a stable-yard open to a by-road, where
the hostlers where unharnessing the splashed and tired horses
from the muddy carriage; and beyond that, to the by-road itself
across which the sign was heavily swinging; on the other side,
to a wood of dark fir trees.  Their branches were encumbered
with snow, and it silently dropped off in wet heaps while I stood
at the window.  Night was setting in, and its bleakness was
enhanced by the contrast of the pictured fire glowing and gleaming in the window-pane.  As I looked among the stems of the
trees, and followed the discolored masses in the snow where the
thaw  was sinking into it and undermining it, I thought of the
motherly face brightly set off by daughters that had just now
welcomed me, and of my mother lying down in such a wood to die.
I was frightened when I found them all about me-I sitting
on the floor, crying-but I remembered that before I fainted I
tried very hard not do it; and that was some little comfort
They cushioned me up, on a large sofa by the fire; and then the
comely landlady told me that I must travel no further to-night,
but must go to bed. But this put me into such a tremble lest
they should detain me there, that she soon recalled her words and
compromised for a rest of half-an-hour.
A good endearing creature she was.  She and her three fair
girls all so busy about me. I was to take hot soup and boiled
fowl, while Mr. Bucket dried himself and dined elsewhere; but
I could not do it when a snug round table'was presently spread




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       868
by the fireside, though I was very unwilling to disappoint them.
However, I could take some toast and some'hot negus, and as I
really enjoyed that refreshment it made some recompense.
Punctual to the time, at the half-hour's end the' carriage came
rumbling under the gateway, and they took me down, warmed,
refreshed, comforted by kindness, and safe (I assured them) not to
faint any more.  After I had got in and had taken a gratefill
leave of them  all, the youngest daughter-a blooming girl of
nineteen, who was to be the first married, they had told megot upon the carriage step, reached in, and kissed me. I have
never seen her from that hour, but I think of her to this hour as
my friend.
The transparent windows with the fire and light-looking so
bright and warm from. the cold darkness out of doors-were soon
gone, and again we were crushing and churning the loose snow.
We went on with toil enough, but the dismal roads were not
much worse than they had been, and the stage was only nine
miles.  My companion smoking on the box-I had thought at
the last inn of begging him to do so, when I saw him standing
at a great fire in a comfortable cloud of tobacco-was as vigilant
as ever, and as quickly down and up again when we came to
any human abode or any human creature.  He had lighted his
little dark lantern, which seemed to be a favorite with him, for
we had lamps to the carriage; and every now and then he
turned it upon me, to see that I was doing well. There was a
folding-window to the carriage-head, but I never closed it, for it
seemed like shutting out hope.
We came to the end of the stage, and still the lost trace was
not recovered. I looked at him anxiously, when we stopped to
change; but I knew by his yet grave face, as he stood watching
the hostlers, that he had heard nothing. Almost in an instant
afterward, as I leaned back in my seat he looked in, with his
lighted lantern in his hand, an excited and quite different man.
"What is it?" said I, starting.  "Is she here?"
"No, no. Don't deceive yourself, my dear.  Nobody's here.
But I've got it!"
The crystallized snow was in his eyelashes, in his hair, lying in
ridges on his dress. He had to shake it from his face and get his
breath before he spoke to me.
54




8G4                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
"Now, Miss Summerson," said he, beating his finger on the
apron, "don't you be disappointed at what I'm a-going to do.
You know me.  I'm  Inspector Bucket, and you can trust me.
We've come a long way; never mind.  Four horses out there
for the next stage up! Quick!"
There was a commotion in the yard, and a man came running
out of the stable to know " if he meant up or down?"
"Up, I tell you! up! An't it English?  Up!"
"Up," said I, astonished, " to London! Are we going back?"
"Miss Summerson," he answered, " back-straight back as a
die. You know me. Don't be afraid.  I'll follow the other by
G."
" The other?" I repeated, "Who?"
"You called her Jenny, didn't you?  I'll follow her.  Bring
those two pair out here for a crown a mare.  Wake up, some
of you!"
" You will not desert this lady we are in search of; you will
not abandon her on such a night, and in such a state of mind as
I know her to be in!" said I, in an agony, and grasping his hand.
"You are right, my dear, I won't.  But I'll follow the other.
Look alive here with them h(rses.  Send a man for'ard in the
saddle to the next stage, and let him send another for'ard again,
and order for'ard, up, right through.  My darling, don't you be
afraid!"
These orders, and the way in which he ran about the yard,
urging them, caused a general excitement that was scarcely less
bewildering to me than this sudden change. But, in the height
of the confusion, a mounted man galloped away to order the
relays, and our horses were put to with great speed.
"My dear," said Mr. Bucket, jumping to his seat, and looking in again-" you'll excuse me if I'm too familiar-don't you
fret and worry yourself no more than you can help. I say no
more at present; but you know me, my dear; now, don't you?"
I endeavored to say that I knew he was far more capable than
I of deciding of what we ought to do; but was he sure that this
was right?  Could I not go forward by myself in search of-I
grasped his hand again in my distress, and whispered it to him
-of my own mother.
" My dear," he answered, "I know-I know-and would I




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        865
put you wrong do you think?  Inspector Bucket  Now you
know me, don't you?"
What could I say but yes!
"Then you keep up as good heart as you can, and you rely
upon me for standing by you, no less induced by Sir Leicester
DTdlock, Baronet.  Now, are you right there?"
"All right, sir!"
" Off she goes, then.  And get on, my lads!"
We were again upon the melancholy read by which we had
coime; tearing up the miry street and thawing snow, as if they
were torn up by a water-wheel.




CHAPTER LVIII.
A WINTRY DAY AND NIGHr.
STILL impassive, as behooves its breeding, the Dedlock town
house carries itself as usual toward the street of dismal grandeur.
There are powdered heads from time to time in the little windows
of the hall, looking out at the untaxed powder falling all day
from the sky; and in the same conservatory there is peach blossom turning itself exotically to the great hall fire from the nipping weather out of doors.  It is given out that my Lady has gone
down into Lincolnshire, but is expected to return presently.
Rumor, busy overmuch, however, will not go down into Lincolnshire.  It persists in flitting and chattering about town.  It
knows that that poor unfortunate man, Sir Leicester, has been
sadly used. It hears, my dear child, all sorts of shocking things.
It makes the world, five miles round, quite merry. Not to know
that there is something wrong at the Dedlocks' is to augur yourself unknown.  One of the peachy-cheeked charmers with the
skeleton throats is already. apprised of the all principal circumstances that will come out before the Lords, on Sir Leicester's
application for a bill of divorce.
At Blaze and Sparkle's the jewelers, and at Sheen and Gloss's
the mercers, it is and will be for several hours the topic of the
age, the feature of the century.  The patronesses of those establishments, albeit so loftily inscrutable being as nicely weighed and
measured there as any other article of the stock-in-trade, are perfectly understood in this new fashion by the hands behind the
counter.  " Our people, Mr. Jones," said Blaze and Sparkle, to
the hand in question, on engaging him, " our people, sir, are sheep
— mere sheep.  Where two or three marked ones go, all the rest
follow.  Keep those two or three in your eye, Mr. Jones, and you
lhave the flock."  So likewise Sheen and Gloss to their Jones, in
(~66)




BLEAK HOUSE                          867
reference to knowing where to have the fashionable people, and
how to bring what they (Sheen and Gloss) choose, into fashion.
On similar unerring principles, Mr. Sladderly the librarian, and
indeed the great farmer of gorgeous sheep, admits this very day,
"'Why yes, sir, there certainly are reports concerning Lady Dedlock, very current indeed among my high connection, sir.  Yof
see my high connection must talk about something, sir, and it's
only to get a subject into vogue with one or two ladies I could
name, to make it go down with the whole.  Just what I should
have done with those ladies, sir, in the case of any novelty you
had left to me to bring in, they have done of themselves in this
case, through knowing Lady Dedlock, and being perhaps a little
innocently jealous of her too, sir.  You'll find, sir, that this topic
will be very popular among my high connection.  If it had been
a speculation, sir, it would have brought money.  And when I
say so, you may trust to my being right, sir; for I have made it
my business to study my high connection, and well able to wind
it up like a clock, sir."
The rumor thrives in the capital, and will not go down into
Lincolpshire. By half'past five, post meridian, Horse Guards'
time, it has even elicited a new remark from the Honorable Mr.
Stables, which bids fair to outshine the old one, on which he
has so long rested his colloquial reputation.  This sparkling sally
is to the effect that although he always knew she was the best
groomed woman in the stud, he had no idea she was a bolter.  It
is immensely received in turf-circles.
At feasts and festivals also: in firmaments she has graced,
and among constellations she outshone but yesterday, she is still
the prevalent subject.  What is it?  Who is it?  When was it?
Where was it?  How was it?  She is discussed by her dear
fiiends with all the genteelest slang in vogue, with the last new
word, the last new manner, the last new drawl, and the perfection of polite indifference.  A remarkable feature of the theme is,
it is found to be so inspiring that several people come out upon
it who never came out before, positively say things! William
Doodle carries one of these smartnesses from the place where he
dines down to the House, where the Whip for his party hands it
about with his snuff-box to keep men together who want to be
oflW, with stucll efiect that the Speaker (who has hail it privately




868                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
insinuated into his own ear under the corner of his wig) cries
Order at the bar!" three times, without making an impression.
And not the least amazing circumstance connected with her
being vaguely the town talk, is, that people hovering on the confines of Mr. Sladderly's high connection, people who know nothing
and never did know nothing about her, think it essential to their
reputation to pretend that she is their topic too, and to retail hei
with the last new word and the last new manner, and the last
new drawl, and the last new indifference, and all the rest of it,
in inferior systems and to fainter stars.  If there be any man of
letters, art, or science, among these, how noble in him to support
the feeble sisters on such majestic crutches!
So goes the wintry day outside the Dedlock mansion.  How
within it?
Sir Leicester, lying in his bed, can speak a little, though with
difficulty and indistinctness. He is enjoined to silence and to
rest, and they have given him some opiate to lull his pain; for
his old enemy is very hard with him. He is never asleep, though
sometimes he seems to fall into a dull waking doze.  He caused
his bedstead to be moved out nearer to the window when he
heard it was such inclement weather, and his head to be so adjusted that he could see the driving snow and sleet. He watches
it as it falls, through the whole wintry day.
Upon the least noise in the house-which is kept hushed-his
hand is at the pencil.  The old housekeeper, sitting by him,
knows what he would write, and whispers, " No, he has not come
back yet, Sir Leicester.  It was late last night when he went.
He has been but a little time gone yet."
He withdraws his hand, and falls to looking at the sleet and
snow again, until they seem, by being long looked at, to fall so
thick and fast, that he is obliged to close his eyes for a minute
on the giddy white flakes and ice blots.
He again looks at them as soon as it is light.  The day is
not yet far spent when he conceives it to be necessary that her
rooms should be prepared for her.  It is very cool and wet.  Let
there be good fires. Let them know that she is expected. Please
see to it yourself.  He writes to this purpose on his slate, and
Mrs. Rouncewell with a heavy heart obeys.
"For I dread, George," the old lady says to her son, who




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         8;9
waits below to keep her company when she has a little leisure;
" I dread, my dear, that my lady will never more get foot within
these walls."
" That's a bad presentiment, mother."
" Nor yet within the walls of Chesney Wold, my dear."
" That's worse. But why, mother!"
"When 1 saw my Lady yesterday, George, she looked to meand I may say at me too-as if the step on the Ghost's Walk had
almost walked her down."
" Come, come!  You alarm  yourself with old-story fears,
mother."
"No I don't, dear.  No I don't.  It's going on for sixty years
that I have been in this family, and I never had any fears for it
before. But it's breaking up, my dear, the great Dedlock family
is breaking up."
" I hope not, mother."
" I am thankful I have lived long enough to be with Sir Leicester in this illness and trouble, for I know I am  not too old
nor too useless to be a welcomer sight to him than any body else
in my place would be! But the step on the Ghost's Walk will
walk my Lady down,'George; it has been many a day behind
her, and now it will pass her, and go on."
"Well, mother, dear, I say again, I hope not."
"Ah, so do I, George," the old lady returns, shaking her head,
and parting and raising her folded hands.  "But if my fears
come true, and he has to know it, who will tell him!"
" Are these her rooms?"
" These are my Lady's rooms, just as she left them."
" Why, now," says the trooper, glancing round him, and
speaking in a lower voice, "I begin to understand how you come
to think as you do think, mother. Rooms get an awful look about
them when they are fitted up, like these, for one person you are
used to see in them, and that person is away under a shadow —
let alone being God knows where."
He is not fa)r out.  As all partings foreshadow the great final
one, so, empty rooms, bereft of a familiar presence, mournfully
whisper what your room and what mine must one day be.  My
lady's stall has a hollow look, thus gloomy and abandoned; and
in the inner apartment, where Mr. Bucket last night made his




870                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
secret pcrquisition, the traces of her dresses and her ornamentseven the mirrors accustomed to reflect them when they were a
portion of herself, have a desolate and vacant air.  Dark and
cold as the wintry day is, it is darker and colder in these deserted
chambers than in'many a hut that will barely exclude the
weather; and though the servants heap great fires in the grates,
and set the couches and the chairs within the warm glass screens,
that let their ruddy light shoot through them to the furthest
corners, there is a heavy cloud upon the rooms which no light
dispels.
The old housekeeper and her son remain until the preparations
are complete, and then she returns up-stairs.  Volumnia has
taken Mrs. Rouncewell's place in the meantime, though pearl
necklaces and rouge pots, however calculated to embellish rank,
are but indifferent comforts to the invalid under present circumstances.  Volumnia not being supposed to know (and indeed not
accurately knowing) what is the matter, has found it a trying
task to offer appropriate observations, and consequently has supplied their place with distracting smoothings of the bed-linen,
elaborate locomotion on tiptoe, vigilant peeping at her kinsman's
eyes, and one exasperating whisper to herself of " He is asleep,"
in despite of which superfluous remark Sir Leicester has indignantly written on the slate, " I am not."
Yielding, therefore, the chair at the bedside to the quaint old
housekeeper, Volumnia sits at a table a little removed, sympathetically sighing.  Sir Leicester watches the sleet and snow,
and listens for the returning steps that he expects.  In the ears
of his old servant, looking as if she had stepped out of an old picture frame to attend a summoned Dedlock to another world, the
silence is fraught with echoes of her own words, "Who will tell
him?"
He has been under his valet's hands this morning, to be made
presentable; and is as well got up as the circumstances will
allow. He is propped with pillows, his gray hair is brushed in
its usual manner, his linen is arranged to a nicety, he is wrapped
in a responsible dressing-gown, and wears his signet-ring. His
eye-glass and his watch are ready to his hand. It is necessaryless to his own dignity now, perhaps, than for her sake-that he
should be seen as little distiurbed and as much himself as may be.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         871
Women will talk, and Volurrnia, though a Dedlock, is no exceptional case.  He keeps her here, there is little doubt, to prevent
her talking somewhere else.  He is very ill, but he makes his
present stand against distress of mind and body, most courageously.
The fair Volurnia being one of those sprightly girls who can
not long continue silent without imminent peril of seizure by the
dragon Boredom, soon vindicates the approach of that monster
with a series of undisguisable yawns. Finding it impossible to
suppress those yawns by any other process than conversation, she
abruptly compliments Mrs. Rouncewell on her son; declaring that
he positively is one of the finest figures she ever saw, and as soldierly a looking person, she should think, as what's his name, her
favorile Life Guardsman-the man she doats on-the dearest of
creatures-who was killed at Waterloo.
Sii Leicester hears this tribute with so much surprise, and
star s about him in such a confused way, that Mrs. Rouncewell
feels it necessary to explain.
" Miss Dedlock don't speak of my eldest son, Sir Leicester, but
my youngest.  I have found him.  He has come home."
Sir Leicester breaks silence with a harsh cry.  "George?
Your son George come home, Mrs. Rouncewell?"
The old housekeeper wipes her eyes. " Thank God. Yes, Sir
Leicester."
Does this discovery of some one lost, this return of some one so
long gone, come upon him as a strong confirmation of his hopes?
Does he think, " Shall I not, with the aid I have, recall her safely
after this; there being fewer hours in her case than there are
years in his?"
It is of no use entreating him; he is determined to speak now,
and he does-in a thick crowd of sounds, but still intelligibly
enough to be understood.
" Why did you not tell me this, Mrs. Rouncewell?"
"It happened only yesterday, Sir Leicester, and I doubted
your being well enough to be talked to of such things."
Besides, the giddy Volumnia now remembers with her little
scream that nobody was to have known of his being Mrs. Rouncewell's son, and that she wasn't to have told.  But Mrs. Rounce.
well protests with warmth enough to swell the stomacher, that of




8,2                  BLEAK HOUSE.
course she would have told Sir Leicester as soon as he got bette r.
" Where is your son George, Mrs. Rouncewell?"  asks Sir
"Leicester.
Mrs. Rouncewell, not a little alarmed by his disregard of the
doctor's injunctions, replies, in London.
" Where in London?"
Mrs. Rouncewell is constrained to admit that he is in the
house.
"Bring him here to my room.  Bring him directly."
The old lady can do nothing but go in search of him. Sir
Leicester, with such power of movement as he has, arranges
himself a little, to receive him. When he has done so, he looks
out again at the falling sleet and snow, and listens again for the
returning steps. A quantity of straw has been tumbled down in
the street to deaden the noises there, and she might be driven to
the door, perhaps, without his hearing the wheels.
He is lying thus, apparently forgetful of his newer and minor
surprise when the housekeeper returns, accompanied by her
trooper son. Mr. George approaches softly to the bedside, makes
his bow, squares himself, and stands, with his face flushed, very
heartily ashamed.
" Good Heaven, and it is really George Rouncewell!" exclaims
Sir Leicester. " Do you remember me, George?"
The trooper needs to look at him and to separate this sound
from that sound before he knows what he has said; but doing
this, and being a little helped by his mother, he replies:
"I must have a very bad memory, indeed, Sir Leicester, if I
failed to remember you."
"When I look at you, George Rouncewell," Sir Leicester observes with difficulty, "I see something of a.boy at Chesney
Wold-I remember him well-very well."
He looks at the trooper until tears come into his eyes, and then
he looks at the sleet and snow again.' I ask your pardon, Sir Leicester," says George, "but would
you accept of my arms to raise you up.  You would lie easier.
Sir Leicester, if you would allow me to move you."
" If you please, George Rouncewell; if you'll be so good."
The trooper takes him in his arms like a child, and lightly




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        873
raises him, and turns him with his face more toward the window.  " Thank you.  You have your mother's gentleness," returns Sir Leicester, " and your own strength. Thank you."
He signs to him  with his hand not to go away.  George
quietly remains at the bedside, waiting to be spoken to.
"Why did you wish for secrecy?"  It takes Sir Leicester some
time to ask.
" Truly, I am  not much to boast of, Sir Leicester, and I-I
should still, Sir Leicester, if you wasn't indisposed-which I
hope you will not be long-I should still hope for the favor of
being allowed to remain unknown in general.  That involves
explanations not very hard to be guessed at, not very well timed
here, and not very creditable to myself. But however opinions
may differ on a variety of subjects, I should think it would be
universally agreed, Sir Leicester, that I am not much to boast of."
" You have been a soldier," observes Sir Leicester," and a
faithful one."
George makes his military bow.  " As far as that goes, Sir
Leicester, I have done my duty under discipline; and it was the
least I could do."
" You find me," says Sir Leicester, whose eyes are much attracted toward him, " far from well, George Rouncewell."
"I am very sorry both to hear it and to see it, Sir Leicester "
"I am sure you are.  No.  In addition to my older malady, I
have had a sudden attack-a bad attack. Something that dead~ens-" making an endeavor to pass one hand down one side;
" and confuses-" touching his lips.
George, with a look of assent and sympathy, makes another
bow.  The different times when they were both young men (the
trooper much the younger of the two), and looked at one another
down at Chesney Wold, arise before them both and soften both.
Sir Leicester, evidently with a great determination to say, in
his own manner, something that is on his mind before relapsing
into silence, tries to raise himself among his pillows a little more.
George, observant of the action, takes him in his arms again and
places him as he desires to be.  "Thank you, George.  You are
another self to me.  You have often carried my spare gun at
Chesney Wold. George, you are familiar. to me ini these stratnge
circLimstaiices, very ftinliliar."  He had p lli Sir Leicesler's soiu(



874                 BLEAK HOUSE.
er arm over his shoulder in lifting him up, and Sir Leicester is
slow in drawing it away again, as he says these words"I was about to add," he goes on, "I was about to add, respecting this attack, that it was unfortunately simultaneous with
a slight misunderstanding between my Lady and myself.  I do
not mean that there was any difference between us (for there has
been none), but that there was a misunderstanding of certain circurstances important only to ourselves, which deprives me, for a
little while, of my Lady's society. She has found it necessary to
make a journey —  trust will shortly return.  Volumnia, do I
make myself intelligible? The words are not quite under my
command, in the manner of pronouncing them."
Volurnnia understands him perfectly, and in truth he delivers
himself with far greater plainness than could have been supposed
possible a minute ago. The effort by which he does so is written in the anxious and laboring expression of his face. Nothing
but the strength of his purpose enables him to make it.
" Therefore, Volumnia, I desire to say in your presence-and
in the presence of my old retainer and friend, Mrs. Rouncewell,
whose truth and fidelity no one can question-and in the presence of her son George, who has come back like a familiar recollection of my youth in the home of my ancestors at Chesney Wold
-in case I should relapse, in case I should not recover, in case I
should lose both my speech and the power of writing, though I
hope for better things-"
The old housekeeper weeping silently; Volumnia in the greatest agitation with the freshest bloom on her cheeks; the trooper
with his arms folded and his head a little bent respectfully attentive.
" Therefore I desire to say, and to call you all to witnessbeginning, Volumnia, with yourself, most solemnly-that I am
on unaltered terms with Lady Dedlock.  That I assert no cause
whatever of complaint against her.  That I have ever had the
strongest affection for her, and that I retain it undiminished.
Say this to herself and to every one.  If ever you say less than
this, you will be guilty of deliberate falsehood to me."
Volumnia tremblingly protests that she will observe his injunctions to the letter.
"My Lady is too high in position, too handsome, too accom




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        875
plished, too superior in most respects to the best of those by
whom she is surrounded, not to have her enemies and traducers,
I dare say.  Let it be known to them as I make it known to
you, that being of sound mind, memory and understanding, I ievoke no disposition I have made in her favor. I abridge nothilg
I have ever bestowed upon her.  I am on unaltered terms with
her, and I recall-having the full power to do it if I were so disposed, as you see-no act I have done for her advantage and
happiness."
His formal array of words might have at any other time, as it
has often had, something ludicrous in it, but at this time it is
serious and affecting. His noble earnestness, his fidelity, his
gallant shielding of her, his generous conquest of his own wrong
and his own pride fbr her sake, are simply honorable, manly,
and true.  Nothing less worthy can be seen through the lustre
of such qualities in the commonest mechanic, nothing less worthy can be seen in the best-born gentleman.  In such a light
both aspire alike, both rise alike, both children of the dust shine
equally.
Overpowered by his exertions, he lays his head back on his pil,
lows, and closes his eyes for not more than a minute, when he
again resumes his watching of the weather and his attention to
the muffled sounds. In the rendering of those little services, and
in the manner of their acceptance, the trooper has become installed as necessary to him.  Nothing has been said, but it is
understood.  He falls a step or two backward to be out of sight,
and mounts guard a little behind his mother's chair.
The day is now beginning to decline. The mist, and the sleet,
into which the snow has all resolved itself, are darker, and the
blaze begins to tell more vividly upon the room walls and furniture.  The gloom augments; the bright gas springs up in the
streets, and the pertinacious oil lamps, which yet hold their
ground there, with their source of life half frozen and half thawed, twinkle gaspingly, like fiery fish out of water as they are.
The world, which has been rumbling over the straw and pulling
at the bell "to inquire," begins to go home, begins to dress, to
dine, to discuss its dear friend, with all the last new modes, as
already mentioned.
Now does Sir Leicester become worse; restless, uneasy andl in




870                 BLEAK  ltOUSE.
great pain. Volumnia lighting a candle (with a predestined aptitude fbr doing something objectionable) is bidden to put it out
again, for it is not yet dark enough. Yet it is very dark too; as
dark as it will be all night.  By-and-by she tries again.  No,
put, it out. It is not dark enough yet.
His old housekeeper is the first to understand that he is striving to uphold the fiction with himself that it is not growing late.
"George," she whispers softly, when Volumnia has gone down
to dinner, " Sir Leicester don't like the thought of shutting out
my Lady for another night.  Go away a little while, my dear,
I'll speak to him."
The trooper retires, and Mrs. Rouncewell takes her chair at
the bedside.
"Sir Leicester."
"That's Mrs. Rouncewell?"
"Surely, yes, Sir Leicester."
"I was afraid you had left me."'
His hand is lying close beside her. She kisses it.
" It's the dull one," says Sir Leicester. " But I feel that, Mrs.
HRouncewell."
It is too dark to see him; she thinks, however, that he puts
his other hand before his eyes.
" Where is your son, George?  He is not gone?  I want him
here.  I want only you and him; I would rather have no one
else to-night."
" He hoped he might be of some use, and he is not gone, Sir
Leicester."
"I thank him!"
" Dear Sir Leicester, my honored master," the old housekeeper
pursues, " I must, for your own good, and my duty, take the freedom of begging and praying that you will not lie here in the lone
darkness, watching and waiting, and dragging through the time.
Let me draw the curtains and light the candles, and make things
more comfortable about you.  The church-clocks will strike the
hours just the same, Sir Leicester, and the night will pass away
just the same.  My Lady will come back just the same, too."
"1 know it, Mrs. Rouncewell, but I am  weak —and he has
been so long gone."
" Not so very long, Sir Leicester. Not twenty-four hours yet."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        877
"But that's a long time.  Oh, it's a long time!"
He says it with a groan that wrings her heart.
She knows that this is not a period for bringing the rough
light upon him; she thinks his tears too sacred to be seen, even
by her.  Therefore, she sits in the darkness for a while, without
a word; then gently begins to move about; now stirring the
fire, now standing at the window looking out.  Finally he tells
her, with recovered self-command, " As you say, Mrs. Rouncewell, it is no worse for being confessed.  It is getting late, and
they are not come.  Light the room I"  When it is lighted, and
the weather shut out, it is only left to him to listen.
But they find that, however dejected and ill he is, he brightens when a quiet pretense is made of looking at the fires in her
rooms, and being sure that every thing is ready to receive her,
Many a time, consequently, the old housekeeper trots down-stairs
to see, as she tells George, with her own eyes, that nothing is
neglected. Poor pretense as it is, it is very plain that these allusions to her being expected keep up hope within him.
Midnight comes, and with it the same blank.  The carriages
in the streets are few, and other late sounds in that neighborhood there are none, unless a man so very nomadically drunk as
to stray into the frigid zone goes bawling and bellowing along
the pavement.  Upon this wintry night it is so still that listening to the intense silence is like looking at intense darkness. If
any distant sound be audible in this case, it departs through the
gloom like a feeble light without, and all is heavier than before.
The corporation of servants are dismissed to bed (not unwilling
to go, for they were up all last night), and only Mrs. Rouncewell
and George keep watch in Sir Leicester's room.  As the night
lags tardily on-or rather when it seems to stop altogether, at
between two and three o'clock-they find a restless craving on
him to know more about the weather now he can not see it.
Hence:George, patroling regularly every half hour to the rooms
so carefully looked after, extends his march to the hall-door, looks
about him, and brings back the best report he can make of the
worst of nights. The mist is still brooding, the sleet still falling,
and even the stone footways lying ankle-deep in sludge.
Volumnia, in her room up a retired landing on the staircasethe second turning past the end of the carving and gilding-a




R78                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
cousinly room containing a fearful abortion of a portrait of Six
Leicester, banished for its crimes, and commanding in the day a
solemn yard, planted with dried-up shrubs like antediluvian specimens of black tea-is a prey to horrors of many kinds.  Not
last nor least among them, possibly, is a horror of what may befal her little income in the event, as she usually expresses it, " of
any thing happening" to Sir Leicester.  Any thing, in this sense,
meaning one thing only, andthat the last thing that can happen
to the consciousness of any baronet in the known world.
An effect of these horrors is, that Volumnia finds she can not
go to bedin her own room, or sit by the fire in her own room,
but must come forth with her fair head tied up in a profusion of
shawl, and her fair form enrolled in drapery, and parade the
mansion like a ghost, particularly haunting the rooms, warm and
luxurious, prepared for one who still does not return.  Solitude
under such circumstances being not to be thought of, Volumnia.
is attended by her maid, who, impressed from her own bed for
that purpose, extremely cold, very sleepy, and generally an injured maid as condemned by circumstances to take office with a
mere cousin. when she had resolved to be maid to nothing less
than ten thousand a year, has not a sweet expression of countenance.
The periodical visits of the trooper to these rooms, however, in
the course of his patrolling, is an assurance of protection and
company, both to mistress and maid, which renders them very
acceptable in the small hours of the night.  Whenever he is
heard advancing they both make some little decorative preparation to receive him; at other times, they divide their watches
into short scraps of oblivion and dialogues, not wholly free from
ace-rbity, as to whether Miss Dedlock, sitting with her feet upon
the fender, was or was not falling into the fire when rescued (to
her great displeasure) by her guardian genius the maid.
" How is Sir Leicester, now, Mr. George?" inquires Volumnia,
adjusting her cowl over her head.
"Why, Sir Leicester is much the same, miss. He is very low
and ill, and he even wanders a little sometimes."
" Has he asked for me?" inquires Volumnia tenderly.
"Why no; I can't say he has, miss. Not within my hearing,
tlrt is to say."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        P79
"This is a truly sad time, Mr. George."
" It is, indeed, miss.  Hadn't you better go to bed?"'You had a deal better go to bed, Miss Dedlock," quoth i-s
maid, sharply.
But Volumnia answers No! No! She may be asked for, Liet
may be wanted at a moment's notice.  She never should forgi s
herself " if any thing was to happen" and she wasn't on the sp.o.
She declines to enter on the question, how the spot comes to bo
there, and not in her own room (which is nearer to Sir Leice-.
ter's), but stanchly declares that on the spot she will remain.
Volumnia further makes a merit of not " having closed an eye"
-as if she had twenty or thirty, though. it is hard to reconcile
this statement with her having most indisputably opened two
within five minutes.
But when it comes to four o'clock, and still the same blank,
Volumnia's constancy begins to fail her, or rather it begins to
strengthen, for she now considers that it is her duty to be ready
for the morrow, when much may be expected of her; that, in
fact,. howsoever anxious to remain upon the spot, it may be required of her, as an act of self-devotion, to desert the spot.  So
when the trooper reappears with his "Hadn't you better go to
bed, miss?" and when the maid protests more sharply than before, " You had a deal better go to bed, Miss Dedlock!" she meekly
rises and says, " Do with me what you think best."
Mr. George undoubtedly thinks it best to escort her on his aria
to the door of her cousinly chamber, and the maid as undoubtedly
thinks it best to hustle her into bed with mighty little ceremony.
Accordingly, these steps are taken, and now the trooper, in his
rounds, has the house to himself:
There is no improvement in the weather.  From the portico,
from the eaves, from the parapet, from every door-ledge and post
aid pillar, drips the thawed snow. It has crept, as if for shelter,
into the lintels of the great door under it, into the corners of the
windows, into every chink and crevice of retreat, and there wastes
and dies.  It is falling still; upon the roof, upon the skylight,
even through the skylight now, and drip, drip, drip, with the
regularity of the Ghost's Walk, on the stone below.
The trooper, his old recollections awakened by the solitary
grandeur of a great house-no novelty to him once at Chesney
65




880                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
Wold-goes up the stairs and through the chief rooms, holding
u. his light at arm's length, thinking of his varied fortunes within
t.e last few weeks, and of his rustic boyhood, and of the two so
brioght together across the wide intermediate space of his life;
ti nking of the murdered man whose image is so fresh in his
riind; thinking of the lady who has disappeared from these very
rooms, and the tokens of whose recent presence are all here;
tilkining of the master of the house up-stairs, and of the foreboding " Who will tell him?" he looks here and looks there, and
thinks how he might see something now, which it would tax his
boldness to walk up to, lay his hand upon, and prove to be a
fancy.  But it is all blank; blank as the darkness above and
below as he goes up the great staircase again; blank as the oppressive silence.
" All is still in readiness, George Rouncewell?"
" Quite orderly and right, Sir Leicester."
" No word of any kind?"
The trooper shakes his head.
" No letter that can possibly have been overlooked?"
But he knows there is no such hope as that, and lays his head
down dejectedly without looking for an answer.
Quite familiar to him, as he said himself some hours ago,
George Rouncewell lifts him into easier positions through the
long remainder of the blank of a wintry night; and, equally
familiar with his unexpressed wish, extinguishes the light, and
even draws the curtains at the first late break of day. The day
confronts them  like a phantom.  Cold, colorless, and vague, it
sends a warning streak before it of a deathlike hue, as if it cried
out, "Look what I am bringing you who watch there! Who will
tell him?"




CHAPTER LIX.
ESTHER'S NARRATIVE.
IT was three o'clock in the morning when the houses outside
London did at last begin to exclude the country, and to close us
in with streets. CWe had made our way along roads in a far worse
condition than when we had traversed them by daylight, both the
fall and the thaw having lasted ever since; but the energy of my
companion had never slackened. It had only been, as I thought,
of less assistance than the horses in getting us on, and it had
often aided them. They had stopped exhausted half-way up hills,
they had been driven through streams of turbulent water, they
had slipped down and become entangled with the harness; but
he and his little lantern had been always ready, and when the
mishap was set right, I had never heard any variation in his cool
Get on, my lads I"
The steadiness and confidence with which he had directed our
journey back, I could not account for. Never wavering, he never
even stopped to make an inquiry until we were within a few
miles of London.  A very few words here and there were then
enough for him, and thus we came at between three and four
o'clock in the morning into Islington.
I will not dwell on the suspense and anxiety with which I re.
fleeted all this time, that we were leaving my mother farther and
farther behind every minute.  I think I had some strong hope
that he must be right, and could not fail to have a satisfactory
object in following this woman; but I tormented myself with
questioning it, and discussing it, during the whole journey. What
was to ensue when we found her, and what could compensate us
for this loss of time, were questions also that I could not possibly
dismiss; my mind was quite tortured by long dwelling on such
reflections when we stopped.
(881)




882                 BLEAR  HOUSE.
We stopped in a high-street where there was a coach-stand
My companion paid our two drivers, who were as completely
covered with splashes as if they had been dragged along the
roads like the carriage itself, and giving them some brief directions where to take it, lifted me out of it, and into a hackney
coach he had chosen from the rest.
"Why, my dear," he said, as he did this, "how  wet you
are "'
I had not been conscious of it.  But the melted snow had
found its way in; and I had got out two or three times when a
fallen horse was plunging and had to be got up; and the wet
had clung to me.  I assured him  it was no matter, but the
driver who knew him, would not be dissuaded by me from run
iiing down the street to his stable, whence he brought an armfil
of clean dry straw. They shook it out and strewed it well about
me, and I found it warm and comfortable.
"Now, my dear," said Mr. Bucket, with his head in at the
window after I was shut up. " We're a-going to mark this person down.  It may take a little time, but you don't mind that.
You're pretty sure that I've got a motive, ain't you?"
I little thought what it was-little thought in how short a
time I should understand it; but I assured him that I had confidence in him.
"So you may have, my dear," he returned. " Now I tell you
what, if you only repose half so much confidence in me as I
repose in you, after what I've experienced of you, that'll do.
Lord! you're no trouble at all. I never see a young woman in
any station of society-and I've seen many elewated ones tooconduct herself like you have conducted yourself; since you was
called out of your bed.  You're a pattern, you know, that's
what you are," said Mr. Bucket, warmly, "you're a pattern."
I told him that I was very glad, as indeed I was, to have been
no hinderance to himn; and that I hoped I should be none now.
" My dear," he returned, "when a young lady is as mild as
she's game, and as game as she's mild, that's all I ask, and
more than I expect.  She then becomes a Queen, and that's
about what you are yourself."
With these encouraging words-they really were encouraging
to me under those lonely and anxious circumstances-he got




BLEAK  HOUSE                        883
upon the box, and we once more drove away.  Where we drove,
I neither knew then nor have ever known since, but we appeared to seek out the narrowest and worst streets in London. Whenever I saw  him  directing the driver I was prepared for our
descending into a deeper complication of such streets, and we
never failed to do so.
Sometimes we emerged upon a wider thoroughfare, or came to
a larger building than the generality, well lighted. Then we
stopped at offices like those we had visited when we began our
journey, and I saw him in consultation with others. Sometimes
he would get down by an archway or at a street corner, and
mysteriously show the light of his little lantern.  This wvould
attract similar lights from various dark quarters, like so many
insects, and a fresh consultation would be held. By degrees we
appeared to contract our search within narrower and easier lirmits. Single police officers on duty could now tell Mr. Bucket
what he wanted to know, and point to him where to go.  At
last we stopped for a rather long conversation between him and
one of these men, which I supposed to be satisfactory from his
manner of nodding from time to time. When it was finished he
came to me, looking very busy, and very attentive.
"Now, Miss Summerson," he said to me, "you won't be
alarmed whatever comes off, Iknow. It's not necessary for me to
give you any further caution than to tell you that we have marked this person down, and that you may be of use to me before I
know it myself. I don't like to ask such a thing, my dear, but
would you walk a little way."
Of course I got out directly, and took his arm.
"It ain't so easy to keep your feet," said Mr. Bucket; " bul
take time."
Although I looked about me confusedly and hurriedly, as we
crossed a street, I thought I knew the place.  "Are we in Hol
born?" I asked him.
" Yes," said Mr. Bucket.  "Do you know this turning?"
"It looks like Chancery Lane."
" And was christened so, my dear," said Mr. Bucket.
We turned down it, and-as we went, shufflingr through the
sleet, I heard the clock strike half-past five.  We passed on in
silence, and as quickly as we could with suech a foothold, when




s81                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
some one coming toward us on the narrow pavement, wrapped in
a cloak, stopped and stood aside to give me room. In the same
moment I heard an exclamation of wonder, and my own name,
from Mr. Woodcourt.  I knew his voice very well.
It was so unexpected, and so-I don't know what to call it,
whether pleasant or painful-to come upon it after my feverish
wandering journey, and in the midst of very night, that I could
not keep back the tears from my eyes. It was like hearing his
voice in a strange country.
" My dear Miss Summerson, that you should be out at this
hour, and in such weather."
He had heard from my Guardian of my having been called
away on some uncommon business, and said so to dispense with
any explanation. I told him that we had but just left a coach,
and were going-but then I was obliged to look at my companion.
"Why, you see, Mr. Woodcourt," he had caught the name
from me; "we are a-going at present into the next street-Inspector Bucket."
Mr. Woodcourt, disregarding my remonstrances, had hurriedly
taken off his cloak, and was putting it about me.  "That's a
good move, too," said Mr. Bucket, assisting, " a very good move
it is."
" May I go there with you?" said Mr. Woodcourt. I don't
know whether to me or my companion.
"Why, lord!" exclaimed Mr. Bucket, taking the answer on
himself. " Of course you may."
It was all said in a moment, and they took me between them,
wrapped in the cloak.
" I have just left Richard," said Mr. Woodcourt.  "I have
been sitting with him since ten o'clock last night."
"0 dear me, he is ill!"
"No, no, believe me; not ill, but not quite well.  He was depressed and faint-you know he gets so worried and so worn
sometimes-and Ada sent to me, of course; and when I came
horme I found her note, and came straight here. Well, Richard
revived so much after a little while,'and Ada was so happy, and
so, convinced of its being my doing, though God knows I had
lilt1i enough to do with it, that I remained with him until he




BLEAK  HOU SE.                      885
had been fast asleep some hours. As fast asleep as she is now, I
hope!"
His friendly and familiar way of speaking of them, his unaffected devotion to them, the grateful confidence with which I
knew he had inspired my darling, and the comfort he was to her;
could I separate all this from his promise to me? How thankless should I have been if it had not recalled the worlds he said
to me when he was so moved by the change in my appearance.
"I will accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!"
We now turned into another narrow street, " Mr. Woodcourt,"
said Mr. Bucket, who had eyed him closely as we came along,
"our little business takes us to a law-stationer's here; a certain
Mr. Snagsby's.  What, you know him, do you?"  He was so
quick that he saw it in an instant.
" Yes, I know a little of him, and have called upon him at this
place."
"Indeed, sir?" said Mr. Bucket.  "Will you be so good as to
let me leave Miss Summerson with you for a moment, while I go
and have half a word with him?"
The last police officer with whom he had conferred was standing silently behind us. I was not aware of it until he struck in,
on my saying I heard some one crying.
"Don't be alarmed, miss," he returned.  "It's Snagsby's
servant."
"Why, you see," said Mr. Bucket, "the girl's subject to fits,
and she's got'em bad upon her to-night. A most contrary circumstance it is, for I want certain information out of that girl,
and she must be brought to reason somehow or other."
"At all events, they wouldn't be up yet, if it wasn't for her,
Mr. Bucket," said the other man.  "She's been at it pretty well
all night, sir."
"Well, that's true," he returned.  "My light's burnt out.
Show your's a moment."
All this passed in a whisper, a door or two from the house in
which I could faintly hear crying and moaning. In the little
round of light produced for the purpose, Mr. Bucket went up to
the door and knocked.  The door was opened, after he had
knocked twice, and he went in, leaving us standing in the
street.




886%            BLEAK  HOUSE.
"Miss Sumlmerson," said Mr. Woodcourt: "if, without obtruding myself on your own confidence, I may remain near you, pray
let me do so."
"You are truly kind," I answered.  "I need wish to keep no
secret of my own from you; if I keep any it is another's."
"I quite understand.  Trust me. I will remain near you only
so long as I can fully respect it."
"I trust implicitly to you," I said.  "I know and deeply feel
how sacred you keep your promises."
After a short time the little round of light shone out again, and
Mr. Bucket advanced toward us in it with an earnest face.
"Please to come in Miss Summerson," he said, "and sit down
by the fire. Mr. Woodcourt, from information I have received I
understand you are a medical man.  Would you look to this girl
and see if any thing can be done to bring her round. She's got
a letter somewhere that I particularly want.  It's not in her box,
and I think it must be somewhere about her, but she is so difficult
to handle without hurting, twisted and clenched up."
We all three went in the house together; although it was cold
and raw, it smelt close too from being shut up all night.  In the
passage, behind the door, stood a scared, sorrowful-looking little
man in a gray coat, who seemed to have a naturally polite manner and spoke meekly.
"Down-stairs, if you please, Mr. Bucket," said he. "The lady
will excuse the front kitchen; we use it as our work-a-day sittingroom.  The back is Guster's bedroom, and in it she's carrying
on, poor thing, to a frightful extent!"
We went down-stairs, followed by Mr. Snagsby, as I soon found
the little man to be.  In the front kitchen, sitting by the fire,
was Mrs. Snagsby, with very red eyes and a very severe expression of face.
"My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, entering behind us,
"to wave-not to put a fine point upon it, my dear-hostilities,
for a single moment, in the course of this prolonged night, here
is Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady."
She looked very much astonished, as she had good reason for
doing, and looked particulary hard at me.
"My little woman," said Mr Snagsby, sitting down in the remotest corner by the door, as if he were taking a liberty, " it is




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       887
not unlikely that you may inquire of me why Inspector Bucket,
Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady call upon us in Cook's Court, Cursitoi
Street, at the present hour. I don't know. I have not the least
idea. If I was to be informed, I should despair of understanding,
and I'd rather not be told."
lie appeared so miserable, sitting with his head upon his hand,
and I appeared so unwelcome, that I was going to offer an
apology, when Mr. Bucket took the matter to himself.
" Now, Mr. Snagsby," said he, "the best thing you can do, is
to go along with Mr. Woodcourt to look after your Guster-"
"My Guster, Mr. Bucket!" cried Mr. Snagsby.  "Go on, sir,
go on. I shall be charged with that next."
"And to hold the candle," pursued Mr. Bucket without correcting himself, " or hold her, or make yourself useful in any way
you're asked.  Which there ain't a man alive more ready to do,
for you're a man of urbanity and suavity, you know, and you've
got the sort of heart that can feel for another.  (Mr. Woodcourt,
would you be so good as see to her, and if you can get that letter
from her, to let me have it as soon as ever you can?)"
As they went out, Mr. Bucket made me sit down in a corner
by the fire, and take off my wet shoes, which he turned up to dry
upon the fender; talking all the time.
" Don't you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitable
look from Mrs. Snagsby, because she's under a mistake altogether. She'll find that out sooner than will be agreeable to a
lady of her generally correct manner of framing her thoughts, because I'm a going to explain it to'her."  Here, standing on the
hearth with his wet hat and shawls in his hand, himself a pile
of wet, he turned to Mrs. Snagsby.  " Now, the first thing thlt
I say to you as a married woman possessing what you may call
charms, you know-' Believe me, if all those endearing, anli
cetrer'-you're well acquainted with the song, because it's in
vain for you to tell me that you and good society are strangers —
charms-attractions, mind you, that ought to give you confidence
in yourself-is, that you've done it."
Mrs. Snagsby looked rather alarmed, relented a little, and faltered, what did Mr. Bucket mean?
"What does Mr. Bucket mean?" he repeated; and I saw by
his face that all the time he talked, he was listening fobr the dis



888                BLEAK  HOUSE.
covery of the letter, to my own great agitation; for I knew then
how important it must be.
"I'll tell you what he means, ma'am. Go and see Othello
acted. That's the tragedy for you."
Mrs. Snagsby consciously asked why.
" Why?" said Mr. Bucket.  "Because you'll come to that if
you don't look out. Now at the very moment while I speak, I
know that your mind's not wholly free from respecting this young
lady. But shall I tell you who this young lady is? Now, come,
you're what I call an intellectual woman-with your soul too
large for your body, if you come to that, and chafing it —and you
know me, and you recollect where you saw me last, and what
was talked of in that elevated circle. Don't you?  Yes! Very
well. This young lady is that young lady."
Mrs. Snagsby appeared to understand the reference better than
[ did at the time.
"And Toughey-him as you call Jo-was mixed up in the
same business and no other; and the law-writer that you know
of, was mixed up in the same business and no other; and your
husband, with no more knowledge of it than your great grandfather, was mixed up (by Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, his best customer) in the same business and no other; and the whole bileing
of people was mixed up in the same business and no other; and
yet a married woman, possessing your attractions, shuts her eyes
(and sparklers too) and goes and runs her delicate-formed head
against a wall. Why, I am ashamed of you! (I expected Mr.
Woodcourt might have got it by this time.)"
Mrs. Snagsby shook her head, and put her handkerchief to her
eyes.
" Is that all?" said Mr. Bucket.  "No.  See what happens.
Another person mixed up in that business and no other; a person in a wretched state comes here to-night, and is seen aspeaking to your maid-servant; and between her and your maidservant there passes a paper that I'd give a hundred pound for,
down. What do you do?  You hide and you watch'em, and
you pounce upon that maid-servant-knowing what she's subject
to, and what a little thing will bring'em on-in that surprising
manner, and with that severity, that, by the Lord she goes off
and keeps off when a Life may be hanging upon that girl's words!"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       889
He so thoroughly meant what he said now, that I involuntarily
clasped my hands, and felt the room turning away from me. But
it stopped. Mr. Woodcourt came in, put a paper into his hand,
and went away again.
" Now the only amends you can make, Mrs. Snagsby," said
Mr. Bucket rapidly glancing at it, "is to let me speak a word to
this young lady in private here.  And if you know of any help
that you can give to that gentleman in the next kitchen there, or
can think of any thing that's likelier than another to bring the
girl round, do your swiftest and best!" In an instant she was
gone, and he had shut the door.  " Now, my dear, you're steady
and quite sure of yourself?"
" Quite," said I.
" Whose writing's that?"
It was my mother's. A pencil-writing, on a crushed and torn
piece of paper, blotted with wet. Folded roughly like a letter,
and directed to me, at my Guardian's.
" You know the hand," he said; " and if you are firm enough
to read it to me, do! But be particular to a word."
It had been written in portions at different times. I read what
follows: " I came to the cottage with two objects.  First, to see
the dear one, if I could, once more; but only to see her —iot to
speak to her, or let her know that I was near. The other object,
to elude pursuit, and to be lost.  Do not blame the mother for
her share.  The assistance that she rendered me she rendered on
my strongest assurance that it was for the dear one's good. You
remember her dead child. The men's consent I bought, but her
help was freely given."
"  I came.' That was written," said my companion, "when
she rested there. It bears out what I made of it. I was right."
The next was written at another time.
"I have now wandered a long distance, and for many hours,
and I know that I must soon die. These streets! I have no parpose but to die.  When I left I had a worse; but I am saved
from adding that guilt to the rest.  Cold, wet, and fatigue, are
sufficient causes for my being found dead; but I shall die of'others,
though I suffer from these.  It Ma r lght that all that had sustained me should have g.ven way at once, and that I should die
of terror and riy conscience."




890                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
" Take courage," said Mr. Bucket. " There's only a few words
more.
Those, too, were written at another time. To all appearance,
almost in the dark.
"I have done what I could to be lost.  I shall be soon forgotten so, and shall disgrace him least.  I have nothing about me
by which I can be recognized.  This paper I part with now.
The place where I shall lie down, if I can yet get so far, has
been often in my mind.  Farewell.  Forgive."
Mr. Bucket, supporting me with his arm, carried me gently
into my chair.  "Cheer up! Don't think me hard with you, my
dear, but, as soon as you feel equal to it get your shoes on and be
ready,"
I did as he required; but I sat there a long time, praying for
my unhappy mother. They were all occupied with the poor girl,
and I heard Mr. Woodcourt directing them, and speaking to her
often.  At length he came in with Mr. Bucket, and said that as
it was important to address her gently, he thought it best that I
should ask her for whatever information we desired to obtain.
There was no doubt that she could now reply to questions, if she
were soothed and not alarmed.  The questions, Mr. Bucket said,
were, how she came by the letter, what passed between her and
the person who gave her-the letter, and where the person went.
Holding my mind as steadily as I could to these points I went
into the next room with them.  Mr. WVoodcourt would have re
mained outside, but at my solicitation went in with us.
The poor girl was sitting on the floor where they had laid hei
down.  They stood around her, though at a little distance, that
she might have air.  She was not pretty, and looked weak and
poor; but she had a plaintive and a good face, though it was
still a little wild.  I kneeled on the ground beside her, and put
her poor head on my shoulder;. whereupon she drew her arm
round my neck and burst into tears.
My poor girl," said I, laying my face against her forehead;
for indeed I was crying too, and trembling; "it seems cruel to
trouble you now, but more depends on our knowing something
about this letter than I could tell you in an hour."
She began piteously declaring that she didn't mean any harm,
she didn't mean any harm, Mrs. Snagsby!




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        891
"We are all sure of that now," said I.  "But pray tell me
how you got it."
"Yes, dear lady, I will, and tell you true.  I'll tell true, indeed, MMrs. Snagsby."
"I am sure of that," said I.  "And how was it?"
"I had been out on an errand, dear lady-long after it was
dark-quite late; and when I came home I found a commonlooking person, all wet and muddy, looking up at our house.
When she see me coming in at the door she called me back, and
said did I live here? and I said yes; and she said she knew only
one or two places about here, but had lost her way, and couldn't
find them-0 what shall I do, what shall I do! They won't
believe me! She didn't say any harm to me, and I didn't say
any harm to her, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby."
It was necessary for her mistress to comfort her, which she
did, I must say with a good deal of contrition, before she could
be got beyond this.
" She could not find those places," said I.
" No!' cried lhe girl, shaking her head.  " No! couldn't find
them.  And she was so faint and lame, and miserable, 0 so
wretched! that if you had seen her, Mr. Snagsby, you'd have
given her half-a-crown, I know!"
"Well, Guster, my girl," said he at first not knowing what to
say.  "I hope I should."
" And yet she was so well spoken, dear lady," said the girl,
looking at me with wide-open eyes, "that it made a person's
heart bleed.  And so she said to me did I know the way to the
burying-ground?  And I asked her which burying-ground?  And
the said the poor burying-ground. And so I told her I had been
a poor child myself, and it was according to parishes. But she
said she meant a poor burying-ground not very far from  here,
where there was an archway, and a step, and an iron gate."
As I watched her face, and soothed her to go on, I'saw that
Mr. Bucket received this with a look which I could not separate
from one of alarm.
"0 dear, dear!" cried the girl, pressing her hair back with
her hands, " what shall I do, what shall I do! She meant tile
burying-ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff-that you came home and told us of, Mr. Snagsby



892                  BLEAK HOUSE.
that frihillened me so, Mrs. Snagsby.  0 I am frightened now
again, dear lady.  Hold me!"
"You are so much better now," said I. "But pray, pray tell
me more."
" Yes I will, yes I will! But don't be angry with me that's a
dear lady, because I have been so ill."
Angry with her, poor soul!
"There! Now I will, now I will.  So she said could I tell
her how to find it; and I said yes; and I told her; and she
looked at me with eyes like almost as if she was blind, and herself all waving back.  And so she took out the letter, and showed it me, and said if she was to put that in the post-office it
would be rubbed out and not minded and never sent; and would
I take it from her, and send it, and the messenger would be paid
at the house?  And so I said yes, if it was no harm; and she
said no-no harm.  And so I took it from her, and she said she
had nothing to give me; and I said I was poor myself, and consequently wanted nothing.  And so she said God bless you! anid
went."
" And did she go?"
"Yes," cried the girl, anticipating the inquiry, "yes! she
went the way I had shown her.  Then I came in, and Mrs.
Snagsby came behind me from somewhere, and laid hold of me,
and I was frightened."
Mr. Woodcourt took her kindly from me.  Mr. Bucket wrapped me up, and immediately we were in the street. Mr. Woodcourt hesitated, but I said, "Don't leave me now!" and Mr.
Bucket added, " You'll be better with us, we may want you;
don't lose time!"
I have the most confused impressions of that walk.  I recollect that it was neither night nor day; that morning was dawning, but the street-lamps were not yet put out; that the sleet
was still falling. and that all the ways were deep with it.  I recollect a few chilled people passing in the streets; I recollect the
wet house tops, the clogged and bursting gutters and water-spouts,
the mounds of blackened ice and snow over which we passed, the
narrowness of the courts by which we went. At the same time
I remember that the poor girl seemed to be yet telling her story
audibly and plainly in my hearing; that I could feel her resting




BLEAK HIOUSE.                        893
on my arm; that the stained house fronts put on human shapes
anl looked at me; that great water-gates seemed to be opening
and closing in my head, or in the air; and that these unreal
things were more substantial than the real.
At last we stood under, a dark and miserable arching, where
one lamp was burning over an iron gate, and where the morning faintly struggled in.  The gate was closed.  Beyond it was
a burial-ground-a dreadful spot in which the night was very
slowly stirring, but where I could dimly see a heap of dishonored graves and stones, hemmed in by filthy houses, where dull
lights burnt, and on whose walls a thick humidity broke out like
a disease. On the step at the gate, steeped in the fearful wet of
such a place, which oozed and splashed down every where, I saw,
with a cry of pity and horror, a woman lying-Jenny, the mother
of the dead child.
I ran forward, but they stopped me, and Mr. Woodcourt entreated me, with the greatest earnestness, even with tears, before
I went up to that figure, to listen for an instant to what Mr.
Bucket said.  I did so as I thought.  I did so, as I am sure.
"Miss Summerson.  You'll understand me, if you think a
moment.  They changed clothes at the cottage."
Well! They changed clothes at the cottage.  I could repeat
the words in my mind, and I knew what they meant of themselves, but I attached no meaning to them in any other connection.
"And one returned," said Mr. Bucket, "and one went on.
And the one that went on only went on a certain way agreed
upon to deceive, and then turned across country, and went home.
Think a moment."
I could repeat this in my mind too, but I had not the least
idea what it meant.  I saw before me, lying on the step, the
mother of the dear child. She lay there with one arm creeping
round a bar of the iron gate, and seeming to embrace it. She
lay there who had so lately spoken to my mother.  She lay there,
a distressed, u9sheltered, senseless creature.  She who had
brought my mother's letter, who could give me the only clew to
where my mother was; she who was to guide us to rescue and
save her, whom we had sought so far, who had come to this
condition by some means connected with my mother that I could




894                BLEAK  HOUSE.
not follow, and might be passing beyond our reach and help at
that moment, she lay there, and they stopped me! I saw, but
did not comprehend, the solemn and compassionate look in Mr.
Woodcourt's face. I saw, but did not comprehend, his touching
the other on the breast to keep him back. I saw him stand uncovered in the bitter air with a reverence for something. But
my understanding for all this was gone.
I even heard it said between them"Shall she go?"
"She had better go. Her hands should be the first to touch
her. They have a higher right than ours."
I passed on to the gate, and stooped down. I lifted the heavy
head, put the long dank hair aside, and turned the face. And it
was my mother, cold and dead.




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ClIAPTER LX.
PERSPECTIVE.
I P&OC1ED to other passages of my narrative.  The goodness
of 1-i about me. I derived such sympathy and consolation as I
can never think cf with dry eyes.  I have already said so much
of myself, and so much still remains, that I will not dwell upon
my sorrows. I had an illness, but it was not a long one, and I
would avoid even this mention of it if I could quite keep down
the recollection of their tenderness and love.
I proceed to other passages of my narrative.
During the time of my illness we were still in London, where
Mrs. Woodcourt had come, on my Guardian's invitation, to stay
with us.  When my Guardian thought me well and cheerful
enough to talk with him in our old way-though I could have
done that, sooner, if he would have believed me-I resumed my
work and my chair beside his.  He had appointed the time himself; and we were alone.
"Dame Trot," said he, receiving me with a kiss, "welcome to
the Growlery again, my dear.  I have a scheme to develop, little
woman.  I propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for a longer time-as it may be-quite to settle here for a
while, in short."
" And in the mean while leave Bleak House?" said I.
"Ay, my dear! Bleak House," he returned, "must learn to
take care of itself."
I thought his tone sounded sorrowful, but looking at him I saw
his kind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile.
"Bleak House," he repeated, and his tone did not sound sorrowful I found, "must learn to take care of itself. It is a long
way from Ada, my dear, and Ada stands much in need of you."
"It is like you, Guardian," said I, "to have been taking that
into consideration, for a happy surprise to both of us."
56                                              (895)




t96                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
" Not so disinterested either, my dear, if you mean to extol me
for that virtue, since, if you were generally on the road, you could
be seldom with me.  And besides; I wish to hear as much and
as often of Ada as I can, in this condition of estrangement from
poor Rick.  Not of her, but of him too, poor fellow."
"Have you seen Mr. Woodcourt this mornitig, (uardian?"
"I see Mr. Woodcourt every morning, Dame Durden."
"Does he still say the same of Richard?"
" Just the same.  He knows of no direct bodily illness that he
has; on the contrary, he believes that he has none. Yet he is
not easy about him; who can be?"
My dear girl had been to see us lately, every day; sometimes
twice in a day.  But we had foreseen all along that this would
only last until I was quile myself.  We knew full well that her
fervent heart was as full of affection and gratitude toward her
cousin John as it had ever been, and we acquitted Richard of
laying any injunctions upon her to stay away; but we knew on
the other hand that she felt it a part of her duty to him to be
sparing of her visits at our house. My Guardian's delicacy had
soon perceived this, and had tried to convey to her that he thought
she was right.
" Dear, unfortunate, mistaken Richard," said I.  "When will
he wake from his delusion?"
" He is not in the way to do so now, dear," replied my Guardian.  "The more he suffers, the more averse he will be to me,
by having made me the previous representative of the great occasion of his suffering."
I could not help adding, "So unreasonably!"
"Ah, Dame Trot, Dame Trot!" returned my Guardian, shaking his head, "shall we find reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce! Unreason and injustice at the top, unreason and inijustice at the heart and at the bottom; unreason and injustice from
beginning to end, if it ever has an end; how should poor Rick,
always hovering near it, pluck reason out of it?  He no more
gathers grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles, than older men
did, in old times."
His gentleness and consideration for Richard, whenever we
spoke of him, touched me so, that I was always silent on this
subject very soon.




BLEAK HOUSE.                        89?
"1 suppose the Lord Chancellor and Vice Chancellors, and the
whole Chancery battery of great guns, would be infinitely astonished by such unreasonableness and injustice in one of their suitors," pursued my Guardian.  " When those learned gentlemen
begin to raise moss roses fiom the powder they sow in their wigs,
I shall begin to be astonished too!"
He checked himself in glancing toward the window, to look
where the wind was, and leaned on the back of my chair instead.
" Well, well, little woman! To go on, my dear.  This rock
we must leave to time, chance, and hopeful circumstance.  We
must not shipwreck Ada upon it.  She can not afford, and he
can not afford, the remotest chance of another separation from a
friend.  Therefore, I have particularly begged of Woodcourt, and
I now particularly beg of you, my dear, not to move this subject
with him.  Let it rest.  Next week, next month, next year,
sooner or later, he will see me with clearer eyes; I can wait."
But I had already discussed it with him, I confessed; and so
I thought had Mr. Woodcourt.
" So he tells me," returned my Guardian.  "Very good.  He
has made his protest, and Dame Durden has made hers, and
there is nothing more to be said about it.  Now, I come to Mrs.
Woodcourt.  How do you like her, my dear?"
In answer to this question, which was oddly abrupt, I said I
liked her very much, and thought she was more agreeable than
she used to ue.
" I th.nk so too," said my Guardian.  "Less pedigree?  Not
so much of Morgan-ap-what's his name?"
That was what I meant, I acknowledged, though he was a
very harmless person, even when we had had more of him.
" Still, upon the whole, he is as well in his native mountains,"
said my Guardian, laughing.  "I agree with you.. Then, little
woman, can I do better for a time than retain Mrs. Woodcourt
here?"
No.  And yetMy Guardian looked at me, waiting for what I had to say.
I had nothing to say. At least-I had nothing in my mind
that I could say.  I had an undefined impression then that it
might have been better if he had had some other inmate, but I




898                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
could hardly have explained why even to myself.  Or, if to myself, certainly not to any body else.
" You see," said my Guardian, " our neighborhood is in Woodcourt's way, and he can come here to see her as often as he likes,
which is agreeable to them both; and she is familiar to us, and
fond of you."
Yes. That was all undeniable. I had nothing to say against
it.  I could not have suggested a better arrangement; but I wras
not quite easy in my mind. " Esther, Esther, why not? Esther,
think!"
"It is a very good plan indeed, dear Guardian, and we could
not do better."
" Sure, little woman?"
Quite sure.  I had had a moment's time to think, since I had
urged that duty on myself; and I was quite sure.
" Good,"- said my Guardian.  "It shall be done.  Carried
unanimously."
" Carried unanimously," I repeated, going on with my work.
It was a cover for his book-table that I happened to be ornamenting.  It had been laid by on the night preceding my sad
journey, and never resumed since.  I showed it to him now, and
he admired it highly. After I had explained the pattern to him,
and all the great effects that were to come out by-and-by, I
thought I would go back to our last theme.
" You said, dear Guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Woodcourt
before Ada left us, that you thought he would give a long trial
to another country. Have you been advising him since?"
"Yes, little woman; pretty often."
" Has he decided to do so?"
"I rather think not."
Some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?" said 1.
Why-yes-perhaps," returned my Guardian, beginning his
answer in a very deliberate manner; "about half a year hence
or so, there is a medical. attendant for the poor to be appointed
at a certain place in Yorkshire.  It is a thriving place, pleasantly situated; streams and streets, town and country, mill and
moor, and seems to present an opening for such a man. I mean,
a man whose hopes and aims may sometimes lie (as most men's
sometimes do, I dare say) above the ordinary level, but to whom tho




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        899
ordinary level will be high enough after all, ifit should prove to
be a way of usefulness and good servie, leading to no other.  All
generous spirits are ambitious, I suppose; but the ambition that
calmly trusts itself to such a road, instead of spasmodically trying
to fly over it, is of the kind I care for.  It is Woodcourt's kind,
I am well assured."
" Aid will he g6t this a,,pointment?" I asked.
"Why, little woman," returned my Guardian, smiling, "not
being an oracle, I can not confidently say; but I think' so.  His
reputation stands very high; there are people from that part of
the country in the wreck, and, strange to say, I believe the best
man has the best chance.  You must not suppose it to be a fine
endowment.  It is a very, very common-place affair, my dear;
an appointment to a great amount of work, and a small amount
of pay; but better things will gather about it, it may be fairly
hoped."
"The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice,
if it falls on Mr. Woodcourt, Guardian."
" You are right, little woman; that I am sure they will."
We said no more about it, nor did he say a word about the future of Bleak House.  But it was the first time I had taken my
seat at his side in my mourning dress, and that accounted for it,
I considered.
I now began to visit my dear girl every day in the dull, dark
corner where she lived.  The morning was my usual time; but
whenever I found I had an hour or so to spare, I put on my bonnet and bustled off to Chancery Lane. They were both so glad
to see me at all hours, and used to brighten up so when they
heard me opening the door and coming in (being quite at home,
1 never knocked), that I had no fear of becoming troublesome
just yet.
On these occasions I frequently found Richard absent.  At
other times he would be writing, or reading papers in the corner,
at that table of his, so covered with papers, which was never
disturbed.  Sometimes I would come upon him lingering at the
door of'Mr. Vholes's office.  Sometimes I would meet him in the
neighborhood, lounging about, and biting his nails.  I often met
him wandering in Lincoln's Inn, near the place where 1 had first
seen himO. 0 how differentl, 0 how diflkreit!




900                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
That the money Ada brought him was melting away with the
candles I used'o see burning after dark in Mr. Vholes's office, I
krnew very well.  It was not a large amount in the beginning;
he had marr:ed in debt; and I could not fail to understand by
this time what was meant by Mr. Vholes's shoulder being at the
wheel-as I still heard it was.  My pet made the best of housekeepers, and tried hard to save; but I knew that they were getting poorer and poorer every day.
She shone in the miserable corner like a beautiful star.  She
adorned and graced it so, that it seemed another place.  Paler
than she had been at home, and a little quieter than I had thought
natural when she was yet so cheerful and hopeful, and her face
was so overshadowed, that I half believed she was blinded by her
love for Richard to his ruinous career
I went one day to dine with them, while I was under this impression.  As I turned into Symond's Inn, I met little Miss Flite
coming out. She had been to make a stately call upon the wards
in Jarndyce, as she still called them; and had derived the highest gratification from that ceremony.  My pet had already told
me that she called every Monday at five o'clock, with one little
extra white bow in her bonnet, which never appeared there at
any other time, and with her largest reticule of documents on
her arm.
"My dear Fitz Jarndyce!" she begun.   "So delighted!
How do you do! Glad to see you.  And you are going to visit
our interesting Jarndyce wards?  To be sure! Our beauty is
at home, my dear, and will be charmed to see you."
" Then Richard is not come in yet?" said I.  "I am glad of
that, for I was afraid of being a little late."
"My dear Fitz Jarndyce, no, he is not come in," returned
Miss Flite.  "He has had a long day in court.  I left him there,
with Vholes. You don't like Vholes, I hope? Don't like Vholes.
Dan-gerous man!"
"I am afraid you see Richard oftener than ever now?" said I.
"My dearest Fitz Jarndyce," returned Miss Flite.  "Daily
and hourly.  You know what I told you of the attraction on the
Chancellor's table?  My dear, next to myself he is the most
constant suitor in court.  He beginls quite to amuse our little
party.  Ve-ry f riendly little party, are we not?"




BLEAK  HOI SE.                         901
It was miserable to hear this from her poor mad lips, thc-,itl
it was no surprise.
"In short, my valued frieni," pursued Miss Flite, adv;:..'ei
her lips to my ear, with an air of equal patronage and mysr-',
" I must tell you a secret.  I have made him  my exeoutor;
Nominated, constituted, and appointed him. In my will. YeX-st.
"Indeed?" said I.
"Ye-es," repeated Miss Elite, in her most genteel accents.
" my executor, administrator, and assign. (Our Chancery phrases,
my love.)  I have reflected that if I should wear out, he will be
able to watch that judgment; being so very regular in his attendance."
It made me sigh to think of him, and it brought the tears into
my eyes.
"I did at one time mean," said Miss Flite, echoing the sigh,
"to nominate, constitute, and appoint poor Gridley.  Also very
regular, Fitz Jarndyce.  I assure you, most exemplary! But
he wore out, poor man, so I have appointed his successor. Don't
mention it. This is in confidence."
She carefully, opened her reticule a little way, and showed me
a folded piece of paper inside, as the appointment of which she
spoke.
" Another secret, my dear. I have added to my collection of
birds."
"Really, Miss Flite?" said I, knowing how it pleased her to
have her confidence received with an appearance of interest.
She nodded several times, and her face became overcast and
gloomy.  "Two more.  I call them  the Wards in Jarndyce.
They are caged up now, with all the others. With Hope, Joy,
Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach!"
The poor soul kissed me with the most troubled look I had
ever seen in her, and went her way.  Her manner of running
over the names of her birds, as if she were afraid of hearing them
even from her own lips, chilled me.
This was not a cheering preparation for my visit, and I could
have dispensed with the company of Mr. Vholes, when Richard
(who arrived within a minute or two after me) brought him to




0                    BBLEAK  HOUSE.
h4are our dinner, although it was a very plain one.  A'da and
Jtichard were for some minutes both out of the room  together,
lelping to get ready what we were to eat and drink, and Mr.
crholes took that opportunity of holding a little conversation in a
low voice with me.  He came to the window where I was sittilli, and began upon Symond's Inn.
"Al dull place, Miss Summerson, for a life that is not an official
one," said Mr. Vholes, smearing the glass with his black glove to
make it clearer fbr me.
"There is not much to see here," said I.
" Nor to hear, miss," returned Mr.Vholes. "A little music does
occasionally stray in, but we are not musical in the law, and soon
eject it. I hope Mr. Jarndyce is as well as his friends could wish
him?"
I thanked Mr.Vholes, and said he was quite well.
"I have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number
of his friends myself," said Mr. Vholes, "and I am aware that the
gentlemen of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quarters with an unfavorable eye. Our plain course, however, under
good report and evil report, and all kinds of prejudice (we are the
victims of prejudice), is to have every thing openly carried on.
How do you find Mr. C. looking, Miss Summerson?"
" He looks very ill. Dreadfully anxious."
"Just so," said Mr. Vholes.
He stood behind me with his long black figure reaching nearly
to the ceiling of those low rooms; feeling the pimples on his face
as if they were ornaments, and speaking inwardly and evenly as
though there were not a human passion or motion in his nature.
"Mr. Woodcourt is in attendance upon Mr. C., I believe?" he
resumed.
" Mr. Woodcourt is his disinterested friend," I answered.
"But I mean in professional attendance: medical attendance."
"That can do little for an unhappy mind," said I.
" Quite so," said Mr. Yholes.
So sloW, so eager, so bloodless, and gaunt, I felt as if Richard
were wasting away beneath the eyes of this adviser, and there
were something of the Vampire in him.
Miss Summerson," said Mr. Vholes, very slowly rubbing his
gloved hands, as if, to his cold sense of touch, they were much the




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        q03
same in black kid or out of it, " this was an ill-advised marriags
of Mr. C.'s."
I begged he would excuse me for discussing it. They had been
engaged when they were both very young, I told him a little iIndignantly, and when the prospect before them was much fairer
and brighter, when Richard had not yielded himself to the unhappy influence which now darkened his life.
" Quite so," assented Mr. Vholes again.  " But still with a
view to every thing being openly carried on, I will, with your
permission, Miss Summerson, observe to you that I consider this
a very ill-advised marriage indeed. I owe the opinion, not only
to Mr. C.'s connections, against whom I should naturally wish to
protect myself, but also to my own reputation-dear to myself as
a professional man aiming to keep respectable; dear to my three
girls at home, for whom I am striving to realize some little independence; and dear, I will ever say, to my aged father, whom it
is my privilege to support."
" It would become a very different marriage, a much happier
and better marriage, another marriage altogether, Mr. Vholes,"
said I, "if Richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal
pursuit in which you are engaged with him."
Mr. Vholes with a noiseless cough-or rather gasp-into one
of his black gloves, inclined his head as if he did not wholly dispute even that.
"Miss Summerson," he said, " it may be so, and I freely admit
that the young lady who has taken Mr. C.'s name upon herself
in so ill-advised a manner-you will, I am sure, not quarrel with
me for throwing out that remark again as a duty I owe to Mr.
C.'s connections-is ahighly genteel young lady.  Business has
prevented me from mixing much with general- society in any but
a professional character, still I trust I am competent to perceiv.e
that she is a highly genteel young lady.  As to beauty, I am
not a judge of that myself, and I never did give much attention
to it from a boy; but I dare say the young lady is equally eligible in that point of view. It is considered so (I have heard)
among the clerks ir the Inn, and it is more in their way than in
mine. In reference to Mr. C.'s pursuit of his interests?"
"0! His interests, Mr. Vholes!"
"Pardon me, returned Mr. Vholes, going on in exactly the




904                  BLEAK  HOUSE.
aname inward and dispassionate manner, " Mr. C. takes certain
interests undei certain wills disputed in the suit.  It is a term
we use.  In reference to Mr. C.'s pursuit of his interests, I mentioned to you, Miss Summerson, the first time I had the pleasure
of seeing you, in my desire that every thing should be openly carried on-I used those words-for I happened afterward to note
them in my Diary, which is producible at any trial-I mentioned to you that Mr. C. had laid down the principle of watching
his own interests; and that when a client of mine laid down a
principle which was not of an immoral (that is to say, unlawfil)
lnature, it devolved upon me to carry it out.  I have carried it
out; I do carry it out. But I will not smooth things over, to
any connection of Mr. C.'s, on any account.  As open as I was
to Mr. Jarrdyce, I am to you. I regard it in the light of a professional duty to be so, though it can be charged to no one.  I
openly say, unpalatable as it may be, that I consider Mr. C.'s aflairs in a very bad way, that I consider Mr. C. himself in a very
bad way, and that I regard this as an exceedingly ill-advised marriage.  Am I here, sir?  Yes, I thank you; I am here, Mr. C.,
and enjoying the pleasure of some agreeable conversation with
Miss Summerson, for which I have to thank you very much, sir!"
He broke off thus, in answer to Richard, who addressed him
cheerfully as he came into the room.  By this time I too well
understood Mr. Vholes's scrupulous way of saving himself and his
respectability, not to feel that our worst fears did not keep pace
with his client's progress.
We sat down to dinner, and I had an opportunity of observing
Richard, anxiously.  I was not disturbed by Mr. Vholes (who
took off his gloves to dine), though he sat opposite to me at tho
small table, for I doubt if, looking up at all, he once removed hie
eyes from his host's face.  I found Richard thin and languid,
slovenly in his dress, abstracted in his manner, forcing his spirits
now and then, and at other intervals relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness. About his large bright eyes, that used to be so merry,
there was a wanness and a restlessness that changed them altogether.  I can not use the expression that he looked old. There
is a ruin of youth which is not like age; and into such a ruin
Richard's youth and youthful beauty had all fallen away.
He ate very little, and seemed indifferent what it was; showed




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        905
himself tc be much more impatient than he used to be; and was
quick even with Ada. I thought at first that his old light-hearted manner was all gone, but it shone out of him sometimes, as 1
had occasionally known little momentary glimpses of my own old
face to look out upon me from the glass.  His laugh had not quite
left him either; but it was like the echo of a joyful sound, and
that is always sorrowful.
Yet he was as glad as ever, in his old affectionate way, to have
me there; and we talked of the old times pleasantly. They did
not appear to be interesting to Mr. Vholes, though he occasionally made a gasp, which I believe was his smile. He rose shortly
after dinner, and said that with the permission of the ladies he
would retire to his office.
" Always devoted to business, Vholes!" cried Richard.
" Yes, Mr. C.," he returned, " the interests of clients are never
to be neglected, sir. They are paramount in the thoughts of a
professional man like myself who wishes to preserve a good name
among his fellow-practitioners and society at large.  My denying myself of the pleasure of the present agreeable conversation
may not be wholly irrespective of your interests, Mr. C."
Richard expressed himself quite sure of that, and lighted Mr,
Vholes out. On his return he told us, more than once, that Vholes
was "A good fellow, a safe fellow, a man who did what he pretended to do, a very good fellow, indeed!"  He was so defiant
about it, that it struck me he had begun to doubt Mr. Vholes.
Then he threw himself on the sofa, tired out; and Ada and I
put things to rights, for they had no other servant than the
woman who attended to the chambers.  Ada, my dear girl, had
a cottage piano there, and quietly sat down to sing some of Richard's favorites; the lamp being first moved into the next room,
as he complained of its hurting his eyes.
I sat between them at my dear girl's side, and felt very melancholy listening to her sweet voice.  I think Richard did, too;
I think he darkened the room for that reason.  She had been
singing some time, rising between whiles to bend over him, arnd
speak to him, when Mr. Woodcourt came in. Then he sat down
by Richard, and half playfully, half earnestly, quite naturally and
easily found out how he felt, adll  where he had been all (lay
Presently he proposed to accotmpaLly lilll il a short w'alk on oine




9060 GBLEAK  HOUSE.
of the bridges as it was a moonlight.airy night; and Richard
readily consenting, they went out together.
They left my dear girl still sitting at the piano, and me still
sitting beside her. When they were gone out, I drew my arm
round her waist.  She put her left hand in mine (1 was sitting
on that side), but kept her right upon the keys-going over and
over them without striking any note.
"Listen, my dearest," she said, breaking silence.  "Richard
is never so well, and I am never so easy about him, as when he
is with Allan Woodcourt. We have to thank you for that."
I pointed out to my darling how this could scarcely be, because
Mr. Woodcourt had come to her cousin John's house, and had
known us all there; and because he had always liked Richard,
and Richard had always liked him, and-and so forth.
"All true," said Ada; " but that he is such a devoted friend
to us, we owe to you."
I thought it best to let my dear girl have her way, and to say
no more about it.  So I said as much.  I said it lightly, because
I felt her trembling.
" Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very
good wife indeed. You shall teach me."
I teach! I said no more, for I noticed the hand that was
fluttering over the keys, and I knew that it was not I who ought
to speak; that it was she who had something to say to me.
"When I married Richard I was not insensible to what was
before him. I had been perfectly happy for a long time with
you, and I had never known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and
cared fbr; but I understood the danger he was in, dear Esther"
"I know, I know, darling."
"When we were married I had some little hope that I might
be able to convince him of his mistake; that he might come to
regard it in a new way as my husband, and not pursue it all the
more desperately for my sake-as he does. But if I had not had
that hope, I would have married him just the same, Esther
Just the same!"
In the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still-.
a firmness inspired by the utterance of these last words, and dying away with them-I saw the confirmation of her earnest
g^e.C




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       907
"You are not to think, my dearest Esther, that I fail to see
what-you see, and fear what you fear.  No one can understand
him better than I do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in
the world could not know Richard better than my love does."
She spoke so modestly and softly, and her trembling hand expressed such agitation, as it moved to and fro upon the silent
notes! My dear, dear girl!
" I see him at his worst every day. I watch him in his sleep.
1 know every change of his face. But when I married Richard
I was quite determined, Esther, if Heaven would help me, never
to show him that I grieved for what he did, and so to make him
more unhappy.  I want him when he comes home to find no
trouble in my face.  I want him when he looks at me to see what
he loved in me. I married him to do this, and this supports
me."
I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come,
and I now thought I began to know what it was.
"And something else supports me, Esther."
She stopped a minute.  Stopped speaking only; her hand was
still in motion.
" I look forward a little while, and I don't know what great
aid may come to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me
then, there may be something lying on my breast more eloquent
than I have been, with greater power than mine to show him
his true course, and win him back."
Her hand stopped now.  She clasped me in her arms, and I
clasped her in mine.
" If that little creature should fail too, Esther, I still look forward.  I look forward a long while, through years and years, and
think that then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead,
perhaps, a beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may
be proud of him and a blessing to him. Or that a generous, brave
man, as handsome as he used to be, as hopeful, and far more
happy, may walk in the sunshine with him, honoring his gray
head, and saying to himself,' I thank God this is my father!
ruined by a fatal inheritance, and restored throngh me'"
O, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast
against me!
"These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther, and I know they




908                BLEAK  HOUSE.
will. Though sometimes even they depart from me before a
dread that arises when I look at Richard!"
I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was? Sobbing and weeping, she replied,
" That he may not live to see his child-the child who is to
do so nmuch!"




UJfAPiTER LXI.
A DISCOVERY.
THE days when I frequented that miserable corner, which my
dear girl brightened, can never fade in my remembrance.  I
never see it, and I never wish to see it now; I have been there
only once since, but in my memory there is a mournful glory
shining on the place, which will shine forever.
Not a day passed, without my going there, of course. At first
I found Mr. Skimpole there, on two or three occasions, idly playing the piano, and talking in his usual vivacious strain.  Now,
besides my very much mistrusting the probability of his being
there without making Richard poorer, I felt as if there were something in his careless gayety, too inconsistent with what I knew
of the depths of Ada's life. I clearly perceived too that Ada
shared my feelings.  I therefore resolved, after much thinking of
it, to make a private visit to Mr. Skimpole, and try delicately to
explain myself.  My dear girl was the great consideration that
made me bold.
I set off one morning, accompanied by Charley, for Somers
Town.  As I approached the house, I was strongly inclined to
turn back, for I felt what a desperate attempt it was to make
any impression on Mr. Skimpole, and how extremely likely it was
that he would signally defeat me.  However, I thought that being there, I would go through with it.  So I knocked with a
trembling hand at Mr. Skimpole's door-literally with a hand,
for the knocker was gone-and after a long parley gained admission from an Irishwoman, who was in the area when I knocked, breaking, up the lid of the water-butt with a poker, to light
the fire with.
Mr. Skirnpole, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute
a little, was enchanted to see me.  Now, who should receive me,
he asked?  Who would I prefer for mistress of the ceremonies?
(909)




910'BLEAK  HOUSE.
Would I have his Comedy Daughter, his Beauty Daughtel, or
his Sentimen.t Daughter? Or would I have all the daughters
at once in a perfect nosegay?
I replied, half defeated already, that I wished to speak to himself only, if he would give me leave.
"My dear Miss Sumnerson mont jro:',rlly! Of course," he said,
bringing his chair near ullle, anid oleaking into his fascinating
smile, "of course it's not business-then it's pleasure!"
I said it certainly was not business that I came upon, but it
was not quite a pleasant matter.
" Then, my dear Miss Sulrnerson," said he, with the frankest
gayety, "don't allude to it.  Why should you allude to any thing
that is not a pleasant matter?  I never do.  And are you a
much pleasanter creature in every point of view than I! You
are perfectly pleasant, I am  imperfectly pleasant; then if I
never allude to an unpleasant matter, how much less should
you!  So that's disposed of, and we will talk of something else."
Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to intimate that
I still wished to pursue the subject.
"I should think it a mistake," said Mr. Skimpole, with his
airy laugh, "if I thought Miss Summerson capable of making
one.  But I don't!"
"Mr. Skimpole," said I, raising my eyes to his, " I have so
often heard you say that you are unacquainted with the common
affairs of life-meaning our three banking-house friends, L., S.,
and who's the junior partner?"
"D.," said Mr. Skimpole, brightly.  "Not an idea of them!"
"That, perhaps," I went on, " you will excuse my boldness on
that account.  I think you ought most seriously to know that
Richard is poorer than he was."
"Dear me!" said Mr. Skimpole.  "So am I,they tell me."
And in very embarrassed circumstances."
"Parallel case, exactly," said Mr. Skimpole, with a delighted
countenance.
" This at present naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety;
and as I thiik she is less anxious when no claims are made upon
ler visitors, and as Richard has one uneasiness always heavy on
his miiid, it has occurred to me to take the liberty of saying that
— if you would —not-"




BLEAK HOUS,.                       911
I was coming to the point with great difficulty, when he took
me by both hands, and, with a radiant face and in the liveliest
way, anticipated it.
"Not go there?  Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson,
most assuredly not.  Why should I go there?  When I go any
where,\I go for pleasure. I don't go any where for pain, because
I was made for pleasure.  Pain comes to mne when it wants me.
Now I have had very little pleasure at our dear Richard's lately, and your practical sagacity demonstrates why..Our young
fiiends losing the youthful poetry which was once so captivating
in them, begin to think,'this is a man who wants pounds.' So
I am, I always want pounds, not for myself, but because tradespeople always want them of me.  Next, our young friends begin to think of becoming mercenary,'this is the man who had
pounds,'-who borrowed them; which I did. I always borrow
pounds. So our young friends reduced to prose (which is much
to be regretted), degenerate in their power of imparting pleasure
to me. Why should I go to see them, therefore?  Absurd'"
Through the beaming smiles with which he regarded me, as
he reasoned thus: there now broke forth a look of disinterested
benevolence quite astonishing.
" Besides," he said, pursuing his argument, in his tone of lighthearted conviction, " if I don't go any where for pain-which
would be a perversion of the intention of my being, and a monstrous thing to do-why should I go any where to be the cause
of pain?  If I Went to see our young friends in their present illregulated state of mind, I should give them pain. The associations with me would be disagreeable. They might say,' This is
the man who had pounds, and can't pay pounds,' which I can't
of course; nothing could be more out of the question! Then
kindness requires that I shouldn't go near them, and I won't."
He finished by genially kissing my hand, and thanking me.
Nothing but Miss Summerson's fine tact, he said, would have
found this out for him.
I was very much disconcerted, but I reflected that if the main
point were gained, it mattered little how strangely he perverted
every thing leading to it. I had determined to mention something else, however, and I thought I was not to be put off in
that.
6w7




912                  BLEAK HOUSE.
"Mr. Skimpole," said I, "I must take the liberty of saying,
before I conclude my visit, that I was much surprised to learn,
on the best authority, some little time ago, that you knew, at the
time with whom. that poor boy left Bleak House, and that you
accepted a present on that occasion.  I have not mentioned it to
my Guardian, for I fear it would hurt him unnecessarily, but I
may say to you that I was much surprised."
"No I Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson?" he re
turned, inquiringly, raising his pleasant eyebrows.
"Greatly surprised."
He thought about it for a little while, with a highly agreeable
and whimsical expression of face; then quite gave it up and said,
in his most engaging manner:
"You know what a child I am.  Why surprised?"
I was reluctant to enter minutely into that question; but as
he begged I would, for he was really curious to know, I gave him
to understand in the gentlest words I could use, that his conduct
seemed to involve a disregard of several moral obligations.  He
was much amused and interested when he heard this, and said,
" No, really?" with ingenuous simplicity.
"You know I don't pretend to be responsible.  I never could
do it. Responsibility is a thing that has always been above me
-or below me," said Mr. Skimpole, " I don't even know which;
but, as I understand the way in which my dear Miss Summerson (always remarkable for her practical good sense and.clearness) puts this case, I should imagine it was chiefly a question
of money, do you know?"
I incautiously gave a qualified assent to this.
"Ah! Then you see," said Mr. Skimpole, shaking his head,
"I am hopeless of understanding it."
I suggested, as I rose to go, that it was not right to betray my
Guardian's confidence for a bribe.
My dear Miss Summerson," he returned, with a candid hilarity that was all his own, " I can't be bribed."
"Not by Mr. Bucket?" said I.
" No," said he.  " Not by any body.  I don't attach any value
to money.  I don't care about it, I don't know about it, I don't
want it, I don't keep it-it goes away from me directly   How
can I be bribed?"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        913
I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I had not
the capacity for arguing the question.
"On the contrary," said Mr. Skimpole, "I am  exactly the
man to be placed in a superior position in such a case as that.
I am  above the rest of mankind in such a case as that.  I can
act with philosophy in such a case as that; I am not warped
by prejudices as an Italian boy is by bandages. I am as free as
the air. I feel myself.as far above suspicion as Caesar's wife."
Any thing to equal' the lightness of his manner, and the playful impartiality with which he seemed to convince himself, as he
tossed the matter about like a ball of feathers, was surely never
seen in any body else!
" Observe the case, my dear Miss Summerson.  Here is a boy
received into the house and put to bed, in a state'that I strongly
object to. The boy being in bed, a man arrives-like the house
that Jack built.  Here is the man who demands the boy who is
received into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly
object to.  Here is a bank-note produced by the man who demnauds the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in
a state that I strongly object to.  Here is the Skimpole who accepts the bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy
who is received into the house and put to bed in a state that I
strongly object to. Those are the facts. Very well.  Should the
Skimpole have refused the note?  Why should the Skirnpole
have refused the note?  Skimpole protests to Bucket,'What's
this for?  I don't understand it, it is of no use to me, take it
away.' Bucket still entreats Skimpole to accept it.  Are there
reasons why Skimpole, not being warped by prejudices, should accept it? Yes, Skimpole perceives them. What are they? Skimpole reasons with himself, this is a tamed lynx, an active police
officer, an intelligent man, a person of a peculiarly directed energy and great subtlety both of conception and execution, who
discovers our friends and enemies for us when they run away, recovers our property for us when we are robbed, avenges us comfortably whe.n we are murdered.  This active police officer and
intelligent man has acquired, in the exercise of his art, a strong
faiith in money; he finds it very useful to him, and he makes it
very uselul to society   Shall I shake that faith in Bucl'ket because 1 want it myself; shall I deliberately blunt one of Bucket'A




914                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
weapons; shall I possibly paralyze Bucket in his next detective
operation?  And again.  If it is blamable in Skimpole to take
the note, it is blamable in Bucket to offer the note-much more
blamahble in Bucket, because he is the knowing man. Now Skimpole wishes to think well of Bucket; Skimpole deems it essential,
in its little place, to the general cohesion of things, that he should
think well of Bucket. The State expressly asks him to trust to
Bucket.  And he does. And that's all he does!"
I had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition, and therefore
took leave.  Mr. Skimpole, however, who was in excellent spirits, would not hear of my returning home attended only by " Little Coavinses," and accompanied me himself. He entertained
me on the way with a variety of delightful conversation, and assured me at parting that he should never forget the fine tact with
which I had found that out fbr him about our young friends.
As it so happened that I never saw Mr. Skimpole again, I may
at once finish what I know of his history. A coolness arose between him  and my Guardian, based chiefly on the foregoing
grounds, and on his having very heartlessly disregarded my
Guardian's entreaties (as we afterward learned from Ada) in
reference to Richard. His being heavily in my Guardian's debt
had nothing to do with their separation.  He died some, five
years afterward, and left a diary behind him, with letters and
other materials toward his Life, which was published, and which
showed him to have been the victim of a combination on the part
of mankind against an amiable child. It was considered very
pleasant reading, but I never read more of it myself than the sen
tence on which I chanced to light on opening the book. It was
this.  "Jarndyce, in common with most other men I have
known, is the Incarnation of Selfishness."
And now I come to a part of my story, touching myself very
nearly indeed, and for which I was quite unprepared when the
circumstance occurred.  I am sure of that. Whatever little lingerings may have now and then revived in my mind, associated
with my poor old face, had only revived as belonging to a part
of my life that was gone-gone like my infancy or my childhood.
I have suppressed none of my many weaknesses on that subject,
but have written them as faithfully as my memory has recalled
them.  And I hope to do, and mean to do, the same down to the




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       915
last word, of these pages; which I see now, not so very far belore me.
The months were gliding away, and my dear girl, sustained
by the hopes she had confided to me, was the same beautiful star
in the miserable corner.  I.ichard, more worn and haggard,
haunted the court day after day; listlessly sat there the whole
day long, when he knew there was no remote chance of the suit
being mentioned: and became one of the stock sights of the place.
I wonder whether any of the gentlemen remembered him as he
was when he first went there.
So completely was he absorbed in his fixed idea that he used
to avow himself, in his cheerful moments, that he should never
have breathed the fresh air now " but for Woodcourt."  It was
only Mr. Woodcourt who could occasionally divert his attention
for a few hours at a time, and rouse him even when he sunk into
a lethargy of mind and body, that alarmed us greatly, and the
returns of which became more frequent as the months went on.
My dear girl was right in saying that he only pursued his errors
the more desperately-for her sake. I have no doubt that his desire to retrieve what he had lost, was rendered the more intense
by his grief for his young wife, and became like the madness of a
gamester.
I was there, as I have mentioned, at all hours. When I was
there at night I generally went home with Charley in a coach;
sometimes my Guardian would meet me in the neighborhood, and
we would walk home together. One evening he had arranged to
meet me at eight o'clock. I could not leave, as I usually did,
quite punctually to the time, for I was working for my dear girl,
and had a few stitches more to do, to finish what I was about,
but it was within a few minutes of the hour when I bundled up
my little work-basket, gave my darling my last kiss for the night,
and hurried down-stairs.  Mr. Woodcourt went with me, as it
was dusk.
When we came to the usual place of meeting-it was close
by, and Mr. Woodcourt had often accompanied me before-my
Guardian was not there. We waited half an hour, walking up
and down; but there were no signs of him.  We agreed that he
was either prevented from corning, or that he had come and gone
away; anda MIr. Woodcourt proposed to walk hoino with me.




916                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
It was the first walk we had ever taken together, except that
very short one to the usual place of meeting. We spoke of Richard and Ada the whole way. I did not thank him in words for
what he had done-my appreciation of it had risen above all
words then-but I hoped he might not be without some understanding of what I felt so strongly!
Arriving at home and going up-stairs,.we found that my Guardian was out, and that Mrs. Woodcourt was out too. We were
in the very same room into which I had brought my blushing
girl. when her youthful lover, now her so altered husband, was
the choice of her young heart; the very same room from which
my Guardian and I had watched them going away through the
sunlight, in the fresh bloom of their hope and promise.
We were standing by the opened window, looking down into
the street, when Mr. Woodcourt spoke to me. I learned in a moment that he loved me. I learned in a moment that my scarred
face was all unchanged to him.  I learned in a moment that
what I had thought was pity and compassion was devoted, generous, faithful love. 0, too late to know it now, too late, too
late. That was the first ungrateful thought I had. Too late!
"When I returned," he told me, "when I came back no richer than I went away, and found you newly risen from a sickbed, yet so inspired by sweet consideration for others, and so free
from a selfish thought-"'; 0, Mr. Woodcourt, forbear, forbear!" I entreated him. "I
do not deserve your high praise. I had many selfish thoughts at
that time, many!"
" Heaven knows, beloved of my life," said he, " that my praise
is not a lover's praise, but the unadorned truth.  You do not
know what all around you see in Esther Summerson, how many
hearts she touches and awakens. What sacred admiration and
what love she wins."
"0 Mr. Woodcourt," cried I, "it is a great thing to win love,
it is a great thing to win love! I am proud of it, and honored by
it, and the hearing of it causes me to shed these tears of mingled
joy and sorrow —joy that I have won it, sorrow that I have not
deserved it better-but so I am not free to think of yours."
I said it with a strong heart, for when he praised me thus, and
when I heard his voice thrill with this belief that what he said




BLEAK HOUSE.                        917
was true, I aspired to be more worthy of it. It was not too late
for that, although I closed this unforeseen page in my life tonight, I could be worthier of it all through my life. And it was
a comfort to me, and an impulse to me, and I felt a dignity rise
up within me that was derived from him, when I thought so.
He broke the silence.
" I should poorly show the trust that I have in the dear one
who will evermore be as dear to me as now," and the deep earnestness with which he said it, at once strengthened me, and made
me weep, " if, after her assurance that she is not free to think o'f
my love, I urged it. Dear Esther, let me only tell you that the
fond idea of you which I took abroad was. exalted to the Heavens
when I came home.  I have always hoped, in the first hour
when I seemed to stand in any ray of good fortune, to tell you
this. I have always feared that I should tell it you in vain.
My hopes and fears are both fulfilled to-night. I distress you. I
have said enough."
Something seemed to pass into my place that was like the
Angel he thought me, and I felt so sorrowful for the loss he had
sustained! I wished to help him in his trouble, as I had asked
to do when he showed that first commiseration for me.
" Dear Mr. Woodcourt," said I, " before we part to-night, something is left for me to say. I never could' say it as I wish-I
never shall-but-"
I had to think again of being more deserving of his love and
his affliction before I could go on.
"- I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasure its remembrance to my dying hour.  I know full well how
changed I am, I know you are not unacquainted with my history, and I know what a noble love that is which is so faithful.
What you have said to me could have affected me so much from
no other lips, for there are none that could give it such a value
to me. It shall not be lost. It shall make me better."
He covered his eyes with his hand, and turned away his head.
How could I ever be worthy of those tears?
" If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together-in
tending Richard and Ada-and I hope in many happier scenes
of life —you ever find any thing in me which you can honestly
think is better than it used to be, believe that it will have sprung




918                BLEAK  HOUSE.
t.p from to-night, and that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, dear, dear Mr. Woodcourt, never believe that I forget this
night, or that while my heart beats it can be insensible to the
pride and joy of having been beloved by you."
He took' my hand and kissed it. He was like himself again,
and I felt still more encouraged.
" I am inclined, by what you said just now," said I, " to hope
that you have succeeded in your endeavor."
"I have," he answered.  " With such help from Mr. Jarndyce as you who know him so welL can imagine him to have
rendered me, I have succeeded."
"Heaven bless him for it," said I, giving him my hand; " and
Heaven bless you in all you do!"
" I shall do it better for the wish," he answered; "it will
make me enter on those new duties as on another sacred trust
from you."
"Ah, Richard!" I exclaimed involuntarily, "what will he do
when you are gone?"
" I am not required to go yet; I would not desert him, dear
Miss Summerson, even if I were."
One other thing I felt it needful to touch upon before he left
me.  I knew that I should not be worthier of the love I could
not take, if I reserved it.
"' Mr. Woodcourt," said I, " you will be glad to know from my
lips before I say'Good-night,' that in the future, which is clear
and bright before me, I am most happy, most fortunate, have
nothing to regret or to desire."
It was indeed a glad hearing to him, he replied.
" From my childhood I have been," said I, " the object of the
untiring goodness of the best of human beings, to whom I am so
bound by every tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothing I could do in the compass of a life could express the feelings
of a single day."
"I share those feelings," he returned; "you speak of Mr.
Jarndyce."
"You know his virtues well," said I, "but no one can know
the greatness of his character as I know it. All its highest and
best qualities have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly
than in the shaping out of that future in which I am so elni



BLEAK  HOUSE.                      919
nently happy. And if your highest homage and respect had not
been his already-which I know they are-they would have
been his, I think, on this assurance, and the feeling it would
have awakened in you toward him for my sake."
He fervently replied, that indeed, indeed they would have
been. I gave him my hand again.
"Good-night," I said; " good-by."
"The first until we meet to-morrow; the second as a farewell
to this theme between us forever."
"Yes, good-night-good-by!"
He left me, and I stood at the dark window watching the
street. His love in all its constancy and generosity had come so
suddenly upon me, that he had not left me a minute when my
fortitude gave way again, and the street was blotted out by my
rushing tears.
But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had
called me the beloved of his life, and had said I would be evermore as dear to him as I was then; and my heart would not
hold the triumph of having heard those words. My first wild
thought had died away. It was not too late to hear tnem, for
it was not too late to be animated by them to be good, truly
grateful, and contented. How easy my path; how much easier
than his!




CHAPTER LXII.
ANOTHER DISCOVERY.
I HAD not the courage to see any one that night. I had not
even the courage to see myself, for I was afraid that my tears
might a little reproach me.  J went up to my room in the dark
and prayed in the dark, and laid down in the dark to sleep.  I
had no need of any light to read my Guardian's letter by, for I
knew it by heart every word. I took it from the place where I
kept it, and repeated its contents by its own clear light of integrity and tenderness, and went to sleep with it on my pillow.
I was up very early in the morning, and called Charley to
come for a walk.  We bought flowers for the breakfast-table,
and came back and arranged them, and were as busy as bees, if
not as useful. We were so early that I had good time still for
Charley's lesson before breakfast; Charley (who was not in the
least improved in the old defective article of grammar) came
through it with great applause, and we were altogether very
notable. When my Guardian appeared, he said, " My little woman, you look fresher than your flowers!" And Mrs. Woodcourt re
peated and translated a passage from the Menlinivillinwodd, expressive of my being like a mountain with the sun upon it.
This was all so pleasant, that I hope it made me still more
like the mountain than I had been before.  After breakfast, 1
waited my opportunity, and peeped about a little, until I saw my
Guardian in his own room-the room of last night-by himself.
Then I made an excuse to go in with my housekeeping keys,
shutting the door after me.
"Well, Dame Durden?" said my Guardian; the post had
brought him several letters, and he was writing.  "You want
money?"
"No. indeed, I have plenty in hand."
(920)




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       921
"There never was such a Dame Durden," said my Guardian,
for making money last!"
He had laid down his pen, and leaned back in his chair looking at me. I have often spoken of his bright, benevolent face,
but I thought I had never seen it look so bright and good. There
was a high happiness upon it, which made me think, " He las
been doing some great kindness this morning."
"There never was," said my Guardian, musing as he smiled
upon me, " such a Dame Durden for making money last!"
He had never yet altered his old manner. I loved it, and him,
so much that when I now went up to him  and took my usual
chair, which was always put at his side-for sometimes I read
to him, and sometimes I talked to him, and sometimes I silently
worked by him-I hardly liked to disturb it by laying my hand
on his breast. But I found that did not disturb it at all.
" Dear Guardian," said I, "I want to speak to you. Have I
been remiss in any thing?"
"Remiss in any thing, my dear?"
"Have I not been what I meant to be, since-I brought the
answer to your letter, Guardian?"
"You have been every thing I could desire, my love!"
" I am very glad to hear that," I returned.  "You know you
said to me, was this the mistress of Bleak House? And I said,
yes."
"Yes," said my Guardian, nodding his'head.  He had put his
arm about me, as if there were something to protect me from, and
looked in my face, smiling.
" Since then," said I, "we have never spoken on the subject
except once."
"And then I said Bleak House was thinning fast; and so it
was, my dear."
"And I said," I timidly reminded him, "but its mistress remained."
He still held me in the same protecting manner, and with the
same bright goodness in his face.
" Dear Guardian," said I, " I know how you have felt all that
has happened, and how considerate you have been. As so much
time has passed, and as you spoke only this morlning of my being
so well agailn; pelhlapls you expect me to rtenw tile subject. Per



922                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
haps I ought to do so. I will be the mistress of Bleak House when
you please."
"See," he returned gayly, "what a sympathy there must be
between us! I have had nothing else, poor Rick exceptedit's a large exception-in my mind.  When you came in, I was
full of it. When shall we give Bleak House its mistress, little
woman?"
" When you please."
" Next month?"
"Next month, dear Guardian."
" The day on which I take the happiest and best step of my
life-the day on which I shall be a man more exulting and more
enviable than any other man in the world-the day on which I
give Bleak House its best mistress-shall be next month then!"
said my Guardian.
I put my arms round his neck and kissed him, just as I had
doone on the day when I brought my answer; just as on that day,
it would have made no difference in a minute, even supposing
that no one had come to the room-door.
It was a servant to announce Mr. Bucket, which was quite unnecessary, for Mr. Bucket was already looking in over the servant's shoulder.  "Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson," said he,
rather out of breath, "with all apologies for intruding, will you
allow me to order up a person that's on the stairs, and that objects to being left there in case of becoming the subject of observations in his absence?  Thank you.  Be so good as chair that
there Member in this direction, will you?" said Mr. Bucket, beckoning over the bannisters.
This singular request produced an old man in a black skull-cap,
unable to walk, who was carried up by a couple of bearers, and
deposited in the room near the door. Mr. Bucket immediately
got rid of the bearers, mysteriously shut the door, and bolted it.
" Now you see, Mr. Jarndyce," he then began, putting down
his hat, and opening his subject with a flourish of his well-remembered finger, "you know me, and Miss Summerson knows
me. This gentleman likewise knows me, and his name is Smallweed.  The discounting line is his line principally, and he's
what you may call a dealer in bills.  That's what you are, you
knowv ain't you'?" said Mr. Bucket, stooping a little to address




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       923
the gentleman in question, who was exceedingly suspicious of
him.
He seemed about to dispute this designation of himself, when
he was seized with a violent fit of coughing.
"Moral, you know!" said Mr. Bucket, improving the accident.
"Don't you contradict when there ain't no occasion, and you
won't be took in that way.  Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I address myself to you. I've been negotiating with this gentleman on behalf of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, one way and another;
and I've been in and out and about his premises a good deal.
His premises are the premises formerly occupied by Krook, a Marine Store Dealer-a relation of this gentleman's, that you saw
in his life-time, if I don't mistake?"
My Guardian replied " Yes."
"Well! You are to understand," said Mr. Bucket, "that this
gentleman he come into Krook's property, and a good deal of Magpie property there was. Vast lots of waste paper among the rest.
Lord bless you, of no use to nobody!"
The cunning of Mr. Bucket's eye, and the masterly manner in
which he contrived, without a look or a word against which his
watchful auditor could protest, to let us know that he stated the
case according to previous agreement between them, and could
say much more of Mr. Smallweed if he thought it advisable, deprived us of any merit in quite understanding him. His difficulty
was increased by Mr. Smallweed's being deaf as well as suspicious,
and watching his face with the closest attention.
"Among the odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman, when he
comes into the property, naturally begins to rummage, don't you
see?" said Mr. Bucket.
" To which?  Say that again," cried Mr. Smallweed in a
shrill, sharp voice.
" To rummage," repeated Mr. Bucket. " Being a prudent man
and accustomed to take care of your own aflairs, you begin to
rummage among the papers as you have come into; don't you?"
" Of course I do," cried Mr. Smallweed.
"Of course you do," said Mr. Bucket, conversationally, "and
much to blame you would be if you didn't.  And so you chance
to find, you know," Mr. Bucket went on, stooping over him with
an air of cheerful raillery which Mr. Smallweed by no means re



924                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
ciprocated, " and so you chance to find, you know, a paper, with
the signature of Jarndyce to it. Don't you?"
Mr. Smallweed glanced with a troubled eye at us, and grudgingly nodded assent.
"And coming to look at that paper at your full leisure and con
venience-all in good time, for you're not curious to read it, and
why should you be! What do you find it to be but a Will, you
see.  That's the drollery of it," said Mr. Bucket, with the same
lively air of recalling a joke for the enjoyment of Mr. Smallweed,
who still had the same crest-fallen appearance of not enjoying it
at all; " what do you find it to be but a Will?"
" I don't know that it's good as a Will, or as any thing else,"
snarled Mr. Smallweed.
Mr. Bucket eyed the old man for a moment-he had slipped
and shrunk down in his chair into a mere bundle-as if he were
much disposed to pounce upon him; nevertheless, he continued
to bend over him with the same agreeable air, keeping the corner
of one of his eyes upon us.
" Notwithstanding which," said Mr. Bucket, " you get a little
doubtful and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a very
tender mind of your own."
" Eh? What do you say I have got of my own V" asked Mr.
Smallweed, with his hand to his ear.
A very tender mind."
"Ho! Well, go on," said Mr. Smallweed.
"And as you've heard a good deal mentioned regarding a celebrated Chancery will case of the same name; and as you know
what a card Krook was for buying all manner of old pieces of
furniter, and books, and papers, and what not, and never liking to
part with'em, and always a-going to teach himself to read-you
begin to think, and you never was more correct in your born days,' Ecod, if I don't look about me, I may get into trouble regarding
-this will.'"
" Oh, now, mind how you put it, Bucket," cried the old man
anxiously, with his hand at his ear.  "Speak up; none of your
brimstone tricks.  Pick me up; I want to hear better.  0 Lord,
I am shaken to bits!"
Mr. Bucket had certainly picked him up at a dart.  -lowever
as soon as ihe could be heard thrpugh Mr. Srnallweed'e couglliiii?n                        I




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        925
and his vicious ejaculations of " O my bones! O dear! I've no
breath in my body! I'm worse than the chattering, clattering,
brimstone pig at home!" Mr. Bucket proceeded in the same convivial manner as before.
" So as I happen to be in the habit of coming about your premises, you take me into your confidence, don't you?"
I think it would be impossible to make an admission with
more ill-will and a worse grace than Mr. Smallweed displayed
when he admitted this; rendering it perfectly evident that Mr.
Bucket was the very last person he would have thought of taking into his confidence if he could by any possibility have kept
him out of it.
"And I go into the business with you-very pleasant we are
over it; and I confirm you in your well-founded fears, that you
will-get-yourself-in-to-a-rmost precious line if you don't come out
with that there will," said Mr. Bucket, emphatically; " and accordingly you arrange with me that it shall be delivered up to
this present Mr. Jarndyce on no conditions, if it should prove to
be valuable, you trusting yourself to him for your reward; that's
about where it is, ain't it?"
" That's what was agreed," Mr. Smallweed assented, with the
same bad grace.
" In consequence of which," said Mr. Bucket, dismissing his
agreeable manner all at once, and becoming strictly business-like;' you've got that Will upon your person at the present time; and
the only thing that remains for you to do is, just to-Out with it!"
Having given us one glance out of the watching corner of his
eye, and having given his nose one triumphant xub with his forefinger, Mr. Bucket stood with his eyes fastened on his confidential friend, and his hand stretched forth ready to take the paper
and hand it to my Guardian. It was not produced without much
reluctance, and many declarations on the part of Mr. Smallweed
that he was a poor industrious man, and that he left it to Mr.
Jarndyce's honor not to let him lose by his honesty. Little by
little he very slowly took from a breast-pocket a stained, discolored paper, which was much singed upon the outside, and a little
burnt at the edges, as it it lhad long ago been thrown upon a fire
and hastily snatched ofl again.  Mr. Bucket lost no time in transferrilng this palcr, with the dexterity of a coljurlor, lioom  Mr




026                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
Smallweed to Mr. Jarndyce.  As he gave it to my Guardian,
he whispered behind his fingers:
"Hadn't settled how to make their market of it.  Quarreled
and hinted about.  I laid out twenty pound upon' it.  First, the
avaricious grandchildren split upon him, on account of their objections to his living so unreasonably long, and then they split on
one another.  Lord, there ain't one of the family that wouldn't sell
the other for a pound or two, except the old lady, and she's only
out of it because she's too weak in her mind to drive a bargain."
"Mr. Bucket," said my Guardian aloud, " whatever the worth
of this paper may be to any one, my obligations are great to you;
and if it be of any worth, I hold myself bound in honor to see
Mr. Smallweed remunerated accordingly."
" Not according to your merits, you know," said Mr. Bucket,
in a friendly explanation to Mr. Smallweed.  "Don't you be
afraid of that.  According to its value."
"That is what I mean," said my Guardian; "you may observe, Mr. Bucket, that I abstain from examining this paper myself.  The plain truth is, I have forsworn and abjured the whole
business these many years, and my soul is sick of it. But Miss
Summerson and I will immediately place the paper in the hands
of my solicitor in the cause, and its existence shall be made known
without delay to all other parties interested."
" Mr. Jarndyce can't say fairer than that, you understand,"
observed Mr. Bucket to his fellow visitor.  "And it now being
made clear to you that nobody's a-going to be wronged-which
must be a great relief to your mind-we may proceed with the
ceremony of chairing you home again."
He unbolted the door, called in the bearers, wished us goodmorning-and with a look full of meaning, and a crook of his
finger at parting, went his way.
We went our way too, which was to Lincoln's Inn, as quickly
as possible.  Mr. Kenge was.disengaged, and we found him  at
his table in his dusty room, with the inexpressive-looking books,
and the piles of papers. Chairs having been placed for us by Mr.
G'uppy, Mr. Kenge expressed the surprise and gratification he
felt at the unusual sight of Mr. Jarndyce in his office. i He turned
over his double eye-glass as he spoke, and was more Conversation
Ken^e than ever.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        927
"I hope," said Mr. Kenge, " that the genial influence of Miss
Summerson," he bowed to me, " may have induced Mr. Jarndyce," he bowed to him, "to forego some little of his animosity
toward a Cause and toward a Court which are-shall I say,
which take their place in the stately vista of the pillars of our
profession?"
" I am inclined to think," returned my Guardian, " that Miss
Summerson has seen too much of the effects of the court and the
cause to exert any influence in their favor. Nevertheless, they
are a part of the occasion of my being here.  Mr. Kenge, before
I lay this paper on your desk, and have done with it, let me tell
you how it has come into my hands."
He did so shortly and distinctly.
"It could not, sir," said Mr. Kenge, "have been stated more
plainly and to the purpose, if it had been a Case at Law."
"Did you ever know English law, or equity either, plain and
to the purpose?" said my Guardian.
" 0 fie!" said Mr. Kenge. At first he had not seemed to attach much importance to the paper, but when he saw it he appeared more interested, and when he had opened, and read a
little of it through his eye-glass, he became amazed. " Mr. Jarndyce," he said, looking off it, "you have perused this?"
"Not I!" returned my Guardian.
"But, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, "it is a will of later date
than any in the suit. It appears to be all in the Testator's handwriting.  It is duly executed and attested. And even if intended
to be canceled, as might possibly be supposed to be denoted by
these marks of fire, it is not canceled.  Here it is, a perfect instrument!"
"Well!" said my Guardian.  "What is that to me?"
"Mr. Guppy!" cried Mr. Kenge, raising his voice.-" I beg
your pardon, Mr. Jarndyce."
"Sir."
Mr. Vholes of Symond's Inn.  My compliments.  Jarndyce
and Jarndyce.  Glad to speak with him."
Mr. Guppy disappeared.
You ask me what is this to you, Mr. Jarndyce.  If you had
perused this document, you would have seen that it reduces your
interest considerably, still leaving it a very handsome one, still
58




928                 BLEAK  EOUSE.
leaving it a very handsome one," said Mr. Kenge, waving his
hand persuasively and blandly.  " You would further have seen
that the interests of Mr. Richard Carstone, and of Miss Ada
Clare, now Mrs. Richard Carstone, are very materially advanced
by it."
"Kenge," said my Guardian, "if all the flourishing wealth that
the suit brought into this vile court of Chancery could fall to my
two young cousins, I should be well contented. But do you ask
me to believe that any good is to come of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?"
"0 really, Mr. Jarndyce! Prejudice-prejudice.  My dear
sir, this is a very great country, a very great country.  Its system
of equity is a very great system, a very great system, really,
really!"
My Guardian said no more, and Mr. Vholes arrived. He was
modestly impressed by Mr. Kenge's professional eminence.
" How do you do, Mr. Vholes? Will you be so good as to take
a chair here by me, and look over this paper."
Mr. Vholes did as he was asked, arid seemed to read it every
word.  He was not excited by it, but he was not excited by any
thing.  When he had well examined it, he retired with Mr.
Kenge into a window, and shading his mouth with his black
glove, spoke to him at some length.  I was not surprised to observe Mr. Kenge inclined to dispute what he said before he had
said much, for I know that no two people ever did agree about
any thing in Jarndyce and Jarndyce. But he seemed to get the
better of Mr. Kenge too, in a conversation that sounded as if it were
almost composed of the words, " Receiver-General," " Accountant-General," " Report," " Estate, and Costs."  When they had
finished, they came back to Mr. Kenge's table, and spoke aloud.
"Well! But this is a very remarkable document, Mr. Vholes?"
said Mr. Kenge.
Mr. Vholes said, " Very much so."
"And a very important document, Mr. Vholes?" said Mr.
Kenge.
Again Mr. Vholes said, " Very much so."
" And as you say, Mr. Vholes, when the cause is in the paper
next term, this document will be an unexpected and interesting
feature in it," said Mr. Kenge, looking loftily at my Guardian.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         929
Mr. Vholes was gratified, as a smaller practitioner striving to
keep respectable, to be confirmed in any opinion of his by such an
authority.
" And when," asked my Guardian, rising after a pause, during
which Mr. Kenge had rattled his money, and Mr. Vholes had picked his pimples; " when is next term?"
"Next term, Mr. Jarndyce, will be next month," said Mr.
Kenge.  "Of course we shall at once proceed to do what is necessary with this document, and to collect the necessary evidence
concerning it; and of course you will receive our usual notification of the cause being in the paper."
"To which I shall pay, of course, my usual attention."
" Still bent, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, showing us through
the outer office to the door, " still bent, even with your enlarged
mind, on echoing a popular prejudice.  We are a prosperous community, Mr. Jarndyce, a very prosperous community.  We are a
great country, Mr. Jarndyce, we are a very great country. This
is a great system, Mr. Jarndyce, and would you wish a great
country to have a little system? Now, really, really!"
He said this at the stair-head, gently moving his right hand as
if it were a silver trowel, with which to spread the cement of his
words on the structure o the system, and consolidate it for a
thousand ages.




CHAPTER LXIII.
STEEL AND IRON.
GEORGE'S shooting-gallery is to let, and the stock is sold ofF, and
George himself is at Chesney Wold, attending on Sir Leicester in
his rides, and riding very near his bridle-rein, because of the uncertain hand with which he guides his horse. But not to-day
is George so occupied.  He is journeying to-day into the iron
country farther north, to look about him.
As he comes into the iron country farther north, such green
woods as those of Chesney Wold are left behind; and coalpits and
ashes, high chimneys and red bricks, blighted verdure, scorching
fires, and a heavy never-lightening cloud of smoke, become the
features of the scenery. Among such objects rides the trooper,
looking about him, and always looking for something he has come
to find.
At last on the black canal bridge of a busy town, with a clang
of iron in it, and more fires and more smoke than he has seen yet,
the trooper, swart with the dust of the coal roads, checks his horse,
and asks a workman does he know the name of Rouncewell
thereabouts?
" Why, master," quoth the workman, "do I know my own
name?"
"'Tis so well known here, is it, comrade 1" asks the trooper.
"Rouncewell's?  Ah! you're right."
" And where might it be now?" asks the trooper, with a glance.
before him.
" The bank, the factory, or the house?" the workman wants
to know.
" Hum! Rouncewell's is so great apparently," mutters the
trooper, stroking his chin, " that I have as good as half a mind
to go back again. Why, I don't know which I want.  Should I
find Mr. Rouncewell at the factory, do you think?"
(930)




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        931
"'Tain't easy to say where you'd fihid him; you might at this
time of the day-you might find either him or his son there, if
he's in town; but his contracts take him away."
And which is the factory?  Why, he sees those chimneysthe tallest ones! Yes, he sees them.  Well! let him keep his
eye on those chimneys, going on as straight as ever he can, and
presently he'll see'em down a turning on the left, shut in by a
great brick wall which forms one side of the street. That's
Rouncewell's.
The trooper thanks his informant, and rides slowly on, looking
about him. He does not turn back, but puts up his horse (and
is much disposed to groom him too) at a public-house where some
of Rouncewell's hands are dining, as the hostler tells him. Some
of Rouncewell's hands have just knocked off for dinner-time, and
seem to be invading the whole town.  They are very sinewy and
strong are Rouncewell's hands-a little sooty too.
He comes to a gateway in the brick wall, looks in, and sees a
great perplexity of iron lying about, in every stage, and in a vast
variety of shapes; in bars, in wedges, in sheets; in tanks, in
boilers, in axles, in wheels, in cogs, in cranks, in rails, twisted
and wrenched into eccentric and perverse forms, as separate parts
of machinery; mountains of it broken up, and rusty in its age;
distant furnaces of it glowing and bubbling in its youth; bright
fireworks of it showering about under the blows of the steam
hammer; red-hot iron, white-hot iron, coal-black iron; an iron
taste, an iron smell, and a Babel of iron sounds.
" This is a place to make a man's head ache, too!" says the
trooper, looking about him for a counting-house.  "Who comes
here? This is very like me before I was set up. This ought to
be my nephew, if likenesses run in families.  Your servant, sir."
"Yours, sir.  Are you looking for any one?"
"Excuse me.  Young Mr. Rouncewell, I believe?"
" Yes."
"I was looking for your father, sir.  I wished to have a word
with him."
The young man telling him he is fortunate in his choice of a
time, for his father is there, leads the way to the office where he
is to be found.  "Very like me before I was set up-devilish
like me!" thinks the trooper, as he follows. They come to a




93~2 BLEAK  HOUSE.
ouilding in the yard with an office on an upper floor.  At sight
of the gentleman in the office Mr. George turns very red.
"What name shall I say to my father?" asks the young man.
George, full of the idea of iron, in desperation, answers " Steel,"
and is so presented. He is left alone with the gentleman in the
office, who sits at a table with account-books before him and
some sheets of paper, blotted with hosts of figures and drawings,
of cunning shapes. It is a bare office, with bare windows, looking on the iron view below.  Tumbled together on the table are
some pieces of iron, purposely broken, to be tested at various periods of their service in various capacities.  There is iron-dust on
every thing, and the smoke is seen through the windows rolling
heavily out of the tall chimneys, to mingle with the smoke from
a vaporous Babylon of other chimneys.
" I am at your service, Mr. Steel," says the gentleman, when
his visitor has taken a rusty chair.
" Well, Mr. Rouncewell," George replies, leaning forward, with
his left arm on his knee, and his hat in his hand; and very chary
of meeting his brother's eye; " I am not without my expectations
that in the present visit I may prove to be more fiee than welcome.  I have served as a dragoon in my day; and a comrade
of mine that I was once rather partial to, was, if I don't deceive
myself, a brother of yours. I believe you had a brother who gave
his family some trouble, and ran away, and never did any good
but in keeping away?"
"Are you sure," returns the ironmaster, in an altered voice,
"that your name is Steel?"
The trooper falters, and looks at him. His brother starts up,
calls him by his name, and grasps him by both hands.
" You are too quick for me!" cries the trooper, with the tears
springing out of his eyes.  "How do you do, my dear old fellow?
I never could have thought you would have been half so glad to
see, me as all this.  How do you do, my dear old fellow, how do
you do?"
They shake hands and embrace each other over and over
again, the trooper still coupling his " How do you do, dear old
fiilow!" with his protestation that he never thought his brother
would have been half so glad to see him as all this!
" So far from it," he declares, at the end of a full account of




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         933
lwhat has preceded his arrival there, " I had very little idea of
mralking myself known.  I thought if you took by any means fiorgivingly to my name, I might gradually get myself up to the
point of writing a letter.  But I could not have been surprised,
brother, if you had considered it any thing but welcome news to
hear of me."
"We will show you at home what kind of news we think it,
George," returns his brother.  "This is a great day at home, and
you could not have arrived, you bronzed old soldier, on a better.
I made an agreement with my son Wall to-day, that on this day
twelvemonth he shall marry as pretty and as good a girl as you
have seen in your travels.  She goes to Germany to-morrow with
one of your nieces for a little polishing up in her education. We
make a feast of the event, and you will be made the hero of it."
Mr. George is so entirely overcome at first by this prospect,
that he resists the proposed honor with great earnestness.  Being
overborne, however, by his brother and his nephew-concerning.
whom  he renews his protestations that he never could have
thought they would have been half so glad to see him-he is
taken home to an elegant house, in all the arrangements of
which there is to be observed a pleasant mixture of the original
simple habits of the father and mother, with such as are suited
to their altered station and the higher fortunes of their children.
Here, Mr. George is much dismayed by the graces and accomplishments of his nieces that are, and by the beauty of Rosa his
niece that is to be, and by the affectionate salutations of those
young ladies, which he receives in a sort of dream.  He-is sorely
taken aback too by the dutiful behavior of his nephew, and has
a woeful consciousness upon him  of being a scapegrace.  However, there is a great rejoicing, and a very hearty company, and
infinite enjoyment, and Mr. George comes bluff and martial
through it all, and his pledge to be present at the marriage, and
give away the bride, is received with universal favor. A whirling head has Mr. George that night when he lies down in the
state bed of his brother's house, to think of all these things and
to see the images of his nieces (awful all the evening in their
floating muslins), walking, after the German manner, over his
counterpane.
The brothers are closeted next morning in the ironmaster's




,924: BLEAK HOUSE.
room; where the elder is proceeding in his clear, sensible way
to show how he thinks he may best dispose of George in his business, when George squeezes his hand and stops him.
"Brother, I thank you a million times for your more than
brotherly welcome, and a million times more to that for your
more than brotherly intentions. But my plans, such as they are,
are made. Before I say a word as to them, I wish to consult you
upon one family point. How," says the trooper, folding his arms,
and looking with indomitable firmness at his brother; " how is
my mother to be got to scratch me?"
"I am not sure that I understand you, George," replies the
ironmaster.
" I say, brother, how is my mother to be got to scratch me?
She must be got to do it, somehow."
"Scratch you out of her will, I think you mean.?"' Of course I do.  In short," says the trooper, folding his arms
more resolutely yet, "I mean-to scratch me?"
" My dear George," returns his brother.   Is it so indispensable that you should undergo that process?"
" Quite absolutely! I couldn't be guilty of the manners of
coming back without it.  I should never be safe not to be off
again.  I have not sneaked home to rob your children, if not
yourself, brother, of your rights.  I, who forfeited mine long ago!
If I am to remain and hold up my head, I must be scratched.
Come! You are a man of celebrated penetration and intelligence, and you can tell me how it's to be brought about."
"I can tell you, George," replies the Ironmaster, deliberately,
"how it is not to be brought bout, which I hope will answer the
purpose as well. Look at your mother, think of her, recall her
emotion when she received you.  Do you belieye there is a consideration in the world that would induce her to take such a step
against her favorite son? Do you believe there is any chance
of her consent, to balance against the outrage it would be to her
(loving dear old body!) to propose it? If you do, you are wrong.
No, George! You must make up your mind to remain unscratched. I think"-there is an amused smile on the Ironmaster's face, as he watches his brother, who is pondering, deeply
disappointed-" I think you may manage almost as well as if the
thing were done, though."




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        935
"How, brother?"
"Being bent upon it, you can dispose by will of any thing you
have the misfortune to inherit, in any way you like, you know."
"That's true!" says the trooper, pondering again. Then he
wistfully asks, with his hand on his brother's, " Would you mind
mentioning that, brother, to your wife and family?"
"Not at all."
"Thank you.  You wouldn't object to say, perhaps, that although an uneducated vagabond, I am a vagabond of the harumscarum order, and not of the mean sort?"
The Ironmaster, repressing his amused smiles, assents.
"Thank you.  Thank you.  It's a considerable weight off my
mind," says the trooper, with a heave of his chest as he unfolds
his arms, and puts a hand on each leg; " though I had set my
heart on being scratched too!"
The brothers are very like each other, sitting face to face; but
a certain massive simplicity and absence of usage in the way of
the world, is all on the trooper's side.
"Well," he proceeds, throwing off his disappointment, "next
and last, those plans of mine.  You have been so brotherly as to
propose to me to fall in here, and take my place among the
products of your perseverance and sense.  I thank you heartily.
It's more than brotherly, as I said before, and I thank you heartily for it," shaking him  a long time by the hand.  "But the
truth is, brother, I am  a-I am  a kind of a Weed, and it's too
late to plant me in a regular garden."
"My dear George," returns the elder, concentrating his strong
steady brow upon him, and smiling confidently: "leave that to
me, and let me try."
George shakes his head.  "You could do it, I have not a
doubt, if any body could; but it's not to be done.  Not to be
done, sir! Whereas it so falls out, on the other hand, that I am
able to be of some trifle of use to Sir Leicester Dedlock since his
illness-brought on by family sorrows-and that he would rather
have that help from our mother's son than from any body else."
"Well, my dear George," returns the other, with a very slight
shade upon his open face, " if you prefer to serve in Sir Leicester Dedlock's household brigade-"
"There it is, brother!" cries the trooper, checking him, with




936                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
his hand upon his knee again: " there it is! You don't take
kindly to that idea. I don't mind it.  You are not used to being
officered.  I am sure every thing about you is in perfect order
and discipline; every thing about me requires to be kept so. We
are not accustomed to carry things with the same hand, or to
work at'em from the same point.  I don't say much about my
garrison manners, because I found myself pretty well at my ease
last night, and they wouldn't be noticed here, I dare say, once and
away. But I shall get on best at Chesney Wold —where there's
more room for a Wold than there is here-and the dear old lady
will be made happy besides.  Therefore I accept of Sir Leicester
Dedlock's proposals.  When I come over next year to give away
the bride, or whenever I come, I shall have the sense to keep the
household brigade in ambuscade, and not to manoeuvre it on your
ground.  I thank you heartily again, and am proud to think of
the Rouncewells as they'll be founded by you."
"You know yourself, George," says the elder brother, returning the grip of his hand, " and perhaps you know me better than
I know myself:  Take your way.  So that we don't quite lose'ne another again, take your own way."
" No fear of that!" returns the trooper. " Now, before I turn
my horse's head home'ards, brother, I will ask you-if you'll be
so good-to look over a letter for me.  I brought it with me to
send from these parts, as Chesney Wold might be a painful name
to the person it's written to. I am not much accustomed to correspondence myself, and 1 am particular respecting this present
letter, because I want it to be both straightforward and delicate."
Herewith he hands a letter, closely written in somewhat pale
ink, but in a neat round hand, to the Ironmaster, who reads as
follows:
" Miss ESTHER SUMMERSON —A communication having been
made to me by Inspector Bucket of a letter to yourself being found
among the papers of a certain person, I take the liberty to make
known to you that it was but a few lines of instruction from
abroad, when, where, and how to deliver an inclosed letter to a
young and beautiful lady then unmarried in England. I duly
observed the same.
" I further take the liberty to make known to you that it was




BLEAK  HOUSE.                         937
got from me as a proof of handwriting only, and that otlherwise
I would not have given it up, as appearing to be the most harmless in my possession, without being shot through the heart.
"I further take the liberty to mention that if I could have
supposed a certain unfortunate gentleman to have been in existence, I never could and never would have rested until I had discovered his retreat, and shared my last farthing with him, as my
duty and my inclination would have equally been.  But he was
(officially) reported drowned, and assuredly went over the side
of a transport-ship at night in an Irish harbor, within a few hours
of her arrival from the West Indies, as I have myself heard both
from officers and men on board, and know to have been (officially) confirmed.
" I further take the liberty to state that in my humble quality,
one of the rank and file, I am, and shall ever continue to be your
thoroughly devoted servant, and that I esteem the qualities you
possess above all others, far beyond the limits of the present dispatch.  I have the honor to be,                   GEORGE."
" A little formal," observes the elder brother, refolding it with
a puzzled face.
"But nothing that might not be sent to a pattern young lady?"
asks the younger.'i Nothing at all."
Therefore it is sealed, and deposited for posting among their
own correspondence of the day. This done, Mr. George takes a
hearty farewell of the family party, and prepares to saddle and
mount.  His brother, however, unwilling to part with him  so
soon, proposes to ride with him in a light open carriage to the
place where he will bait for the night, and there remain with him
until morning, a servant riding fbr so much of the journey on the
thorough-bred old gray from Chesney Wold.  The offer being
gladly accepted, is followed by a pleasant ride, a pleasant dinner,
and a pleasant breakfast, all in brotherly communion.  Then
they once more shake hands long and heartily, and part; the
Ironmaster turning his face to the smoke and fires, and the trooper
to the green country.  Early in the afternoon the subdued sound
of his heavy military trot is heard on the turf in the avenue as
he rides on with imaginary clank and jingle of accoutrements
under the old elm trees.




CHAPTER LXIV.
ESTHER'S NARRATIVE.
SOON after I had had that conversation with my Guardian, ne
put a sealed paper in my hand one morning, and said. " This is
for next month, my dear."  I found in it two hundred pounds.
I now began very quietly to make such preparations as I
thought were necessary. Regulating my purchases by my Guardian's taste, which I knew very well of course, I arranged my
wardrobe to please him, and hoped I should be highly successful.
I did it all so quietly, because I was not quite free from my old
apprehensions that Ada would be rather sorry, and because my
Guardian was so quiet himself. I had no doubt that under all
the circumstances we should be married in the most private and
simple manner.  Perhaps I should only have to say to Ada,
" Would you like to come and see me married to-morrow, my
pet?"  Perhaps our wedding might even be as unpretending as
her own, and I might not find it necessary to say any thing about
it until it was over. I thought that if I were to choose, I would
like this best.
The only exception I made was Mrs. Woodcourt.  I told her
that I was going to be married to my Guardian, and that we
had been engaged some time. She highly approved. She could
never do enough for me, and was remarkably softened now in
comparison with what she had been when we first knew her.
There was no trouble she would not have taken to have been of
use to me; but I need hardly say that I only allowed her to take
as little as gratified her kindness without tasking it.
Of course this was not a time to neglect my Guardian; and
of course it was not a time for neglecting my darling. So I had
plenty of occupation-which I was glad of-and as to Charley,
slhe was absolutely not to be seen for needlework. To surround
(938)




BLEAK  HOUSE.                      939
herself with great heaps of it-baskets full and tables full-and
do a little, and stand a great deal of time in staring with her
round eyes at what there was to do, and persuade herself that
she was goink to do it-were Charley's great dignities and delights.
Meanwhile, I must say, I could not agree with my Guardian
on the subject of the will, and I had some deceiving hopes of
Jarndyce and Jarndyce.  Which of us was right will soon appear, but I certainly did encourage expectations.  In Richard
the discovery gave occasion for a burst of business and agitation
that buoyed him up for a little time; but he had lost the elasticity even of hope now, and seemed to me to retain only its feverish anxieties.  From something my Guardian said one day
when we were talking about this, I understood that my marriage would not take place until after the term-time we had been
told to look forward to; and I thought the more for that, how
rejoiced I should be if I could be married when Richard and Ada
were a little more prosperous.
The term was very near indeed when my Guardian was called
out of town, and went down into Yorkshire on Mr. Woodcourt's
business. He had told me beforehand that his presence there
would be necessary.  I had just come in one night from my dear
girl's, and was sitting in the midst of all my new clothes, looking
at them  all around me, and thinking, when a letter from my
Guardian was brought to me. It asked me to join him in the
country, and mentioned by what stage-coach my place was taken,
and at what time in the morning I should have to leave town. It
added in a postscript that I should not be many hours from Ada.
I expected few things less than a journey at that time, but I
was ready for it in half an hour, and set off as appointed early
next morning., I trembled all day, wondered all day, what I could
be wanted for at such a distance; now I thought it might be for
this purpose, and now I thought it might be for that purpose;
but I was never, never, never near the truth.
It was night when I came to my journey's end, and found my
Guardian waiting for me. This was one great relief, for toward
evening I had begun to fear (the more so as his letter was a very
short one) that he might be ill. However, there he was, as well
as it was possible to be, and when I saw his genial face again at




940                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
its brightest and best, I said to myself he has been doing some
other great kindness.  Not that it required much peinetration to
say that, because I knew that his being there at all was an act
of kindness in itself:
Supper was ready at the hotel, and when we were alone at
table he said:
" Full of curiosity, no doubt, little woman, to know why I have
brought you here?"
"Well, Guardian," said I, "without thinking myself a Fatima
or you a Blue-Beard, I am a little curious about it."
"Then to secure your night's rest, my love," he returned,
gayly, " I won't wait until to-morrow to tell you. I have very
much wished to express to Woodcourt, somehow, my sense of his
humanity to poor unfortunate Jo, his inestimable services to my
young cousins, and his value to us all. When it was decided that
he should settle here, it came into my head that I might ask his
acceptance of some unpretending and suitable little place to lay
his own head in.  I therefore caused such a place to be looked
out for, and such a place was found on very easy'terms, and I
have been touching it up for him and making it habitable. However, when I walked over it the day before yesterday, and it was
reported to me ready, I found that I was not housekeeper enough
to know whether things were all as they ought to be. So I sent
off for the best little housekeeper that could possibly be got to
come and give me her advice and opinion.  And here she is,"
said my Guardian, " laughing and crying both together!"
Because he was so dear, so good, so admirable, I tried to tell
him what I thought of him, but I could not articulate a word.
"Tut, tut!" said my Guardian.  "You make too much of it,
little woman. Why, how you sob! Dame Durden, how you sob!"
" It is with exquisite pleasure, my Guardian-with a heart
full of thanks."
"Well, well," said he.  "I am delighted that you approve.
I thought you would. I meant it as a pleasant surprise for the
little mistress of Bleak House."
I kissed him  and dried my eyes.  "I know now!" said I.
"  have seen this in your face a long while."
"No; have you really, my. dear?" said he.  "What a Dame
Durden it is to read a face i"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        941
le' was so quaint and cheerful that I could not long be otherwise, and was almost ashamed of having been otherwise at all.
When 1 went to bed, I cried, I am bound to confess that I cried;
but I hope it was with pleasure, though I am not quite satisfied
it was with pleasure. I repeated every word of the letter twice
over.
A most beautiful summer morning succeeded, and afterbreakfast we went out arm-in-arm, to see the house of which I was to
give my mighty housekeeping opinion.  We entered a flowergarden by a gate in a side-wall, of which he had the key; and
the first thing I saw, was that the beds and flowers were all laid
out according to the manner of my beds and flowers at home.
"You see, my dear," observed my Guardian, standing still,
with a delightful face, to watch my looks, " knowing there could
be no better plan, I borrowed y'ours."
We went on by a pretty little orchard, where the cherries were
nestling among the green leaves, and the shadows of the appletrees were sporting on the grass, to the house itself-a cottage,
quite a rustic cottage of doll's rooms, but such a lovely place, so
tranquil and so beautiful, with such a rich and smiling country
spread around it; with water sparkling away into the distance,
here all overhung with summer-growth, there turning a hurnming-mill; at its nearest point glancing through a meadow by
the cheerful town, where cricket-players were assembling in bright
groups, and a flag was flying from a white tent that rippled in
the sweet west wind. And still, as we went through the pretty
rooms, out at the little rustic verandah doors, and underneath
the tiny wooden colonnades, garlanded with woodbine, jasmine,
and honeysuckle, I saw, in the papering on the walls, in the colors of the furniture, in the arrangement of all the pretty objects,
my little tastes and fancies, my little methods and inventions
which they used to laugh at while they praised them, my odd
things every where.
I could not say enough in admiration of what was all so beautiful, but one secret doubt arose in my mind, as I saw this; I
thought, 0 would he be the happier for it? Would it not have
been better for his peace that I should not have been so brought
before him? Because, although I was not what he thought me,
still he loved me very dearly, and it might remind him mourn



942                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
fully of what he believed he had lost.  I did not wish him to
forget me-perhaps he might not have done so, even without
these aids to his memory-but my way was easier than his, and
I could have reconciled myself to that, so that he had been the
happier for it.
"And now, little woman," said my Guardian, whom  I had
never seen so proud and joyful as in showing me these things,
and watching my appreciation of them, " now, last of all, for the
name of this house."
"What is it called, dear Guardian?"
" My child," said he, " come and see."
He took me to the porch, which he had hitherto avoided, and
said, pausing, before he went out:
" My dear childr don't you guess the name?"
"No!" said I.
We went out of the porch, and he showed me written over it
-BLEAK HOUSE.
He led me to a seat among the leaves close by, and sitting
down beside me, and taking my hand in his, spoke to me thus:
"My darling girl, in what there has been between us, I have,
I hope, been really solicitous for your happiness. When I wrote
you the letter to which you brought the answer," smiling as he
referred to it, "I had my own too much in view; but I had
yours too.  Whether, under different circumstances, I might
ever have renewed the old dream I sometimes dreamed when
you were very young, of making you my wife one day, I need
not ask myself.  I did renew it. and I wrote my letter, and
you brought your answer.  You are following what I say, my
child!"
I was cold, and I trembled violently; but not a word he uttered was lost. As I sat looking fixedly at him, and the sun's rays
descended, softly shining through the leaves upon his bare head,
I felt as if the brightness on him must be like the brightness of
the Angels.
"Hear me, my love, but do not speak.  It is for me to speak
now.  When it was that I began to doubt whether what I had
done would really make you happy, is no matter.  Woodcourt
came home, and I soon had no doubt at all."
I clasped him round the neck, and hung my head upon his




BLEAK 1HOUSE.                      948
breast and wept. "Lie lightly, confidently, here, my child," said
he, pressing me gently to him.  "I am your Guardian and your
father now. Rest confidently here."
Soothingly, like the gentle rustling of the leaves; and genially,
like the ripening weather; and radiantly and beneficently, like
the sunshine; he went on.
" Understand me, my dear girl; I had no doubt of your being
contented and happy with me, being so dutiful and so devoted;
but I saw with whom you would be happier. That I penetrated
his secret when Dame Durden was blind to it is no wonder; for
I knew the good that would never change in her, better far than
she did. Well! I have long been in Allan Woodcourt's confidence, although he was not, until yesterday, a few hours before
you came here, in mine. But I would not have my Esther's
bright example lost; I would not have a jot of my dear girl's
virtues unobserved and unhonored; I would not have her admitted on sufferance into the line of Morgan ap Kerrig, no, not for
the weight in gold of all the mountains in Wales!"
He stopped to kiss me on the forehead, and I sobbed and wept
afresh. For I felt as if I could not bear the painful delight of
his praise.
" Hush, little woman! Don't cry; this is to be a day of joy.
[ have looked forward to it," he said, exultingly, " for months on
months! A few words more, Dame Trot, and I have said my
say. Determined not to throw away one atom of my Esther's
worth, I took Mrs. Woodcourt into a separate confidence.' Now
madam,' said I,' I clearly perceive-and indeed I know, to boot
-that your son loves my ward. I am further very sure that my
ward loves your son, but will sacrifice her love to a sense of duty
and affection, and will sacrifice it so completely, so entirely, so
religiously, that you should never suspect it, though you watched
her night and day.' Then I told her all our story-ours-yours
and mine.'Now, madam,' said I,' come you, knowing this, and
live with us.  Come you and see my child from hour to hour;
set what you see against her pedigree, which is this and this'for I scorned to mince it-' and tell me what is the true legitimacy, when you shall have quite made up your mind on that
subject.' Why, honor to her old Welsh blood, my dear!" cried
mv Guardian, with enthusiasm, "I believe the heart it anirates
59




944                 BLEAK HOUSE.
beats no less warmly, no less admiringly, no less lovirgly, toward
Dame Durden, than my own!"
He tenderly raised my head, and as I clung to him, kissed me
in his old fatherly way again and again. What a light now on
the protecting manner I had thought about!
" One more last word. When Allan Woodcourt spoke to you,
my dear, he spoke with my knowledge and consent, but I gave
him no encouragement.  Not I.  For these surprises were my
great reward. I was too miserly to part with a scrap of it. He
was to come and tell me all that passed, and he did.  I have no
more to say.  My dear, Allan Woodcourt stood beside your father
when he lay dead —stood beside your mother. This is Bleak
House.  This day I give this house its little mistress, and before
God, it is the brightest day in all my life!"
He rose and raised me with him. We were no longer alone.
My husband-I have called him by that name full seven happy
years now-stood at my side.
" Allan," said my Guardian, " take from me-a willing giftthe best wife that ever a man had.-What more can I say f6r you
than that I know you deserve her. Take with her the little home
she brings you. You know what she will make it, Allan; you
know what she has made its namesake. Let me share its felicity sometimes, and what do I sacrifice?  Nothing, nothing."
He kissed me once again, and now the tears were in his eyes,
as he said, more softly:
"Esther, my dearest, after so many years, there is a kind of
parting in this too. I know that my mistake has caused you
some distress. Forgive your old Guardian in restoring him to his
old place, and blot it out of your memory. Allan, take my dear!"
He moved away from under the green roof of leaves, and stopping in the sunlight outside, and turning cheerfully towards us, he
said:
"I shall be found about here somewhere. It's a west wind,
little woman, due west! Let no one thank me any more, for I
am going to resort to my bachelor habits, and if any body disregar(s this warning, I'll run away, and never come back!"
What happiness was ours that day, what joy, what rest, what
gratitude, what bliss I We were to be married before the month




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       945
was out; but when we were to come and take possession of our
own house,, was to depend on Richard and Ada.
We all three went home together next day. As soon as we
arrived in town, Allan went straight to see Richard, and to carry
our joyful news to mny darling. Late as it was, I meant to -go
to her for a few minutes before lying down to sleep; but I went
home with my Guardian first, to make his tea for him, and to
occupy the old chair by his side; for I did not like to think of
its being empty so'soon.
When we came home, we found that a young man had called
three times in the course of that one day, to see me; and that
having been told, on the occasion of his third call, that I was
not expected to return before ten o'clock at night, had left word,
" that he would call about then." He had left his card three
times. MR. GUPPY.
As I naturally speculated on the object of these visits, and as
1 always associated something ludicrous with the visitor, it naturally fell out that in laughing about Mr. Guppy, I told my
Guardian of his old proposal, and his subsequent retraction.
" After that," said my Guardian, " we will certainly receive this
hero." So instructions were given that Mr. Guppy should be
shown in when he came again; and they were scarcely given
when he did come again.
He was embarrassed when he found my Guardian with me,
but recovered himself, and said, "How do you do, sir?"
"How do you do, sir?" returned my Guardian.
"Thank you, sir, I am tolerable," returned Mr. Guppy. " Will
you allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Guppy, of the Old
Street Road, and my particular friend, Mr. Weevle. That is to
say, my friend has gone by the name of Weevle, but his name is
really and truly Jobling."
My Guardian begged them to be seated, and they all sat down.
"Tony," said Mr. Guppy to his friend, after an awkward silence, "will you open the case?"
" Do it yourself," returned the friend, rather tartly.
"Well, Mr. Jarndyce, sir," Mr. Guppy, after a moment's consideration, began, to the great diversion of his mother, which she
displayed by nudging Mr. Jobling with her elbow, and winking
at me in a most remarkable manner.  "I had an idea that I




946                BLEAK  HOUSE.
should see Miss Summerson by herself, and was not quite prepared for your esteemed presence.  But Miss Summerson has
mentioned to you, perhaps, that something has passed between
us on former occasions?"
" Miss Summerson," returned my Guardian, smiling, "has
made a communication to that effect to me."
" That," said Mr. Guppy, "makes matters easier, sir. I have
come out of my articles at Kenge and Carboy's, and I believe
with satisfaction to all parties. I am now admitted (after undergoing an examination that's enough to badger a man blue,
touching a pack of nonsense that he don't want to know) on the
roll of attorneys, and have taken out my certificate, if it would
be any satisfaction to you to see it."
"Thank you, Mr. Guppy," returned my Guardian.  "I am
quite willing-I believe I use a legal phrase-to admit the certificate."
Mr. Guppy therefore desisted from taking something out of his
pocket, and proceeded without it
" I have no capital myself; but my mother has a little property
which takes the form of an annuity;" here Mr. Guppy's mother
rolled her head as if she never could sufficiently enjoy the observation, and put her handkerchief to her mouth, and again
winked at me; "and a few pounds expenses out of pocket in
conducting business will never be wanting, free of interest.
Which is an advantage, you know," said Mr. Guppy, feelingly.
" Certainly an advantage," returned my Guardian.
"I have some connection," pursued Mr. Guppy, " and it lays
in the direction of Walcot Square, Lambeth.  I have therefore
taken a ouse in that locality, which, in the opinion of my friends,
is a hollow bargain (taxes ridiculous, and use of fixtures included in the rent), and intend setting up professionally for myself
there, forthwith."
Here Mr. Guppy's mother fell into an extraordinary passion of
rolling her head and smiling waggishly at any body who would
look at her.
"It's a six roomer, exclusive of kitchens," said Mr. Guppy,
"and, in the opinion of my friends, a commodious tenement.
When I mention my friends, I refer principally to my friend Jobling, who has known me"-Mr. Guppy looked at him with a sentimental air, "from boyhood's hour."




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BLEAK  HOUSE.                       947
Mr. Jobling confirmed this, with a sliding movement of his
legs.
" My friend Jobling will render me his assistance in the ca
pacity of clerk, and will live in the ouse," said Mr. Guppy.
"My mother will likewise live in the ouse when her present
quarter in the Old Street Road shall have ceased and expired;
and consequently there will be no want of society.  My friend
Jobling is naturally aristocratic by taste, and besides being acquainted with the movements of the upper circles, fully backs me
in the intentions I am now developing."
Mr. Jobling said " Certainly," and withdrew a little fiom the
elbow of Mr. Guppy's mother.
"Now, I have no occasion to mention to you, sir, you being in
the confidence of Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, " (mother, I
wish you'd be so good as to keep still), that Miss Summerson's
image was formerly imprinted on my art, and that I made her a
proposal of marriage."
"That I have heard," returned my Guardian.
"Circumstances," pursued Mr. Guppy, " over which I had no
control, but quite the contrary, weakened the impression of that
image for a time.  At which time Miss Sumnmerson's conduct
was highly genteel-I will add, magnanimous."
My Guardian patted me on the shoulder, and seemed much
am used.
"Now sir," said Mr. Guppy, "I have got into that state of
mind myself, that I wish for a reciprocity of magnanimous behavior. I wish to prove to Miss Summerson that I can rise to
a height of which perhaps she hardly thought me capable.  I
find that the image which I did suppose had been eradicated from
my art, is not eradicated. Its influence over me is still tremenjous, and yielding to it I am willing to overlook the circumstances
over which none of us had any control, and to renew those proposals to Miss Summerson which I had the honor to make at a
former period. I beg to lay the ouse in Walcot Square, the business, and myself, before Miss Summerson, for her acceptance."
"Very magnanimous, indeed, sir," observed my Guardian.
" Well, sir," returned Mr. Guppy, with candor, " my wish is
to be magnanimous. I do not consider that in making this offer
to Miss Summerson I am by any means throwing myself away




948                 BLEAK HOUSE.
neither is that the opinion of my friends.  Still there are circum.
statices which I submit may be taken into account as a set-off
against any little drawbacks of mine, and so a fair and equitable
balance arrived at."
" I take upon myself, sir," said my Guardian, laughing as he
rang the bell, " to reply to your proposals on behalf of Miss Summerson.  She is very sensible of your handsome intentions, and
wishes you good-evening, and wishes you well."
"Oh!" said Mr. Guppy, with a blank look.  "Is that tantamount, sir, to acceptance, or rejection, or consideration?"
" To decided rejection, if you please," returned my Guardian.
Mr. Guppy looked incredulously at his friend, and at his mother, who suddenly turned very angry, and at the floor, and at the
ceiling.
" Indeed?" said he.  "Then Jobling, if you was the friend
you represent yourself, I should think you might hand my mother out of the gangway instead of allowing her to remain where
she ain't wanted."
But Mrs. Guppy positively refused to come out of the gangway.  She wouldn't hear of it.  "Why, get along with you,"
said she to my Guardian, " what do you mean? Ain't my son
good enough for you?  You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
Get out with you!"
" My good lady," returned my Guardian, " it's hardly reasonable to ask me to get out of my own room."
"I don't care for that," said Mrs. Guppy.  "Get out with you.
If we ain't good enough for you, go and procure somebody that
is good enough. Go along and find'em."
I was quite unprepared for the rapid manner in which Mrs.
Guppy's power of jocularity merged into a power of taking the
profoundest offense.
"Go along and find somebody that's good enough for you," repeated Mrs. Guppy.  "Get out."  Nothing seemed to astonish
VMri. Guppy's mother so much, and to make her so very indignant,
as our not getting out.  "Why don't you get out?" said Mrs.
Guppy.  "What are you stopping here for?"
"Mother," interposed her son, always getting before her, and
pushing her back with one shoulder, as she sidled at my Guardian, " will you hold your tongue?"




BLEAK  HOUSE.                      949
"No, William," she returned; " I won't! Not unless he gets
out, I won't!"
However, Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling together closed on Mr.
Guppy's mother (who began to be quite abusive), and took her,
very much agatnst her will, down-stairs; her voice rising a stair
higher every time her figure got a stair lower, and insisting that
we should immediately ^o and f.nd wnebody whc was good
enough for us, and above ail tnings trat we should get out.




CHAPTER XLV.
BEGINNING THE WORLD.
THE term had commenced, and my Guardian found an intimation from Mr. Kenge that the cause would come on in two days.
As I had sufficient hopes of the Will to be in a flutter about it,
Allan and I agreed to go down to the court that morning. Richard was extremely agitated, and was so weak and low, though
his illness was still of the mind, that my dear girl indeed had
sore occasion to be supported. But she looked forward-a very
little way now-to the help that was to come to her, and nevei
drooped.
It was at Westminster that the cause was to come on. It had
come on there, I dare say, a hundred times before, but I could
not divest myself of an idea that it might lead to some result
now.  We left home directly after breakfast to be at Westminster Hall in good time, and walked down there through the lively
streets-so happily and strangely it seemed!-together.
As we were going along, planning what we should do foi
Richard and Ada, I heard somebody calling " Esther! my dear
Esther! Esther!" And there was Caddy Jellyby with her head
out of the window of a little carriage, which she hired now to go
about in to her pupils (she had so many), as if she wanted to
embrace me at a hundred yards' distance. I had written her a
note to tell her of all that my Guardian had done, but he'd not had
a moment to go and see her. Of course we turned back, and the
affectionate girl was in that state of rapture, and was so overjoyed to talk about the night when she brought me the flowers,
and was so determined to squeeze my face (bonnet and all). between her hands, and go on in a wild manner altogether, calling
me all kinds of precious names, and telling Allan I had done
I don't know what for her, that I was first obliged to get into the
(950)




BLEAK  HIOUSE.                       951
little carriage and cairn her down, by letting her say and do exactly what she liked. Allan, standing at the window, was as
pleased as Caddy, and I was as pleased as either of them; and
I wonder that I got away as I did, rather than that I came off
laughing, and red, and any thing but tidy, and looking after
Caddy who looked after us out of the coach-window as long as
ever she could see us.
This made us some quarter of an hour late, and when we
came to Westminster Hall we found that the day's business was
begun.  Worse than that, we found such an unusual crowd in
the court of Chancery that it was full to the door, and we could
neither see nor hear what was passing within. It appeared to
be something droll, for occasionally there was a laugh, and a cry
of " Silence!;' It appeared to be something interesting, for every
one was pushing and striving to get nearer.  It appeared to be
something that made the professional gentlemen very merry, for
there were several young counselors in wigs and whiskers on the
outside of the crowd, and when one of them told the others about
it, they put their hands in their pockets, and quite doubled them
selves up with laughter, and went stamping about the pavement
of the hall.
We asked a gentleman by us, if he knew what cause was on?
He told us Jarndyce and Jarndyce.  We asked him if he knew
what was doing in it?  He said, really no he did not, nobody
ever did, but as well as he could make out, it was over. Over
for the day? we asked him.  No, he said; over for good.
Over for good 
When we heard this unaccountable answer, we looked at one
another quite lost in amazement.  Could it be possible that the
will had set things right at last, and that Richard and Ada were
going to be rich? It seemred too good to be true. Alas it was!
Our suspense was short, for a break-up soon took place in the
crowd, and the people came streaming out, looking flushed and
hot, and bringing a quantity of bad air with them.  Still they
were all exceedingly amused, and were more like people coming
out from a Farce or a Juggler than from a court of Justice. We
stood aside, watching for any countenance we knew, and presently
great bundles of papers began to be carried out-bundles in bags,
bundles too large to be got into any bags, immense masses of




952                 BLEAK  HIOUSE.
Ip iers of',;l shapes and no shapes, which the bearers staggered
Lllldcl, anld threw down for the time being, anyhow, on the Hail
paverment, while they went back to bring out more.  Even these
clerks were laughing.  We glanced at the papers, and seeing
Jarndyce and Jarndyce every where, asked an official-looking
person who was standing in the midst of them, whether the cause
was over.  " Yes," he said.  "It was all up with it at last!"
and burst out laughing too.
At this juncture we perceived Mr. Kenge coming.out of cocrt
with an affable dignity upon him, listening to Mr. Vholes, who
was deferential, and carried his own bag. Mr. Vholes was the
first to see us.  " Here is Miss Summerson, sir," he said; " and
Mr. Woodcourt."
"'0 indeed! Yes, truly!" said Mr. Kenge, raising his hat to
me with polished politeness.  "How do you do?  Glad to see
you. Mr. Jarndyce is not here?"
No.  He never came there, I reminded him.
"Really," returned Mr. Kenge, " it is as well that he is not
here to-day, for his-shall I say, in my good friend's absence, his
indomitable singularity of openness?-might have been strength
ened, perhaps; not reasonably, but might have been strength
ened!"
"Pray what has been done to-day?" asked Allan.
"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Kenge, with excessive urbanity.
"What has been done to-day?"
"What has been done," repeated Mr. Kenge.  " Quite so.
Yes.  Why, not much has been done; not much.  We have been
checked-brought up suddenly I would say-upon the-shall I
term it threshold?"
" Is this Will considered a genuine document, sir." said Allan
"will you tell us that?"
"Most willingly, if I could," said Mr. Kenge; "but we have
not gone into that, we have not gone into that."
"We have not gone into that," repeated Mr. Vholes, as if his
low inward voice were an echo.
"You are to reflect, Mr. Woodcourt," observed Mr. Kenge, using his silver trowel, perseveringly and smoothingly, "that this
has been a'great cause, that this has been a protracted cause, that'this has been a complex cause. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has been
termed, not inaptly, a Monument of Chancery practice."




BLEAK HOUSE.                        953
"And Patience has sat upon it a long time," said Allan.
"Very well indeed, sir," returned Mr. Kenge, with a certain
condescending laugh he had.  "Very well! You are further to
reflect, Mr. Woodcourt," becoming dignified to severity, " that on
the numerous dificulties, contingencies, masterly fictions, and
forms of procedure in this great cause, there has been expended
study, ability, eloquence, knowledge, intellect, Mr. Woodcourt, high
intellect. For many years, the-a-I would say the power of the
Bar, and the-a-I would presume to add the matured autumnal fruits of the Woolsack-have been lavished upon Jarndyce
and Jarndyce. If the public have the benefit, and if the country.have the adornment of this great Grasp, it must be paid for,
in money or money's worth, sir."
" Mr. Kenge," said Allan, appearing enlightened all in a moment.  " Excuse me, our time presses.  Do I understand that
the whole estate is found to have been absorbed in costs?"
" Hern! I believe so," returned Mr. Kenge.  " Mr. Vholes?"
" I believe so," said Mr. Vholes.
"And that thus the suit lapses and melts away."
"Probably," returned Mr. Keuge.  " Mr. Vholes?"
" Probably," said Mr. Vholes.
" My dearest life," whispered Allan, "this will break Richard's
heart!"
There was such a shock of apprehension in his face, and he
knew Richard so perfectly, and I too had seen so much of his
gradual decay, that what my dear girl had said to me in the
fullness of her foreboding love, sounded like a knell in my ears.
"In case you should be wanting Mr. C., sir," said Mr. Vholes,
coming after us, "you'll find him in court. I left him there
resting himself a little.  Good-day, sir; good-day, Miss Summerson."  As he gave me that long devouring look of his, while
twisting up the strings of his bag, before he hastened with it
after Mr. Kenge, the benignant shadow of whose conversational
presence he seemed afraid to leave, he gave one gasp as if he had
swallowed the last morsel of his client, and his black buttonedup unwholesome figure glided away to the low door at the end
of the hall.
"My dear love," said Allan, "leave to me for a little while
the charge you gave me.  Go home with this intelligence, ana
come t( -Ada's by-and-by I"




954                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
I would not let him take me to a coach, but entreated him to'go to Richard without a moment's delay, and leave me to do as
he wished. Hurrying home, I found my Guardian, and told him
gradually with what news I had returned.  "Little woman,"
said he; quite unmoved for himself, " to have done with the suit
on any terms is a greater blessing than I had looked for. But
my poor young cousins!"
We talked about them  all the morning, and discussed what
it was possible to do. In the afternoon my Guardian walked
with me to Symond's Inn, and left me at the door.' I went upstairs.  When my darling heard my footsteps, she came out into
the small passage and threw her arms round my neck; but-she
composed herself directly, and said that Richard had asked for
me several times. Allan had found him sitting in a corner of
the court, she told me, like a stone figure.  On being roused, he
had broken away, and made as if he would have spoken in a
fierce voice to the judge. He was stopped by his mouth being
full of blood, and Allan had brought him home.
He was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed when I went in.
The room was made as airy as possible, and was darkened, and
was very orderly and quiet.  Allan stood behind him, watching
him gravely. His face appeared to me to be quite destitute of
color, and, now that I saw him without his seeing me, I fully
saw, for the first time, how worn away he was. But he looked
handsomer than I had seen him look for many a day.
I sat down by his side in silence. Opening his eyes by-andby, he said in a weak voice, but with his old smile, " Dame
Durden, kiss me, my dear!"
It was a great comfort and surprise to me, to find him in his
low state cheerful and looking forward.  He was happier, he
said, in our intended marriage than he could find words to tell
me. My husband had been a guardian angel to him and. Ada,
and he blessed us both, and wished us all the joy that life could
yield us. I almost felt as if my own heart would have broken
when I saw him  take my husband's hand and hold it to his
breast.
We spoke of the future as much as possible, and he said several times that he must be present at our marriage if he could
stand upon his feet.  Ada would contrive to take' him somehow,




BLEAK HOUSE.                        955
he said. "Yes, surely, dearest Richard!" But as my darling
answered thus hopefully-so serene and beautiful, with.the help
that was to come to her so near-I knew-I knew!
It was not good for him to talk too much; and when he was
silent, we were silent too. Sitting beside him, I made a pretense
of working for my dear, as he had always been used to joke about
my being busy.  Ada leaned upon his pillow, holding his head
upon her a.rm.  He dozed often; and whenever he awoke without seeing him, said, first of all, "Where is Woodcourt?"
Evening had come on, when I lifted up my eyes, and saw my
Guardian standing in the little hall. " Who is that, Dame Durden?" Richard asked me. The door was behind him, but he had
observed in my face that some one was there.
I looked to Allan for advice, and as he nodded " Yes,"' bent
over Richard and told him.  My Guardian saw what passed,
came softly by me in a moment, and laid his hand on Richard's.
"Oh, sir," said Richard, " you are a good man, you are a good
man!" and burst into tears for the first time.
My Guardian, the picture of a good man, sat down in my
place, keeping his hand on Richard's.
" My dear Rick," said he, " the clouds have cleared away, and
it's bright now.  We can see now.  We were all bewildered,
Rick, more or less. What matters! And how are you, my dear
boy?"
" I am very weak, sir, but I hope I shall be stronger.  I have
to begin the world."' Ay, truly; well said," cried my Guardian.
"I will not begin it in the old way now," said Richard with
a sad smile.  "I have learned a lesson now, sir.  It was a hard
one; but you shall be assured, indeed, that I have learned it."
" Well, well," said my Guardian, comforting him; " well, well,
well, my dear boy!"
"I was thinking, sir," resumed Richard, "that there is nothing on earth I should so much like to see as their house-Dame
Durden's and Woodcourt's house.  If I could be moved there
when I begin to recover my strength, I feel as if I should get
1rdll there sooner than any where."
"Why, so have I been thinking too, Rick," said my Guardian,
"and our little woman likewise; she and I have been talking of




956                BLEAK HOUSE.
it this very day. I dare say her husband won't object. What
do you think?"
Richard smiled, and lifted up his arm to touch him as he stood
behind his bed's head.
"I say nothing of Ada," said Richard, "but I think of her,
and have thought of her very much.  Look at her! see her here,
sir, bending over this pillow when she has so much need to rest
upon it herself, my dear love, my poor girl!"
He clasped her in his arms, and none of us spoke. He gradually released her, and she looked upon us, and looked up to
heaven, and moved her lips.
"When I get down to Bleak House," saidRichard, "I shall
have much to tell you, sir, and you will have much to show me.
You will go, won't you?"
"Undoubtedly, dear Rick."
"Thank you; like you, like you," said Richard.  "But it's
all like you. They have been telling me how you planned it,
and how you remembered all Esther's familiar tastes and ways.
It will be like coming to the old Bleak House again."
"And you will come there too, I hope, Rick.  I am a solitary
man now, you know, and it will be a charity to come to me. A
charity to come to me, my love!" he repeated to Ada, as he gently passed his hand over her golden hair, and put a lock of it to
his lips. I think he vowed within himself to cherish her if she
were left alone.
"It was all a troubled dream," said Richard, clasping both
his hands eagerly.
"Nothing more, Rick; nothing more."
"And you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive
and pity the dreamer, and be lenient and encouraging when he
wakes 1"
"Indeed I can. What am I but another dreamer, Rick?"
"I will begin the world," said Richard, with a light in his
eyes.
My husband drew a little nearer toward Ada, and I saw him
solemnly lift up his hand to warn my Guardian.
" When shall I go from this place to that pleasant conntry
"where the olH times are, where I shall have, strength to tel
what Ada has been to me, where I shall be able to recall iny




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       957
many faults and blindnesses, where I shall prepare myself to be
a guide to my unborn child?" said Richard.  "When shall I
go?"
" Dear Rick, when you are strong enough," returned my Guardian.
"Ada, my darling!"
He sought to raise himself a little. Allan raised him so that
she could hold him on her bosom; which was what he wanted.
"I have done you many wrongs, my own.  I have fallen like
a poor stray shadow on your way, I have married you to poverty
and trouble, I have scattered your means to the winds. You
will forgive me all this, my Ada, before I begin the world!"
A smile irradiated his face as she bent to kiss him. He slowly laid his face down upon her bosom, drew his arms closer round
her neck, and with one parting sob began the world. Not this
world, 0 not this! The world that sets this right.
WVLen all was'still, at a late hour, poor crazed Miss Flite came
weeping to me, and told me that she had given her birds their
liberty




CHAPTER LXVI.
DOWN IN LINCOLNSHIRE.
THERE is a hush upon Chesney Wold in these altered days,
as there is upon a portion of the family history. The story goes
that Sir Leicester paid some who could have spoken out to hold
their peace; but it is a lame story, feebly whispering and creeping about, and any brighter spark of life it shows soon dies away.
It is known for certain that the handsome Lady Dedlock lies in
the mausoleum in the park, where the trees arch darkly overhead, and the owl is heard at night making the woods ring, but
whence she was brought home, to be laid among the echoes of
that solitary place, or how she died, is all vague mystery. Some
of her old friends, principally to be found among the peachycheeked charmers with the skeleton throats, did once occasionally say, as they toyed in a ghastly manner with large fans, like
charmers reduced to flirting with grim Death, after losing all
their other beaux-did once occasionally say when the Wold assembled together, that they wondered the ashes of the Dedlocks,
entombed in the mausoleum, never rose against the profanation
of her company.  But the dead-and-gone Dedlocks take it.very
calmly, and never have been known to object.
Up from among the fern in the hollow, and winding by the
bridle-road among the trees, comes sometimes to this lonely spot
the sound of horses' hoofs. Then may be seen Sir Leicesterinvalided, bent, and almost blind, but of a worthy presence yetriding with a stalwart man beside him, constant to his bridlerein. When they come to a certain spot before the mausoleum
door, Sir Leicester's accustomed horse stops of his own accord,
and Sir Leicester, pulling off his hat, is still for a few moments
before they ride away.
War rages yet with the audacious Boythorn, though atuncer(958)




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BLEAK  HOUSE.                         959
tain intervals, and now hotly, and now coolly; flickering like an
unsteady fire.  The truth is said to be that when Sir Leicester
came down to Lincolnshire for good, Mr. Boythorn showed a
manifest desire to abandon his right of way, and do whatever
Sir Leicester would: which Sir Leicester conceiving to be a concession to his illness or misfortune, took in such high dudgeon,
and was so magnificently aggrieved by, that Mr. Boythorn found
himself under the necessity of committing a trespass to restore
his neighbor to himself.  Similarly Mr. Boythorn continues to
post tremendous placards on the disputed thoroughfare, and (with
his bird upon his head) to hold forth vehemently against Sir
Leicester in the sanctuary of his own hore; similarly, also, he
defies him, as of old, in the little church, by testifying a bland
unconsciousness of his existence.  But it is whispered that when
he is most ferocious toward his old foe, he is really most considerate; and that Sir Leicester, in the dignity of being implacable,
little supposes how much he is humored.  As little does he think
how neSr together he and his antagonist have suffered in the
fortunes of two sisters; and his antagonist, who knows it now, is
not the man to tell him.  So the quarrel goes on, to the satisfaction of both.
In one of the lodges of the Park, that lodge within sight of the
house where, once upon a time, when the waters were out down
in Lincolnshire, my Lady used to see the Keeper's child, the stalwart man, the trooper formerly, is housed.  Some relics of his
old calling hang upon the walls, and these it is the chosen recreation of a little lame man about the stable-yard to keep gleaming bright.  A very little man he always is, in the polishing at
harness-house doors, of stirrup-irons, bits, curb-chains, harnessbosses, any thing in the way of a stable-yard that will take a
polish, leading a life of friction.  A shaggy little damaged man,
withal, not unlike an old dog of some mongrel breed, who has
been considerably knocked about.  He answers to the name of
Phil.
A goodly sight it is to see the grand old housekeeper (hard of
hearing now) going to church on the arm of her son, and to observe-which few do, for the house is scanty of company in these
times-the relations of both toward Sir Leicester, and his toward
them.  They have visitors in the high summer weather, when
60




9G0                  BLEAK HOUSE.
a gray cloak and umbrella, unknown to Chesney Wold at othel
periods, are seen among the leaves, when two young ladies are
occasionally iound gamboling in sequestered saw-pits, and such
nooks of the Park, and when the smoke of two pipes wreathes
away into the fragrant evening air from the trooper's door. Then
is a fife heard trilling within the lodge on the inspiring topic of
the British Grenadiers; and as the evening closes in, a gentle inflexible voice is heard to say, as the two men pace together up
and down, " But I never own to it before the old girl. Discipline
must be maintained."
The greater part of the house is shut up, and it is a Showhouse no longer, yet Sir Leicester holds his shrunken state in the
long drawing-room for all that, and reposes in his old place before my Lady's picture.  Closed in by night with broad screens
and illumined only in that part, the light of the drawing-room
seems gradually contracting and perishing out until it shall be
no more. A little more, in truth, and it will be all extinguished
for Sir Leioester, and the damp door in the mausoleutf  which
shuts so tight and obdurate, shall have opened and relieved him.
Volumnia, growing with the flight of time, pinker as to the red
in her face, and yellower as to the white, reads to Sir Leicester
in the long evenings, and is driven to curious artifices to conceal
her yawns, of which the chief and most efficacious is the insertion of the pearl necklace between her rosy lips. Long-winded
critics on treatises on Buffy and Boodle question, showing how
Buffy is immaculate and Boodle villainous, and how the country
is lost by being all Boodle and no Buffy, or saved by being all
Bufiy and no Boodle (it must be one of the two, and can not be
any thing else) are the staple of her reading.  Sir Leicester is
not particular what it is, and does not appear to follow it very
closely, further than that he always comes broad awake the moment Volumnnia ventures to leave off, and sonorously repeating
her last word, begs with some displeasure to know if she finds
herself fatigued?  However, Volumnia, in the course of her birdlike hopping about and pecking at papers, has lighted on a
memorandum concerning herself; in the event of any Lnilng happening to her kinsman, which is a handsome compensation for an
extensive course of reading, and holds even the dragon Boredom
al. bay.




BLEAK  HOUSE.                        9.,
The cousins generally are rather shy of Chesney V oid in its
dullness but take to it a little in the shooting season, when guns
are heard in the plantations, and a few scattered beaters and
keepers wait at the old places of appointment, for low-spirited
twos and threes of cousins. The debilitated cousin, more debilitated by the dreariness of the place, gets into a fearful state of
depression groaning under penitential sofa-pillows in his gunless
hours, and protesting that such fernal old jails nough t'sew fler
up frever.
The only great occasions for Volumnia, in this changed aspect
of the place in Lincolnshire, are those occasions, rare and widelyseparated, when something is to be done for the county or the
country in the way of gracing a public ball. Then, indeed, does
the tuckered sylph come out in fairy form, and proceed with joy
under cousinly escort to the exhausted old assembly-room, fourteen heavy miles off, which during three hundred and sixty-four
days and nights of every ordinary year is a kind of lumber-room,
full of old chairs and tables, upside down. Then, indeed, does
she captivate all hearts by her condescension, by her girlish vivacity, and by her skipping about as in the days when the hideous old general, with the mouth too full of teeth, had not cut
one of them  at two guineas each.  Then does she twirl and
twine, a pastoral nymph, of good family, through the mazes of
the dance. Then do the swains appear with tea, with lemonade,
with sandwiches, with homage.  Then is she kind and comely,
stately, and unassuming, various, beautifully willful. Then is
there a singular kind of parallel between her and the little glass
chandeliers of another age, embellishing that assembly-room;
which, with their meagre stems, their spare little drops, their
disappointing knobs where no drops are, their bare little stalks,
from which knobs and drops have both departed, and their little
feeble prismatic twinkling, all seem Volumnias.
For the rest, Lincolnshire life to Volumnia is a vast blank of
rvergrown house looking upon the sighing tiees, wringing their
hands, bowing their heads, and casting their tears upon the win
dow-panes in monotonous depression. A labyrinth of grandeur,
less the property of an old family of human beings and their
ghostly likenesses, than of an old family of echoings and thulderings which start out of their hulndred graves at every sounld,




q2,                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
alnd go resounding through the building.  A wakte of unused
passages and staircases in which to drop a comb upon the bedroor floor at night is to send a stealthy footfall on an errand
through the house. A place where few people care to go about
alone; where a maid screams if an ash drops from the fire, takes
to crying at all times and seasons, becomes the victim of a low
disorder of the spirits, and gives warning ard departs.
Thus Chesney Wold.  With so much of itself abandoned to
darkness and vacancy; with so little change under the summer
shining or the wintery lowering; so sombre and motionless always
— no flag flying now by days, no rows of lights sparkling by
night; with no family to come and go, no visitors to be the souls
of pale cold shapes of rooms, no stir of life about it; passion and
pride even to the stranger's eye have died away from the place
in Lincolnshire, and yielded it to dull repose.
CHAPTER LXVII.
THE CLOSE OF ESTHER'S NARRATIVE.
FULL seven happy years I have been the mistress of Bleak
House.  The few words that I have to ad-d to what I have written are soon penned; then I and the unknown friend to whom I
write, will part forever.  Not without much dear remembrance
on my side.  Not without some, I hope, on his or hers.
They gave my darling into my arms, and through many
weeks I never left her. The little child who was to have done
so much, was come before the turf was planted on its father's
grave.  It was a boy; and I, my husband, and my Guardian.
gave him his father's name.
The help that my dear counted on, did come to her through
it, in the Eternal wisdom, for another purpose. Though to bles
and restore his mother, not his father, was the errand of this baby,
its power was mighty to do it.  When I saw the strength of the
weak little hand, and how its touch could heal my darling's heart,
and raise up hope within her, I felt a new sense of the goodness
and the tenderness of God.




BLEAK  HOUSE                        96C
They throve, and by degrees I saw my dear girl pass into my
country garden, and walk there with her infant in 1.' amns. I
was married then, I was the happiest of the happy.
It was at this time that my Guardian joined us, and asked
Ada when she would come home-?
"Both houses are your home, my dear," said he, "but the
older Bleak House claims priority. When you and my' boy are
strong enough to do it, come and take possession of your own."
Ada called him " her dearest cousin John." But he said, No,
it must be Guardian now.  He was her Guardian henceforth,
and the boy's, and he had an old association in the name. So
she called him Guardian, and has called him Guardian ever
since.  The children know him by no other nanme.-I say the
children. I have two little daughters.
It is difficult to believe Aunt Charley (round-eyed still, and
not at all grammatical) is married to a miller in our neighborhood; yet so it is, and even now, looking up from my desk as I
write early in the morning at my summer window, I see the
very mill beginning to go round. I hope the miller will not
spoil Charley; but he is very fond of her, and Charley is rather
vain of such a match-for he is well to do, and was in great request. So far-as my small maid is concerned, I might suppose
Time to have stood for seven years as still as the mill did half
an hour ago; since little Emma, Charley's sister, is exactly what
Charley used to be. As to Tom, Charley's brother, I am really
afraid to say what he did at school in ciphering, but I think it
was Decimals. He is apprenticed to the miller, whatever it was,
and is a good-looking bashful fellow always falling in love with
somebody, and being ashamed of it.
Caddy Jellyby passed her very last holidays with us, and was
a dearer creature/than ever, perpetually dancing in and out of
the house with the children, as if she had never given a dancinglesson in her life. Caddy keeps her own little carriage now, instead of hiring one, and lives full two miles further westward
than Newman Street. She works very hard, Prince (an excellent
husband to her), being lame, and able to do very little. Still,
she is more than contented, and does all she has to do with all
her heart.  Mr. Jellyby spends his evenings at her new house
with his head against the wall as he used to do in her old on(.




V6A                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
I ihave heard that Mrs. Jellyby was understood to suffer great
n)rtifilmtlon from her daughter's ignoble marriage and pursuits;
but I hope she got over it in time. She has been disappointed
in Borrioboola Gha, which turned out a failure in consequence
of the King of Borrioboola wanting to sell every body who survived the climate-for Rum, but she has taken up with the rights
of women, and Caddy tells me it is a mission involving more correspondence than the old one.  I had almost forgotten Caddy's
poor little girl. She is not such a mite now; but she is deaf and
dumb, and I believe there never was a better mother than Caddy,
who learns in her scanty intervals of leisure, innumerable deaf and
dumb arts, to soften the affliction of her child.
As if I never were to have done with Caddy, I am reminded
here of Peepy and old Mr. Turveydrop. Peepy is in the Customhouse, and doing very well. Old Mr. Turveydrop, very apoplectic, still exhibits his Deportment about town, still enjoys himself
in the old manner, is still believed in, in the old way. He is constant in his patronage of Peepy, and is understood to have left
him a favorite French clock in his dressing-room-which is not
his property.
With the first money we saved at home, we added to our pretty
house by throwing out a little Growlery expressly for my Guardian, which we inaugurated with great splendor the next time he
came down to see us. I try to write all this lightly, because my
heart is full, in drawing to an end; but when I write of him, my
tears will have their way.
I never look at him, but I hear our poor dear Richard calling
him  a good man.  To Ada and her pretty boy, he is the fondest father; to me, what he has ever been, and what name can I
give to that? He is my husband's best and dearest friend, he is
our children's darling, he is the object of our deepest love and
veneration. Yet while you feel toward him as if he were a superior being, I am so familiar with him, and so easy with him,
that I almost wonder at myself. I have never lost my old names,
nor has he lost his, nor do I ever when he is with us, sit in any
other place but in my old chair at his side.  Dame Trot, Dame
Durden, Little Woman!-all just the same as ever; and I answer,
Yes, dear Guardian!Ijust the same.
I have never known the wind to be in the east for a single rmo




BLEAK  HOUSE.                       965
ment, since the day when he took me to the porch to read the
name.  I remarked to him once that the wind seemed never iln
the east now; and he said, No, truly; it had finally departed
from that quarter on that very day.
I think my darling girl is more beautiful than ever. The sorrow that has been in her face-for it is not there now-seems
to have purified even its innocent expression, and to have given
it a Diviner quality. Sometimes when I raise my eyes and see
her, in the black dress that she still wears, teaching my Richard,
I feel-it is difficult to express-as if I were so glad to know that
she remembers her dear Esther in her prayers.
I call him Richard! But he says that he has two mammas,
and I am one.
We are not at all rich, but we have always prospered, and wre
have quite enough.  I never walk out with my husband but I
know the people bless him. I never go into a house of any de.
gree but I hear his praises, or see them in grateful eyes. I nevel
lie down at night but I know that in the course of that day he
has alleviated pain, and soothed some fellow-creature in the time
of need: I know that from the beds of those who were past recovery, thanks have often gone up, in the last hour, for his gentle
ministration.  Is not this to be rich?
The people even praise Me as the Doctor's wife.  The people
even like Me as I go about, and make so much of me that I am
quite abashed: I owe it all to him, my love, my pride! They
like me for his sake, as I do every thing in life for his sake.
A night or two ago, after bustling about preparing for my darling and my Guardian and little Richard, who are coming tomorrow, I was sitting out in the porch, of all places, that dearly
memorable porch, when Allan came home.  So he said, "My
precious little woman, what are you doing here?" And I said,
" The moon is shining so brightly, Allan, and the night is so delicious, that I have been sitting here, thinking."
" What have you been thinking about, my dear?" said Allan
then.
"How curious you are i" said I; "I am  almost ashamed to
tell you, but I will.  I have been thinking about my old lookssuch as they were."
"And what have you been thinking about then, my busy bee?"
said Allan.




966                 BLEAK  HOUSE.
"1 have been thitlking that I tthought it was impossible that
you could have loved me any better, evon if I had retained them."
"  ~-  Such as they wre?" said Allan, laughing.
"Such as they were, of course."
" My dear Lame Durden," said Allan, drawing my arm through
his, "do you ever look in'the glass?"
" You know I do; you see me do it!"
" And don't you know that you are prettier than 3 ou ever were?"
I did not know that; I am not certain that I know it now.
But I know that my dearest little pets are very pretty, and that
my darling is very beautiful, and that my husband is very handsome, and that my Guardian has the brightest and most benevolent face that ever was seen, and that they can very well do
without much beauty in me-even supposingThk 3XMW